living in a dream

~Yes Virginia, There IS a Santa!!~

2006-05-25T15:13:00.000-06:00

Oh man. You gotta go check out the new place. It's real! I have a website with pictures and banners and I will edit it faithfully!!

C'mon over, it's to cool. http://outtabodymommy.clubmom.com

~I Am Now Fairly Confident~

2006-05-24T08:51:00.000-06:00

Did you notice that I took the ads off my site? I did so because as part of my NEW JOB I am no longer in control of ad content. This may seem like a crying shame, but when you consider that I made approximately $5 a month off those ads, not so much. From what I understand, once the company starts sucking stuff from this site to put in the new fancy site (with a banner that has pictures! And a site feed! And a profile picture!) This site will be no longer. I am sure that there will be something posted at this site that will direct you to my new site. Let's face it, the new company that will pay me a big check every month to do this very thing I am doing right now, really wants you.

When I began this blogging thing I did it with the belief that eventually someone would want to send me a check every month to continue. I've applied to many places to make that wish a reality. I envisioned my life as a paid to blog blogger. Now that the reality is upon me, it feels a little odd. Maybe my biggest mental imbalance is that when I wish for something for a very long time, and I finally get it, I wonder...what if I am not good enough? (It's rather like lusting after a hot guy. You know that moment just before you take your clothes off, that moment that you fear he will see your cottage cheese thighs and then say, "Uh...Gosh! Look at the time...I gotta go"? That's where I am right now. I have the hot guy in my room, I have shown him my thighs.)

I do know that at my new site I won't be allowed to say the 'f' word, or talk about blow jobs. The 'f' word thing is going to be rather hard, as I say it often. The blow-job talk, not so much. I don't think I have ever shared my method for the perfect head job. And now, I may never be able to. I can talk about women's issues, with a special emphasis on Home Repairs and Stress and Well-Being.

I got picked for stress and well-being because I am going to be the 'quit smoking' person. That's right. I am starting that journey again, but this time--because I am being paid to do so--I am planning to actually quit. Paul sent me a photo some time back that showed a pack of smokes and the words, "The garage is calling, what's your excuse this time?" It is a most excellent picture and a very valid point. It is also the impetus behind my first post at the new site. (I didn't use the picture though, because that is private between Paul and I.)

Those of you that have read my site for awhile know that my home improvement information is as vast as, "If your water stops working, brush your teeth with Dasani" and "build an entirely new house". I plan to keep the home improvement ball rolling by doing actual home improvements, such as tiling my front entrance. I will also talk about the joy of using power tools. (I guess I will have to learn the name of that thing that shoots nails.)

I also plan to open another site where I can say the 'f' word. It is all rather exciting. Two sites! For me! One site will be professional; it will be like you are coming to visit me in my New York City loft and I will be wearing a suit and fancy shoes. The other site will be the place where I forget to edit before I post. It will be graphic free (because I don't know how to add graphics). It will be as if you were coming to visit me and you found me with a beer buzz, and no shoes.

I believe today is the day that this site becomes a part of history and not part of the future. I will miss this little place with it's lack of graphics or thought provoking content. It is all very exciting to believe that I will have a job writing, and I will be getting paid more then I did working at the C-store. I won't be using the cash to buy Martin a truck...but! I can afford to get my roots dyed professionally, and that is a wonderful thing.

I hope you will come visit me at my fancy new place of business. It will be just like this place, except it will be cleaned up for company. (I might finally learn the difference between then and than.)

Please consider this my surprise going away party. (I will act surprised when I get comments.)

**Of course I must add this disclaimer that says, "Hi. I am Deborah. I often get my hopes up for great things, then they don't come true. I might not really get the job, they could change their minds. It wouldn't be a huge shock if I got laid off before I cashed my first check. If that happens..ha ha! Do you think google will give me back the ads and the $5 a month?"

~I Know That I Am A Grown-Up Because...~

2006-05-23T15:39:00.000-06:00

On May 8th I skipped my Literature class, and I decided to test drive Chevy's. It was a spontaneous decision in that I left that morning thinking I would go to school, but halfway to my class I realized I was going to haunt truck lots instead.

The decision came because my dad gave me a Dodge Stratus for Christmas, and since then my beloved has been driving the Durango. The Durango wasn't meant to be a construction truck. I admit, it chafed my teeth to see the Durango full of tools, so I decided to trade her in and get Martin a truck that would be a work truck. One that I wouldn't be jealous of when it pulled out of the driveway without me in it.

I went to the Chevy place and walked past all of the work trucks and straight to a Chevy Avalanche--and lo. She was a beauty. She had xm radio and could remember driver seat placement information. She had mirrors that titled to make backing up easier, and she also had chrome running boards. I realized she wasn't exactly a work truck, but I was willing to buy myself a new vehicle and send Martin back to his 73 Chevy.

I asked the salesman if I could take her for a test drive, then I told him I would be back in three hours, and I would need $10 for gas. I was pleased when he gave me all of those things--I was awed that he didn't ask me if my dad knew what I was doing. I drove it to Martin's work, and by the time I arrived I was enchanted by the tilting steering wheel and the 700 radio stations (some of which said the 'f' word.) Martin gave me the thumbs up high five happy dance and I took the truck back. I informed the salesmen that I was going to crunch numbers and I would be back. For the next three days I worked the finances. I found a 5.9% interest rate. I was getting maximum trade-in for the Durango and I had found the charm that I would hang from the rearview mirror. I also picked out sunglasses that would look groovy while I was driving.

At the end of the search, I realized that I couldn't afford to buy the truck, unless I found a job. I mulled over how much I wanted to work so that Martin could sport a new vehicle and then I called him to say, "Babe. We can't afford it."

See how mature I am? I denied myself something that I wanted on the basis of finances.

In the meantime, I still believe that my new job is just around the corner. Today I got a letter from people who say that want to pay me to write, and I signed some paperwork. I believe that what happens next is that they take a plunger and suck all of the stuff from this site, and then they pop it all out at a new site with fancy graphics. I have seen the fancy graphics, and they please me.

Because I am a grown-up, I am a little afraid that when they start plunging this site, they will see that a lot of it needs flushed. Then I won't get the job that I have been wishing on. And that would be a crying shame...

...But! Because I am an adult, I know I can drown my don't-have-a job-can't-have-the-truck grief in fajita's and margarita's.

~Mental Munchausen~

2006-05-19T13:40:00.000-06:00

When I received the comment from Trixie about my possible BPD, I at first laughed her off. Then I checked out the website to see if it applies to me. I believe that my mental disorder is that I check all the time to see if I do have one, then I like to diagnose myself with that disease for a few days--just to see if it is fun. I tried some OCD, and found I was to lazy to really obsess about little details. I took a turn at agoraphobia, and I discovered that I hated my house. I had a couple of attacks of PMDD, but found that it was a lot of work to be angry and irrational all the time. I have taken a couple stabs at depression, but I find myself accidentally getting cheerful. My eating disorder has to do with my overbite and the fact that food falls out of my mouth and stains my clothes. I had that disorder where you can't focus on any one project for a long time. When I told my mom about it and suggested I could finally get some good meds, she told me it was called, "Being a mother" or, if I wanted a more technical term, "Multi-tasking."

In the case of BPD, I read the facts on the disease, and I have no symptoms...Except...I DO think that if you imagine things, they can come true. I see this is common knowledge, don't we all imagine everything before we do it? I imagined myself in a pretty house, here I am. I imagined myself getting a BA, and now I am in school. I imagined myself with a massive set of extra firm hooters, and Victoria made them a reality.

In fact, the things that happen in my life that I don't first imagine are the bad things. For example, I never imagined myself spending hours every day plucking dandelions out of the ground. Yet, that is what I have been doing. The things that sneak up on you, the ones you couldn't have possibly imagined--those are the things that kick you in the gut.

I don't think that imagining that I can have control over my life, by imagining what it could be, is a form of craziness, and if it is: I don't want the medication that can fix it. In the meantime, I will continue to search for the exact name for my particular brand of craziness, and I will develop fears and phobias at will.

For example. I feel an irrational fear of dandelions coming on. The fear will probably be so debilitating that I will have to put down my dandelion picker stick, and pick up a bag of weed and feed.

~The Tax Boutique~

2006-05-18T14:05:00.000-06:00

A couple years ago, I met a stay-at-home mom on the internet. She was a blogger, I was a blogger, she had four kids, I had three kids, her writing tickled me and so I began to emulate it. We drank beers together on chat when the kids got home from school...And we talked about what kind of mystery casserole we were going to prepare that evening.

And one day, we had an honest conversation about the days we were having. Both of us recognized the urge to walk to the mailbox, then keep walking past that road to get to the highway, then hitch ourselves to Tahiti. It's a rather sad urge to fight, and so to cheer it up--we called them "Bunny Slipper Days." The idea behind the bunnies is that if we walk to the mailbox in our slippers, we will understand that we are so ridiculous that no one would pick us up if we began to hitch hike. The bunny slippers are a reminder that the little rabbit is no longer allowed to run...Once kids started hatching, the ability to flee was gone.

In retrospect, that sounds rather sad. Two housewives across the country from one another sharing in depressed days of afternoon beers and casseroles. We were both the exact woman neither of us ever wanted to be. We didn't actually own bunny slippers, but the symbolism of the bunny remained. It's funny how a person you never actually laid eyes on can affect your life. She and I formed a bond, we shared secrets. We told each other, "Fuck that ho bag, you can do it!" And in the last two years of our relationship--we have helped to change one another.

When tax season came around, Martin was in Hawaii and I was in a bit of a panic about what to do with my taxes. She is a CPA and told me she could do them. I mailed her a mass of paperwork and a check...And she mailed me back completed taxes. But they aren't just regular completed taxes...They are completed taxes with little pink arrows on all of the pages that I need to sign. The instructions for what I am to do next are circled...And she found a lot of cashola in my three little earned income credits.

But that's not all!

There was also a card...And a pair of pink bunny slippers. (picture to be inserted here when the camera finds batteries) They are adorable, with cocked ears and a cute little pink tongue poking out. They are fuzzy, and soft and extra large...

And they are complete symbols of how far I (we) have come in two years. Neither of us need bunny slippers to keep ourselves from running away. Wearing the slippers NOW symbolizes the happiness that I (we) found when I (we) found my (our) balls, and the joy in knowing that I (we) don't want to run away.

I don't know how you get your taxes done, but let me tell you what! The Tax Boutique is more then just finely typed numbers. It is also a card, slippers and a little starch for the spine.

Thanks Robin.

~Things, They Are Changing~

2006-05-18T08:39:00.000-06:00

I should probably be ashamed to admit this, but Martin gets the kids ready for school in the morning. He took over that job when Kate was in Kindergarten. The very morning it happened shines in my memory as a moment of victory for me and my sleeping in habit: There I was, rolling over and grumbling my way out of bed. I heard Kate whisper to her dad,
"Will you just brush my hair?"
"Go wake your mom up and she will do it."
"YOU wake her up."
(Pause, then a snicker of fear from both members of my family)
"Why don't I just brush your hair."

I have been enjoying my sleeping in habit for quite a few years, I maintain my grumbliness so that no one wants to wake me up. This morning, something strange happened. After the big kids were out the door (I may not get out of bed, but I hear them leave) Martin and Ike had a conversation about Power Rangers, and Martin took the Ikeman with him for the morning apple pie run.

There I was--at my most perfect stage of the day. Lying in bed embraced by the sunshine, curtains fluttering on the breeze and bringing the scent of flowering trees. I was at that floaty stage of sleep where the temperature is perfect, everything smells delicious and I am right next door to a good dream.

And I heard a knock at the door. I pretended to ignore it--because everyone who knows me knows that sleeping is happening. Then I heard the sound of fingers typing on the glass of my front door. I got out of bed with my typical, "You gotta be fuckin kiddin me" and went to the door.

It was Martin's work crew. One of the guys is my sisters boyfriend, the other is the fella who got to go to Hawaii. My sister's boyfriend is the best thing she has ever brought home, and we all think he is a keeper. I can't be unpleasant to him. The other fella is a nice guy who used to be in my youth group oh so many years ago. He can be counted on to help in extreme babysitting emergencies, and to grab the other end of a couch when one needs moved. I can't be rude to him.

So I got dressed and we drank coffee...And I discovered that morning can actually be fun.

No, I am serious.

I learned some things from the fella that cracked me up. For example: I heard the story of the night gown that Martin brought me home from Hawaii, the one that is big enough to be a cover for the Durango--the one that he got from Walmart at the marked down price.

Apparently, fella was with Martin when the night gown was purchased, and he told Martin that bringing home a nightgown big enough to fit the entire family was a bad idea. He suggested that a woman who gets a lingerie in those proportions is going to be seriously pissed off. As the shopping story goes, Martin said that he thought it was sexy as hell because of the roomy size.

And now I feel a little rotten for thinking Martin was an asshole for bringing me home a moo-moo. If he actually thinks that giant t-shirts are sexy, who am I to change that...And why would I want to? There will be no further need of exercise on my part, I can just get cartloads of giant Walmart t-shirts, and I can grow into them.

The other great thing I learned from the boys this morning is that ingrown whisker hairs are very common, and you need to get tweezers and pull those hairs right out. This is a comfort to me, as I get an ingrown hair next to my lip. I thought it looked like a giant zit. But no! The boys could clearly see that it was an ingrown hair caused by the daily shaving of my moustache.

Oh yeah, mornings can be real fun, and now I can realize that their is a job opportunity for me that I hadn't ever considered. I can join the circus; and be the four hundred pound bearded lady sporting the Walmart Tee. I might even be able to do morning shows, the grumbliness is bound to be part of the attraction.

~The Post Where I Prove I Am The World's Best Gift Giver~

2006-05-16T20:54:00.000-06:00

Last week I took my sister, Melinda, shopping with me as I found items for Martin's party; my mother had kicked in some cash and asked me to find Mindy a movie. As we wandered through the beauty of Walmart looking for chips and dips--I lost perspective. And oh, how I rue that day.

I made a quick pass through the dvd movie section and my sister picked a copy of Dirty Dancing. I can be forgiven for not noticing that she began to salivate, becaue Mindy is always salivating....but I swear to the mother of all that is Hold, when I said, "Yes, you CAN have that movie." I thought I was being kind. See, I had forgotten that Mindy has owned many copies of that very movie, and after 267 consecutive days of soild twenty-four hour play, one of my parents lost their mind and ground the movie into dust .

I can't believe I forgot the Dirty Dancing years,I should have had a heads up when Mindy and I walked out of the store and she began to talk to my mother (Who was twenty miles away.)

"mom. Mom? I am sorry. I will keep it quiet. Please, please don't break my my my movie. please. I love it. I love it. Please...don't break my my my Mindy's movie."

When we arrived at my house, Mindy called my mom and told her she had a copy of Dirty Dancing, then I spoke with my mother. The following conversation is spot on 89% truthful:

You bought Dirty Dancing?
Well, she wanted it...I thought it would be cool.
Oh, it is cool. Guess what? Your dad and I found some spiders and a nest of roaches in the yard. And some salamanders. I think we will bring them to Jake. We think that would be cool.
Huh? Wah?
I threw the last copy away Deborah, and I said I didn't want it in my house ever again. You keep that movie at your house.
Alright.
(Evil motherly laughter.)

Since the purchase of the movie last Friday, it has played 867 times in my living room. Mindy spent the night last night, to babysit her movie. She watched it from 1:00 pm to 1:00am. The song, "baby whoa oh whoa my swee-eet bay bay..who oh oh..oh sweet baby! You're the one!" got special attention. When the song first began playing, at top volume mind you, I was in the backyard digging a hole for a tree. Three hours later, when dinner was cooked and the treee hole was still not big enough--the song was still playing. Mindy is hell on remote controls, she knows how to rewind, and she uses her power to drive mere mortals to the brink of insanity.

When Kate got home from school she asked if she could watch the movie too, I told her she could. After the first viewing, Kate declared it was a pretty good movie. After the 9th viewing, special emphasis on the baby song, Kate asked me if it would be better to use a fork or a toothpick to gouge out her own ear drums. I explained to my daughter that she just asked the question that millions of mother's ask themselves everyday, and it seems to be a matter of prefernce.

Melinda left this morning--she woke at 7:00 and watched the movie til 11:00--she asked me to please make sure that no one touches her movie while she is away from it. I assured her that no one in my family would be watching the movie while she was gone. She asked me if it would be okay if she came to spend the night again, so she could baby sit her movie.

Ladies and Gentlemen, last week I bought my sister a movie, and I am counting it as the best Mother's Day gift I have ever given my mother.

~The Gifts That Keep On Giving~

2006-05-15T14:32:00.000-06:00

I had a lovely weekend of partying. Martin’s birthday turned out better then I could have hoped, he had an amazing number of guests who showed up to make fun of his advance towards the geriatric years. The shrimp and the crab legs were delicious, and Mrs Jones cooked them. I suggested that I was unsure how to cook fish, as I don’t cook fish, and she took over. Nobody got sick, so she did them perfect! After the meal, Mrs Joens challenged me to a lawn mower race.

Last year, when she got her riding mower, she drove it around the block. It was a victory lap for the first lawn mower in the subdivision, and many of us envied her 1980 riding mower, with the grass catcher basket attachment. When Martin got back from Hawaii, we bought back the riding mower that we had sold to my dad—and now I have a 1980’s mower worthy of a victory lap.

Well. It was, until Friday night.

Mrs Jones and I have been talking trash over the fence line for a couple weeks now. Martin was at first appalled that I challenged Mrs Jones to a race with the words, “My mower can so totally kick your mowers ass.” Barbie countered with, “Bring it. My mower is newer, and it eats mowers like your for lunch.” (This is not word for word conversation, it is me making the story better. Because I can.) When Martin caught wind of the impending race, he rigged a string to the carburetor, When I pull the string, the carb opens up, and my mower can pop a wheelie. (Not entirely true either.)

With my rigged-to-win mower, and many beers in my system, Mrs Jones and I lined up at her house. I got a beer out of her fridge because when I won, I wanted to have a beer clutched in my hand. Her nephew dropped the flag, and we were off. According to witnesses, I had her in the drag. I took a sip of victory beer, whipped around the corner…and my hood fell off. My first thought was, “crap! I am going to spill my beer!” And then I ran over the hood. When I stopped, it was a mangled mess of red hood and wire.

Yeah, it was a good time. And perfect for the race, Mrs Jones had me around the corner. If my hood wouldn’t have fallen off, I would have lost. The agony of defeat would have been much worse then the shame of running over my lawn mower hood in front of my guests.

Saturday I got to golf with the boys. They are very kind and patient, and they allow me to cheat. I believe they allow me to pick up my ball, put it in the cart, drive to the hole and then putt because it is so much quicker then watching me club the ball 16 times per hole.

Sunday was Mother’s Day, and I had my traditional Mother’s Day adventure. It can be best shown in pictures, so go check them out.

The best thing that happened was a conversation that I had about what gift I had received for Mother’s Day. It reminded me that Martin’ is not big on giving gifts, he only does so under duress. In thirteen years, I have received only four Christmas presents, three anniversary presents and zero Mother’s Day presents. He has bought me things for my birthday—but when I say ‘he’ bought them, what I mean is I used his check book when I picked them out for myself.

This made me think of my ex-husbands, one of which was a supreme gift giver. I recall many instances when he would give me a wrapped box—with a bow(!)—for no other reason then, “It’s Wednesday!”

The great gift giving husband gave me a guitar, and many bottles of perfume. I got lingerie and cd’s by the crate. Once, I got hundreds of little gifts that required an anti-fungicide to get rid of. The same man was always surprising me with things like trips to the coast, and Theme Parks and concerts. He would give his sister money to take me on trips to Reno, and Lake Tahoe. Once he financed my trip to the doctors office so I could get checked for some std that he claimed, “I might have got two years ago, but I didn’t know it…it might be best if we get checked.” I did not get that 'present', but I did get the great fun of going to an std clinic and asking for a test. There is just nothing that says ‘happily married’ like, “My husband thinks he has an std.”

While I can see the joy of opening a box on Mother’s Day, I am completely fine with not getting gifts that come on boxes if that means I get Martin and the gift of having a husband who watches me run over his lawn mower and when he screams at me he is saying, “You are lookin good babe!”

~I Saw The Veiled Threat~

2006-05-12T09:48:00.000-06:00

Yesterday morning I woke up at 5:00am. My first final was at 7:00, and I wanted to make sure the pillow marks were off my face by the time I got to school. When I finished my exams, I was feeling high--coulda been the red bull--and I sang, "No Mas tarrea, after today (uh)!" (No more homework.)

My children got off the bus, and my son announced that he had to go back to school to get a book. I informed him we were not going to go back to school for a book. I didn't tell him, "We aren't going, because mama intends to start drinking in the afternoon." After a bit of whining, he informed me that it was a recital, and he would be getting a medal.

Which, of course, changed everything. I didn't start drinking in the afternoon, instead I planted flowers (Which would have gone nicely with the drinking) and I dipped kids in bath water. The strange thing about bathing children is that it doesn't seem to stick to boys. My daughter, dipped in water and soap, can look shiny clean for up to twenty four hours. My boys dipped in the same mixture manage to get out of the tub, and immediately gather dust.

The gym at the school was packed with other parents. All of the little girls wore their pretty dresses and had curled hair, ninety percent of the boys look like they had been dipped in water, then used their heads and faces to dust a shelf.

Before the performance, Jake admitted that he had some 'riser fear'. This was funny because--look how clever he is! He made up a phrase! It was also funny, because he was standing on the floor. To combat his fear of standing on a riser so that everyone could see him, my son stood in the front row. He danced when singing. He played the air guitar during the "I love America" song. He made faces, he wiggled--in general, he conquered his fear of the risers by making sure he was enough of a goof ball that everyone looked at him.

I was enjoying myself in that way parents enjoy themselves when they think their child is clearly the most adorable specimen of humanity on a stage full of other children. I patted my husband and we smiled at each other, "Look at him...Isn't he something? Boy, what a kid--why didn't you give him a bath before we arrived?"

The last song they sang was called, "Eleven more days". Well, maybe it was called something else. But the gist was, "In eleven more days summer vacation begins". It was a song about summer time, and all the things the kids would be doing: going swimming, to the zoo, kite flying, movies, skating, playing with friends, running through the sprinkler, bike riding, picnics--that list. The chorus was, "Eleven more days, eleven more days and summer begins."

I think the teachers were mocking us when they taught the kids that song. In ten days summer will begin, and now the kids have a list of things to do. My kids will want to accomplish the entire list every day. In ten day the bus will drop them off, and it will not come back for them until August. It will just be me, and them--and now the sing song list of things that other kids will be doing for the summer.

I am glad that I am done with school for the season, and I am glad that I have ten more days before their break begins. That will give me time to write a new song for my children:

Uh-rah summer time is here!
I will pick up rocks and rake the grass
and bring my mom a fresh cold beer.
La la la la, summer time has arrived
this year I won't beg and I won't cry
I want to make sure my room is clean
and I will scrub the bathroom tile.
when my mom says my friends can't play
I will greet her with a happy smile.
Shiska boom and la de dah
I am going to work with my pa
Oh la la and tra la la
I am not going to beg my mom for anything
at all.

~Hump Day~

2006-05-10T10:23:00.000-06:00

I am having the most spectacular Wednesday of my life. When I look back over my life of Wednesday's, I see hundreds of days that were exactly the same as Monday's or Friday's. I envied people who talked about getting over the hump of their work week. As a mom, my work week is exactly the same as my weekend.

Today is the most spectacularly packed hump day I have ever had. I have two finals tomorrow, and Martin is turning 40 on Friday.

Martin has always been big about announcing his birthday. On his day, he tells everyone he runs into that it is his birthday. I can picture him as a four year old doing pretty much the same thing, with the same amount of delight. Because he is turning forty, it seems he has decided that he wants a party. It isn't so much that he and I have discussed having a party--or him telling me of his desire to have a party, or even me asking him if he would like to have a party--he has simply started inviting people to his birthday party.

I admire optimism in a person, and in this case I see a shining example of a person who believes that if he invites people to a party, a party will be created.

In the beginning, it was his beer drinking, poker playing buddies. He was going to pick up a six pack (who am I kidding, a case) and a bag of pretzels. Then he invited the Jones's, and decided that we would throw something on the grill. Somewhere between the Jones's and the grill, there was a party population explosion. The case got turned into a keg, and steaks and salads were on the menu.

This morning the man woke me up. At 6:30. He nuzzled and kissed me and whispered, "Good Morning! Are you going to pick up the shrimp and crabs legs today, or tomorrow?"

Shrimp and Crabs Legs? Is he spending his sleeping hours with Martha Stewart? Does he have a secret party planner, who should be making me some lists?I am going to have to do some shopping to see if I can find some of those little paper umbrella's that can be tucked into drinks; I am sure the keg of beer got turned into mai tai's at the same moment the steaks got turned into crab legs.

As of right now, I am giving a party for an undetermined number of people. (That guy standing next to him at the gas station--whom he invited--might not come) I think the party starts at 7:00. I am fairly certain that the menu selection is still being made, but I will find out what we are having when I hear him announce it to one of his friends: "Yeah! Deb's gonna make some poo-poo's!"

Between now and the party, I have two finals, and a house that looks like it is inhabited by chimpanzees and a mother who only looks away from her computer when she is searching for a reference in a book.

It's a fabulous hump day. I am about to topple off the top of this heap of things that I have to do, and then I will be done. I can't wait til Monday. When I know how I did.

~Jake's Forest~

2006-05-08T10:29:00.000-06:00

Jacob has just celebrated his 8th birthday. He received a wad of cash from friend's and family, and his plan was to get a new bicycle. He turned 8 on April 20th, the day before we picked up Martin from the airport. Jake is the reason we went to SLC early and found a hotel room with a pool; not exactly a party at Chucky Cheese, but a pool is still good stuff at eight. When Martin got home, he fixed Jake's bike seat. When the bike seat was fixed Jake declared, "I don't need a new bike now, my old one is just fine."

For the last few weeks, that money has been burning a hole in his pocket. He has been wanting to get his hands on it so he could buy fifty one dollar toys--an idea I vetoed on the grounds of value. Last weekend we went to the Kite festival, and he wanted to use his money to buy kites for his siblings and the cute blonde girl who lives down the block. The cute blonde girl had her own kite money, and I told Jake that I could buy the kites, since it was a festival.

Thursday night, Jake expressed his anxiety about having so much money just sitting around and not getting spent. When the big kids got home Friday, I told them to pile into the car for the ride to Walmart aka "the land of money sucking junk". On the drive to Walmart land, Jake wanted a list of what sorts of things he could buy at Walmart. I reminded him of the lanes and rows and bins full of toys. I told him he could still get a new bike--even with a new seat his old one is pretty old. His sister suggested he could buy some clothes, and that she would appreciate a new pair of shoes. During the conversation I mentioned that I wanted to go to the nursery to get some plants for my flower bed.

That's when Jake said, "Does Walmart have trees?"
I told him they did, and he wanted to know how much they cost. I gave him a range. He then told me that he wanted a whole bunch of trees, so he could plant Jake's forest. His reason for the forest is that he wants to be a 'friend to animals' and animals like trees.

I turned my car around and took him to the tree nursery where he discovered Poplar trees for $3 each. In addition to be cheap and fast growers, on the growth chart it suggested that Poplar's attract butterflies. As I am sure you are aware, butterflies attract lizards and snakes--and if you are going to have a little boy forest you need some lizard's and snakes.

The beginning of the end to this story is that Jake spent his $53 in birthday money on fifteen poplar trees and two pink flowers for the front bed. (The cute blonde girl who has enough money to buy her own kite likes pink, which is a coincidence because his favorite color is pink!)

Martin and Jake spent Friday evening and Saturday morning planting Jakes forest. Nine of the trees run down our property line, the final six create a wall around a mound of dirt. Currently, when Jake is on the mound he can see over the top of his stick tree's, but he is pretty sure that in four years the trees will be so big he won't be able to see over them. But. He will be able to use the mound to climb the trees to catch the lizards that came to eat the butterflies that were attracted to Jake's forest.

When we brought Jacob home from the hospital, he had two teeth. (I do mean that when he was born he had two teeth.) For his first two weeks of life, he was just a lump of baby flesh with hair and teeth. When we dropped his grandmother off at the airport he began to cry--and he cried until he was one. (I do mean that he cried for eleven months and two weeks, only pausing to sleep.) From the age of one to four he was a turbo charged boy who jumped off a dresser and bit through his lip. He was so devastated by the lip bleeding, he did it again the following night. (I do mean he put his teeth through his lip twice in two days.)

Throughout his early years, I had the feeling that this little boy was going to be entirely to much for me; the early indicators were that he was going to drive me stark raving mad.

It is possible that he is going to drive me mad--mad with the realization that the piece of crying dough that I brought home from the hospital is actually a little boy who thinks about how he can make other people happy because, "Making other people happy makes my heart feel all tingly and big."

As far as I am concerned, Jake's forest is the greatest thing we have planted on this piece of ground, and not just because Poplars grow quickly. Jake's forest is a visual example of what a wonderful boy Martin and I spawned. (Even if he wanted the forest for snakes, lizards and bugs.)

~I Hope I Am Mature Enough~

2006-05-05T10:15:00.000-06:00

Today is the day that I get to go to school and watch the Maturation video and presentation with my daughter. She's eleven. I had to wait until I was twelve. The most shocking thing about the Maturation presentation for me was the revelation that I was NOT going to grow up to be a boy. I had been counting on it. I remember being shocked at the size of the sanitary napkin that the nurse attached to a belt. It looked like a swing. I was devastated to think I would have to strap one of those contraptions on.

Then I got my starter kit, complete with it's reading material and a nice assortment of sanitary equipment. I had a combination of panty liners, and maxi's. I saved my starter kit in my drawer until I was fifteen--and still not a 'woman'. I decided that I should practice wearing a pad, so that when the big day arrived, I would be prepared. I remember sitting in the bathroom, peeling off the paper protecting the adhesive, and attaching it. Two hours later, I was uncomfortable, so I decided to stop practicing. As I pulled the pad off my girl bits, I had two thoughts, "This would be much more comfortable if the adhesive stuck to your panties instead of two your peach" and "How does this stay connected when it gets wet?"

I was a later bloomer, late to get the information, and a little miss informed when I began my sanitary napkin journey.

Kaitlyn has had the biology of the period since she was five. I had to give her the facts because she went to the bathroom after I had, and she was worried that we needed to go to the hospital at once. I thought giving her the facts at five would make the transition easier--and perhaps it did. Kate has known about the Fallopian tubes, the uterus and the ovaries for quite some time. I gave her a run down of the birds and bees story, and I told her if she had questions about sex she should get her information from a female adult. I suggested my sisters, my mother, a few of my close friends. I ended with, "Or you could ask me. I know some stuff."

I think it is probably recommended to open up a dialogue about sex with our daughters. On Sunday, Kate asked me what masturbation was, and my response was: "I am not ready for this."

And I truly am not. I am not looking forward to the maturation video. It made me uncomfortable when I was a young girl, and it makes me uncomfortable now. I know that I have matured past my twelve year old state--but I bet it will still be hard to control the giggling when the nurse says, "vagina".

~It's Dead Week!~

2006-05-03T17:52:00.000-06:00

I am currently holed out in the office revising my Lit project and conjugating Spanish verbs. It's dead week, so that means that every project that I should have finished long ago is due tomorrow. As you can clearly see, I am not really doing my homework. I am blogging. And drinking a beer. And pretending to be working on school work, so I don't have to work on home work.

Home work being: cooking, cleaning, spraying with windex then wiping. I am a little sad to see these last days of school. Primarily the last days of school for my children. In a few short weeks, summer vacation will begin with it's early morning wake-up call: "Mahh--ahhm! Aubrey wants to know if I can come over to her house...Why not...Why not...Please? Puh-lease? Why not?"

"Why not" is a most excellent question. I often wonder why I have said no, after I have said no. When my child is standing before me sobbing and whining I always wonder, "Now...Why exactly do I want her to stay home?"

Yeah, summer is just around the corner with all of it's sticky sunburned children. The thought of how aggravating it is to juggle children's play schedule with my sleep schedule makes me really appreciate dead week.

I have two papers to complete tonight--one in Spanish. Both of these papers have been stressing me out for an entire week. The only thing that is making me feel calm this evening is the idea that things could be so much worse:

One month from now I will be surrounded by a pack of mosquito bitten children who are all hungry and bored, and I will be having nostalgic thoughts about the good ol days when I could hang out in the office and pretend to do homework.

~Shhh~

2006-04-27T14:47:00.000-06:00

I am having one of those days that feels like the volume is turned up to maximum, and my windows are shaking.

I had a Spanish test this morning, and I felt like I had nailed that mother. Until. A man asked me if I remembered my dar conjugations. I was like, "Doy" because I forgot to add them. And oh, fuiste? Didn't appear in my test one time, probably should have a couple. I've been knocked down from nailing the mother to realizing that I won't die if I get a D+. (I survived the last one.)

Speaking of D+'s, I have a lit paper due. My thesis statement right now is: "I will prove that Iago was one sick fucker, but his method was intriguing." As you can see, I needed to take a break.

I have a question, which may...or may not...pertain to my new career. If you were to take home improvement advice from me, which would you like the best:

If you washing machine starts to leak, just haul it out to the yard and prop it up on bricks. The water will drain onto your yard, and the phospherants will do wonders for your grass.

Or

Before you grout your tile, slip on a pair of latex gloves to save your manicure.

Just asking.

~There Are Some Things I Haven't Been Telling You~

2006-04-25T22:36:00.000-06:00

I haven't told you, because I haven't wanted you to envy me. I've found that once jealousy rears it's ugly head, a relationship goes down the tubes. I like this blogging thing we have going on, and I don't want to chase you away with my shameless bragging. It's probably funner to read a blog about someone who is stressed out, or struggling with a venereal disease then it is to read a blog that says:

Woo-hoo!! Guess who is the happiest girl in the whole USA? Guess who scored a bag of gifts from Hawaii? Guess who gets to go next time? (This would be the same girl who is always planning to go...Next time.) Guess who got a job? Guess who got an A- on a Spanish assignment, and had three children who brushed their teeth without being asked? Guess who's new dryer is more quiet then a bag of worms?

The answer to all of those questions is: Me me me me.

When the man was in Hawaii, after I sent the hair and lip gloss shot, we had a telephone conversation. He was walking the beach. I was sitting in the garage. We both had beers in our hands. He asked me what sort of gift I would like, and I told him a pearl necklace would be nice. We then proceeded to have the most romantic exchange about what outfit I would wear with my pearl necklace. He asked me if I really thought a pearl necklace would be a good present. I responded, "Such a good present, you could give me one every day."

Imagine my anticipation when he arrived at home with his suitcase full of wet laundry. And the bag of gifts. The boys each got shark tooth necklaces, and Kate got a puka shell (With yellow ceramic orchid) necklace.
I was wondering if I would get a single pearl on a delicate golden chain, or if I would get a strand.

He handed me a Walmart bag; Inside was a yellow nightgown. It had been marked $9.99, but was marked down to $7.99. (The man knows how I love a bargain.) I removed it from it's wrapper and held it in front of me. I realized that "one size fits all" means "All of the people currently living in your house could wear this at the same time. What the hell. There is also room for the blonde neighbor girl."

I held it in front of me and asked, "Is THIS the size you think I am when you are away?" Then I unfolded more of it, and demonstrated how it could be used as a slip cover for the Durango.

He laughed and reported that if I came to the bedroom, he would give me my real gift. Anticipating the pearl necklace, I got comfortable on the bed.
He unloaded his suitcase, and handed me five bottles of lotion.
Passion fruit scented,
perfectly sized for my purse.
he also gave me body scrub--in the same scent.
And five tiny bottles of shampoo.
And conditioner.
Two bars of shell shaped soap--one small
one large.
And a shower cap.
And two packets of coffee--
One, decaffeinated.
And a coupon for a mai tai at the hotel bar
between the hours of 5-7.

I know.

I am a lucky girl.

As far as the job thing goes, I am not allowed to talk about it until 'they' say I can. At which time, I will be happy dancing to the bank and saying things like, "Oh...Excuse me...I need to take this call from my editor."

~Man Up~

2006-04-24T09:17:00.000-06:00

My beloved is home. My first act upon getting him in the door, was to send him to the bathtub. He came home smelling like chlorine and Hawaii. This is a very pleasant scent, when it is on MY skin. On his skin it smelt foreign. I wanted him to smell like home.

After the bath, and sending the kids to the neighbors (God Bless you Mr and Mrs. Jones) our lives got back to normal. In fact, it felt like he had never left. Except! Wednesday night, The sound of kittens getting masticated by bricks squealed to a halt. Saturday I went to the appliance store and told the clerk, "Give me the cheapest dryer you have. I will take one that is dented." It arrives today. If Martin wouldn't have gone to Hawaii, I wouldn't be able to buy a new dryer. Instead I would be hanging my laundry in the living room--as I have done many times in the past. It was always 'fun' to rearrange my laundry line so that guests could see the television, but I am glad I don't have to do it again.

I did some really cool mom things when Martin was gone; things I wouldn't have done had he been home. I spent the night with my cousin, I took the kids to the museum. I packed up my brood and drove to Salt Lake City to get a motel with a swimming pool.

That trip was cool on many levels, primarily on the level where I drove in four lanes of traffic, without the help of vitamin L. (Left lane.) I checked into a motel with my three kids--and I felt very cosmopolitan and adult. I was such a laid back and cool mom, that my kids started to behave as if they were playing with their friend. This included blowing the paper off the straw, and bouncing on the red naughahyde restaurant bench. They chattered like howler monkey's when the desert came, and one of them screamed in the bathroom--to hear the echo.

My kids were a little out of control because I was paying attention to the homeless man walking the sidewalk outside my window. He arrived when we arrived, and walked in front of our window the entire time we ate. When the check came and I knew we would have to walk past him to get back to our hotel, I became not so laid back mommy.

Before opening the door, I told the kids we were going to hold hands, and walk past the homeless man without looking.

Conversation as follows:

Her: Why aren't we looking?
Me: Because I don't want to make eye contract.
Her: Why not?
Me: Because I don't want to talk to him, just hold my hand and walk past.
Her: Maybe he needs help. Maybe we should give him money.
Me: We don't have any money. Just walk.
Her: Maybe he needs a friend.
Me: Maybe you should just mind your mom and walk. Listen to me, I am not playing--we are just going to walk.
Her: But why? Why not ask him why he is homeless?
Me: I am not discussing this any further. Just mind me.
Her: But maybe he needs help.
Me: And maybe he wants to rip off your head and shit down your neck.

While the man was gone, I thought of all the area's of my life that work better when they are being manipulated with masculine hands.

I also learned something about myself and my motherly ability: I am man enough to take my children on road trips--and I am man enough to quote Arnold Schwarzenager when my children need to be scared into submission.

~Happy Easter~

2006-04-16T18:45:00.000-06:00

This is the first Easter that I have spent without Martin in twelve years. Last night I thought about what our Easters have been like. In the early years we had some diversity, but once we gave birth to a child our Easter became 'the same'. We do the Easter basket hunt, church, dinner at my mothers.

That's exactly what I did this year. The difference between this Easter and Easter past: I ironed fewer clothes.

In fact, this past week I found out that life is considerably more laid back when the man is gone. For example: dinner! When my beloved is home, I cook everything from it's raw state. When Martin is gone, I open a box.

I also have the ability to pack the kids and go on a road trip; with Martin home I have to check-in. Thursday evening, my sister and her herd of children joined me and my flock for a trip to my cousin Becky's nest. Becky has nine children of her own--and her husband was out of town. We stayed up til 3:00am talking about deep subjects--and I felt like I was ten years old again, whispering about ghosts with Becky.

I've been meaning to go see Becky for years; but I didn't because Martin was home, and I wanted to be with him.

Four days ago, I removed the tear stained sheets, and I replaced them with the Egyptian flannel....oooohhhh....I made sure the sheets were soaked in Downey and Tide before they hit the bed. I'm telling you, my bed is the nicest smell in the world. I figured out that the art of sleeping alone demands sleeping in the middle of the bed. If I stay on my own side, I am aware that there is an empty side. If I sleep sideways on the bed, I know there isn't room for anyone else.

Everything is easier without the man in the house. There is less laundry, less cooking and more traveling.

The only thing that isn't easier, is dodging the giant void that is created by his absence. It takes up space on the couch. The nights I make the kids sit at the table, the emptiness of his chair pulsates. The shower has sweated off the scent of him, and his pillow mourns it's lonely state. Talking on the phone with him each evening is wonderful, until I hang up, and the house is so quiet that it screeches in my ears.

There are certainly pluses and minuses to this absent husband game. After careful consideration, I prefer to have him home. It's good to cook actual meals--I like his smell on my sheets.

After I read Paul's comment, it occurred to me that a man in Hawaii might not be particularly attracted to a woman who whisper screams. I have never seen myself whisper scream, but I am betting it is not my best look. To counter act the ugly whisper screaming, I sent him a cellphone picture of myself wearing nothing but my hair and lip gloss. It was a reminder that the screaming harpy at home isn't fat and toothless. I want the man to ache to come home. From what I remember of past trips away, when the man comes home he is pleased to tackle the honey-do list.

I do miss him, it's nicer around here when he is home...

...But Mary is going to be here tomorrow, so it's okay if he is gone for a few more days.

~Bereft~

2006-04-10T10:05:00.000-06:00

Martin left yesterday morning at 5:00. In an effort to excuse my behavior, I am somewhere between jealous and bereft, and that's why I didn't pack his bags, or cook him a meal, or take him to the airport.

In the past, I put on make-up and nice clothing for the airport goodbye. I always assumed he would look back to see a lovely me standing with three adorable kids--and he would decide to stay. This time, I called the shuttle service. Instead of make-up and cute clothing, I put on a stained t-shirt and yoga pants. To accessorize my outfit, I added a twelve year old barn coat and my snow packs. (There is no snow.) In lieu of make-up, I put on my glasses and puffy watering eyes and dripping nose. I set in the Durango with my feet on the dash, crying like an eleven year old girl who just found out she had to do the dishes.

The crying thing was a bit of a problem for me. I am not a public crier, I prefer to cry in the bathtub. But, when I started crying the night before, I found it to be quite cathartic so I kept it up for hours and hours. I whisper screamed at my husband with tears dripping down my face. I was sufficiently unpleasant that I am sure when he got in the shuttle he heaved a sigh of relief and thanked god that he was finally away from the crazy woman.

I am not behaving like a spoiled child because I lack maturity--I am behaving poorly because it wasn't that long ago that he told me he was going to move to Hawaii--and we should have a trial separation. The Iago that lives in my head keeps pointing out how easy it would be to never come home from Hawaii.

When I got home from the shuttle drop-off, I went back to bed. My eyes leaked enough that I might need an IV to replace all of the fluids I lost. I got up, wandered around my house feeling like a steer abandoned in the street. My sister called bright and early to check the status of Martin's departure, and then she said, "Now Debbie, you always think he is leaving you forever, and he always comes back." with her 'adult talking to an unreasonable child' voice.

My uncle came over, and he and I discussed the difference between men and women. He explained how important it is for a man to provide for his family and that following the money trail is what men do to show their love.

My mother called. My neighbor called. I spoke with a cousin who assured me he had my back and would watch the kids while I went to night class. As the day progressed, I realized I wasn't a steer abandoned in the street--I am heifer in a family pasture.

My day got better at Walmart. I was picking food for the week, and stopped at the freezer for broccoli. Kate pulled a pot pie out of the freezer and asked, "What is THIS?" I realized that I have never fed my children a pot pie. They gazed at the forty two cent dinner with adoration and desire. I bought them. It is going to be easy to cook for my children this week.

When it was bedtime, I tucked the kids in and started locking doors and windows. I was just about to get a paring knife to put under my pillow (for the jugular vein stabbing of would be rapist/murderers) when I remembered that I have a giant Dalmation with a sinister looking half black face. When I picked up Blue's bed and set in the middle of the floor--equi-distance from every door--I felt as secure as if I had booby trapped each door and window with a loaded shot gun.

While the kids slept and Blue guarded, I did some Yoga, then took a long bath. I am proud to admit that I slept just fine last night. Usually, in his absence, every night noise startles me awake. With Blue in the house, I knew the only noise I had to worry about was the sound of Blue eviscerating a would be intruder.

I am still bereft, but my outlook is getting better. I can feed my kids freezer food and they will be delighted. I can listen to hip hop music at full blast while I do dishes with my children, and no one will ask us to turn it down. I have a mighty circle of friends and family, I don't have to set home alone. (With three kids, two dogs a lizard and a bird.) My reality is only as bleak as I make it.

My solitary life isn't solitary at all, so there was never any reason for the hysterical sobbing. I have found myself feeling bad about the way I behaved: But then I remember he is at a Hawaiian work camp--staying at the Marriot on the beach, next to a golf course, driving a lexus. He isn't suffering. The discomfort he felt when I was whisper-screaming at him can easily be dissolved in a beer bottle while he watches the sun slip into the ocean.

~I DO Have Green Eyes~

2006-04-07T10:43:00.000-06:00

I do not get to go to Hawaii. Unfortunately, I am shackled with responsibility and even if my sisters (Neither of which will be inheriting the 12 inch color tv) said they would babysit for me; I have that school thing going on, and I can't afford to miss any classes.

Apparently, when I made the choice to become a wife and mother, I lost the ability to throw my potty pants and tooth brush into a bag and go. It really pisses me off that my husband didn't have to make that choice. He has the ability to say, "I am going to make money to provide for this family", and that covers it.

I am also pissed that I wasn't consulted in the decision making process. He let me know where he was going and when he was leaving, but he never asked me what I thought of the plan. As the responsible parent, I don't have the luxury of giving my husband thirty six hours notice that I am going on a vacation--I have to plan a year in advance, then line out babysitters and meals.

He claims that he is going to a 'work camp'. Here is yet another thing that makes me so jealous I can only deal with the emotions by being angry. I don't buy that staying in a Marriot hotel on the edge of the beach and a golf course to do a job that can be done in five days--but taking twelve days to do it--counts as a work camp.

It can be said that the man deserves a vacation--and afteral, I do get the AGFT every year, and that is a vacation. That is a rather valid point, and my only response is to throw myself on the floor kicking and screaming that it isn't fair. I do have fun in Riggins, but let's face it. Three days in Riggins Idaho in February doesn't compare to TWELVE DAYS in Hawaii.

So, I am a green eyed jealous monster. My unpleasant behavior includes sleeping in the guest bedroom last night--after telling the ol man that he sucked. Previous to the glorious Hawaii news, I had thawed out steak and bought the french bread for a grand meal. After the news I ordered take-out sandwiches. When he suggested that I could drive him to the airport I told him I don't like to drive. I reminded him that he would be missing both Easter and Jake's birthday--when he suggested I could bring the kids to Salt Lake to pick him up, and we could celebrate Jake's birthday at the Olive Garden, I suggested he was a damn fool if he thought "Olive Garden" was on Jake's list of great things to do on his birthday.

Today, when he came home and asked me to go to lunch with him, I told him I didn't have a sitter. He suggested a dinner date and I told him a blooming onion wasn't an acceptable substitute for TWELVE DAYS in Hawaii.

I am behaving like a right rotten wife, and even though I know it, I don't see any reason to change. The problem is that I am jealous. I am jealous that he gets to go and I have to stay, and that my life is trapped up in this little cage--but he still has his wings.

Now if you will excuse me, I have some more kicking and screaming to do.

~I am not speaking to either of them ever again, and I am writing them both out of my will.~

2006-04-06T13:51:00.000-06:00

On my morning commute to school, I had 1/2 of one windshield wiper that worked. My defroster wouldn't turn on and my windows would not roll down. I drove sixty five miles an hour, in the driving sleet, with a rag in my hand that I used to clean fog off my window. (I didn't cry, so I count this as a driving victory.)

I arrived at my sister's house twenty minutes late for my Spanish class. When I picked up my nephew he barfed. I decided I couldn't walk into class thirty minutes late with baby puke on my shoulder, so I ditched. I made it to my next class-Literature- to find out that I had a scored a D+ on my last paper. (I thought I had nailed it.)

I drove home from school, in the sleet, with my teeth chattering. When I walked into the house I said to my husband, "Let's sell this place and move somewhere warm."

And then my day got impossibly bright and cheery.

Martin's phone rang, it was his Hawaii buddy, and it appears that my beloved will be going to Hawaii. From the side of the conversation I heard, it appears he will be leaving as soon as Friday.

I suggested that he should TAKE ME because I have done the sheetrock thing before, and with my poor grades in college, I need to find a vocation. I reminded him of my many hours of screw spotting experience, and that I smell good. He agreed that I was good.

I called each of my sisters and offered them the chance to stay at my house for a week while I went to work.

They both told me no. One of them even screamed at me. (She is SO not getting a shell necklace.)

I am having a D+ kinda day. Going to Hawaii would surely make things so much better...I better go make some more phone calls.

~When Did My Legs Start Looking Like That?~

2006-04-05T16:03:00.000-06:00

I have started and erased this post six different times today. Obviously, if I had the time to write these words six different ways, I have nothing else to do.

However, I have only five weeks left of this semester, which means many end of term projects should be to the editing stage by now--but of course they are not.

I have nine (?) days to file income tax returns, and I have decided that I can do the forms myself, rather then pay someone to do it for me. To get the project underway, I have collected forms and filed them neatly, but I haven't laid a pencil on anything.

Before I drink my morning cup of coffee (yeah, I gave up on tea), I load the washing machine. I do approximately three loads of laundry EVERY DAY and I am never finished with laundry. Because I am cursed with bad washing machine/dryer ju-ju, my dryer is currently on the fritz. When it is running it sounds like I threw in a load of kittens and bricks. Housework is never done. The more time I devote to housework, the less I have for homework. The more time I spend on homework, the less time I have for my children. The more time I spend with my children, the less time I have blogging...

I am living in the giant circle of adulthood where everything needs to be taken care of all at the same time, and nothing is getting done fully. I feel both overwhelmed with responsibility, and like I am not doing enough.

It seems with all this motherly guilt that I am packing, for all of the areas in which I am lacking, I would be able to write an introspective post about juggling this motherhood thing.

But nope.

I got nothing for this blog, nor anything for my lit class, nor my creative writing class, nor the tax man. I am spending a lot of my time doing a whole lot of something that amounts for a heap of nothing.

Ever have one of those days when you look at your life and wonder...Why did I do this to myself?

~WWABD*?~

2006-03-31T09:29:00.000-07:00

There are days when it is hard to write a blog, because nothing noteworthy has happened. There are days when a schizophrenic knocks on your door and asks to use the phone.

I already knew the lady was schizophrenic, because she has been living in my neighborhood for quite a while. People talk, and sometimes what you are hearing is pure fabrication, and sometimes you are hearing the truth. (Does it still count as gossip of it is the truth?)

When I saw her standing on my step she introduced herself as, "I live across the street, and I don't have a phone to use--may I use yours?"

I said, "Sure!" and invited her in. She said, "Thanks, thanks a lot. I don't mean to scare you or anything, but I am schizophrenic, and I have been hearing voices, I need to call my husband and ask him to come home to be with me...I don't want to be alone."

I have to admit, her first words did scare me, but then every time I heard"I don't mean to scare you" I tighten my sphincter. After she used the phone she told me that she hadn't gotten a hold of her husband, and she was really afraid to be alone.

My imagination was shaped by 1980's horror movies, so I understood that inviting a schizophrenic to stay at my house to drink coffee was about as smart as walking outside to check a noise at night. I couldn't ask her to go home though, because she told me she was afraid to be alone, and as a human being I had an obligation to help.

I also realized that I was sitting on a blog gold mine.

I exhibited the manners I grew up with and made her coffee, set her down, told her to take off her coat. When she was settled, I said, "SO! What's the deal with those voices? Do they talk all the time..or only when you are alone? Are the loud or quite, male? Female?"

I learned that the voices are both male and female. Often, the voices are voices of people that she knows--that day, for example, it was the voice of her husband telling her to hurt herself. Sometimes they whisper, which is worse because she has to concentrate to hear them. Sometimes they shout.

She told me that she could really use a cigarette to calm her nerves, and I agreed that I could use one too. When we walked into the garage I noticed that she was incredibly nervous. She was a completely average looking person, except that her eyes were extra shiny. She had perfectly applied make-up, but her face moved like it was trying to shrug the make-up off. Her lips kept forgetting to smile, and they would sag to a straight line, then she would put her smile back on, but it twitched like it was uncomfortable.

She told me she also had optical hallucinations in which she saw demons. She told me that the only thing that got rid of the demons was to pray. Her doctor's had told her that she was doing herself a disservice to believe that praying would keep the 'demons' away. She needed only to maintain her medication, and that would cure the problem.

When we walked back into my kitchen, I began to prepare dinner, which involved hacking a chicken carcass into fried wings and breasts. While I sliced and diced, her eyes watched my hands moving, and it occurred to me that using a butcher knife around a schizophrenic, who was hearing voices, was proof that I live my life right on the edge. Or not, I believe that praying keeps the demons away to, and you can bet that while I was snapping chicken legs off chicken thighs, I was saying my prayers.

*What Would A Blogger Do?"

~It's Worth A Shot~

2006-03-25T14:30:00.000-07:00

I was just on my knees, opening the cupboard. Of course, pots and pans flew out at me. I began my normal tirade, "Kaityln! Why is it so hard for you to put these away properly!"

That is only the beginning. You have a mother, you know how long those tirades can last. From there I began to name off many things that she is doing wrong, and she begins to whine. The whine turns into tears--and always always always there tirades end with me shouting at my daughter, "Go to your room until you stop crying."

Does anyone else see how beautifully my daughter is manipulating me with her tears? She knows she will be sent to her room--and that ain't bad. She has a cute room, with many things to do. Being the fruit of my loins and therefore infected with my habits, she usually takes a nap. If she isn't napping, she is reading--again, infected with my preferences.

I just figured out this afternoon that my daughter is using her tears to do the very things I wish I were doing. I know that I am supposed to remove the things she enjoys as punishment, but I can't books away from her anymore then I can take food away from her.

Today, when the pans shot out of the cupboards, I began my tirade, and then realized the manipulation and how brilliantly my daughter has been playing me. Instead of the motherly hacking that would reduce her to tears, I said:

You do a lot around here.
What?
You do dishes six nights a week, and you pick up the floor every day.
I do?
Yes. You work pretty hard.
What's wrong?
Nothing's wrong.
But you sounded like you were going to yell at me.
I was going to yell at you for shoving the pans into the cupboard, but then I remembered how hard you work.
Are you being sarcastic?
No, I've decided I am tired of nagging at you, so I am not going to do it anymore.

There was a long silence, I could see the little wheels in her mind start clicking. She registered that it was not a crying incident, but she wasn't sure how to respond--but more importantly, how to get sent to her room so she wouldn't have to finish cleaning the kitchen.

I believe this new plan is going to work, until she figures out that I am praising her so much that she doesn't mind loading the dishwasher.

~Have You Ever Wondered What They Think?~

2006-03-24T16:01:00.000-07:00

"Baghdad Burning" Check this blog out. It is written by a woman in Baghdad, she talks about living under occupation for the last three years.

From time to time I read Baghdad Burning to remind myself that what is happening in Iraq is happening to real people. Our soliders in Afghanistan are real people. Iran, conveniently located between Iraq and Afghanistan, is filled with real people. The news tells us that Iran has the nuclear bomb and other WMD. Of course, the news told us Saddam had them also.

I know we are trying to root out the terrorists who want us dead, but when I read "Baghdad Burning", I wonder if we are creating them out of middle class citizens who have spent the last three years with nightly air raid sirens, bombings and lack of electricity and running water.

~I Bet He Is Only Trying To Quit Smoking~

2006-03-22T11:55:00.000-07:00

I found this in my e-mail from the campus safety people:

Yesterday, at approximately 3:10 pm in our parking lot, a student who was leaving the parking lot observed a male in another vehicle exposing himself. She drove to the IFPD station to report the incident, but by the time our officer here in IF was notified of the incident, 20 to 30 minutes had passed, and the individual was gone from the parking lot. We have a partial description of the vehicle: an older (early 80's) 4-door, white, Toyota Carola, with a square straight back window, with partial plate 8B899. The description of the individual: tall white male, dark hair. If you see a car fitting this description and a male within the vacinity of the car, matching the description, please call 282-2515 and report the location immediately.

If I would have taken your "Start masturbating on smoke breaks" advice to heart, that article could have been about me.

(Noon, and so far so good.)

~Two Thirds~

2006-03-21T14:17:00.000-07:00

I have begun to make a big deal about my children's posture; two thirds of my children will now straighten their spines when I give them 'the look'.One of them still needs to have the hair at the very top of his head tugged on. Please note that I did not say "Yanked" or "Pulled". A little tug is enough to get his attention. It reminds him what I want him to do, and also to learn that 'the look' means, "Don't make me come over there boy."

I have also implemented the new dinner time rule that everyone eats at the table. Since we moved to the Manor, we have allowed children to eat at the bar if they wish. It began as a novelty; we could spread out-! But now it has become a habit--and how I loathe bad habits.

Now that everyone is sitting around the table, I have noticed that my children eat with their elbows on the table. I have also noticed a few, "talking with your mouth full" instances AND deplorable dinner time conversation.

The boy with the bad posture questioned why he even needed to learn good table manners. I told him that he might go to the White House for dinner someday, and it was my job to make sure he knew how to eat properly.

He took a bite of chicken, then asked me how they got the feathers off. I told him there were robots with vacuums and they sucked them right off.

Kaitlyn interrupted to relay a story about a girl who farted at school, then hid under her desk. The started a very lively conversation about how often every person farts:
"Even the Queen?"
"Even the Queen."

We discussed the biology behind the making of the fart:
"When you eat, you swallow air. That air needs to come out somewhere, and that is why you fart. Or burp."

We pondered why a fart and a burp smell differently:
"A burp is before the food has been mixed with stomach acid and bile, a fart is afterwards."

When Kaitlyn asked if a fart smelled the same as poop I said, "I am not sure, I have never done a smell test."

My beloved broke into the conversation to suggest that talking about farts and poop at the dinner time was impolite. I agreed with him...But I couldn't help but notice that all three children were sitting perfectly upright in their chairs, and there wasn't an elbow in sight. That makes two out of three of my dinnertime goal accomplished.

In other bad habit kicking news: I have switched from coffee to tea in the mornings. Not a problem.

I did have a green beer (or four) on St Pat's day, but since that time--no beers. AND! I spent a day in a bar drinking tea--hardly a problem.

I am not doing so well on the "Quit smoking". I appreciate knowing that smokers look like a bunch of junkies in the alleyway getting their fix. (Paul) I always thought people were looking at me...I also like the, "Don't go outside, that is where the smokers are!" advice. I actually took that one to heart, and stayed inside the building on my break between classes. I am going to consider the idea that masturbating would take the place of smoking, though I am pretty sure I couldn't do that in my car during school breaks.

The best advice that I have received came from a close personal friend, whom I used to share many a smoke break with. She quit on August 4th, and when I asked her how she did it, she replied, "I prayed."

I am going to give that a try.

~What Do You People Do On YOUR Smoke Breaks?~

2006-03-17T11:33:00.000-07:00

Today is my quit smoking day, and I must admit that I smoked half a cigarette this morning. When you hear about smoking being a habit that takes over your life, they are telling the truth. I was actually lit up and puffing before I realized I shouldn't be smoking.

As of this very moment I am thinking about lighting up the other half of the cigarette, because I already smoked half, why not go for the whole--I already failed to quit today.

Instead of actually lighting up, I am sitting in my computer desk, wishing I was smoking--and wondering....

What do you people do with your smoke breaks? Surely you take little ten minute breaks throughout the day--what do you do? (If anyone tells me that they take a break, then unload the dishwasher or maybe iron a shirt, I am lighting up.)

I did talk the Jolly Rancher walk last evening. It was pleasant, Mary was here and we had a couple good laughs--but it wasn't as relaxing as tar clogging my arteries.

I also found out that vodka IS delicious in a smoothy. I justified the drink because I wasn't smoking AND it was still a fruit smoothy.

I am a shitty quitter, I am more of a 'stick with it til ya die kinda gal'. Speaking of my anniversary--

My mother is going to watch the kids so that Martin and I can go to West. My sister (Who shall not be named) and her boyfriend (Equally as nameless) will be going with us. We are staying at the hotel next to the brewpub. It is excellent that we will have people to talk with, it is equally as excellent that my sister understands there isn't a chance in hell that we are rooming together. I laid it out for her by saying, "When we stop for gas, don't let me forget to buy batteries."

I am looking forward to my evening, but how do I get through a full day of not smoking?

Sincerely, what do you do with your breaks? What can possible take the place of sweet smokey serenity?

I am going to paint my toenails. I wish I was smoking, but dammit! I want Martin to be able to smell my good perfume tonight. (Not that he will recognize it without the tar under tones.)

~The Luck Of The Irish To Ya~

2006-03-16T14:06:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, St Patricks day, is mine and Martin's 11th anniversary. Somebody has been lighting candles and saying prayers for us. (Thank-you.)

Our plan was to go to West Yellowstone and stay in the hotel that is next door to the Wolf Pack Brew pub. A couple years ago we stayed there, and had a fantastic time. To prepare for the event, we traded out some overnight babysitting months in advance. Unfortunately, our baby sitters will not be able to arrive, so the trip is cancelled.

And oh yeah, planning a honeymoon around a brew pub when you are trying to stop drinking beer is a rather bad idea.

I smoked my last cigarette today, and I am confident that I will make it through the rest of this day smoke free. I am confident, because my Mary will be arriving tonight and she is a non-smoker whom I don't smoke around. I should wake up tomorrow ready to live my smoke free life.

To prepare for that, I have gone through the shame of the smoking bit, and have decided to ditch the affair idea. I never did have the staying power that an affair requires, which is why I have so tragically missed all of the chances that I had to have a nice long affair.

I am now going with the Jolly Rancher idea. Rather then smoking, I will slip in the green apple variety and work through the craving. The downside to this idea is that jolly ranchers are very fragrant, and my kids are sure to notice that I have candy.

The beauty of the smoke breaks that I have been enjoying all of these years, is that my children leave me alone. I have enforced the, "Stay away from me when I am smoking' rule very militantly--and it has saved my parental sanity on more then one occasion. Sometimes mommy needs a time out, and a shot of nicotine makes it all that much better.

Now, I am forsaking the nicotine, adding the fragrant candy--and the kids are going to be yapping at my heels. I am pretty sure that the anxiety of the nicotine being removed from my system, and the begging children, is going to amp my nerves.

To keep it easy, and enjoyable for all of us, I am going to slip the candy in my mouth, then slip on my jogging shoes. While the sweet candy scent surrounds me, I will walk aound the block, kid free. My daughter is eleven, and she can supervise her brothers while mommy saves her own life. I will be in sight of my house at all times, so I am confident this is a good plan.

I don't know what to do about the beer drinking, in all honesty--I don't see how I can stop.

I have been celebrating with alcohol since I was seventeen years old, I don't know how to have an adult celebration without alcohol. I have certain friends who I drink with--that is what we do. I don't want to be a born again non-drinker who has become awkward in social situations.

To be honest, I would not claim that I am an alcoholic. I would claim that I have allowed myself to drink to often--and I will give up my nightly beers. But I would be lying if I said I was going to become a born again non-drinker.

Tomorrow is my 11th anniversary, and I am sure I will have a beer to celebrate, but I won't have a cigarette.

Maybe the trick to changing my life is baby steps, jolly ranchers, long walks and the knowledge that I found a man willing to live with me for thirteen years.

Thirteen years of looking at my mug and listening to me yap--my husband, he's pretty fine. He and I, we got pretty lucky.

Tomorrow I stop smoking, because I want to live with him for a very long time. Tomorrow I drink a beer, because we got married on St Pat's day for the Green Beer, and I am not ready to give up that tradition.

~Don't Take A Day Off Work, But I Am Probably Dying~

2006-03-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

Today, after counting cans behind grandma's, I called the doctor. I wanted to know the results of my blood test, and if there was a better medicine then the loopy pills. Four hours later, the nurse called me back to tell my that my H Pylori bacteria count was negative, and they were waiting for the results of the rest of the tests.

I am thinking it doesn't take five days to do a blood test--and if it isn't a bleeding ulcer, why continue with the ulcer medication?

I have also decided that I am probably just dying, so why quit drinking beer? (Unless I am dying of beer consumption.)

I believe the things that bother me the most about this dying gig, is that I would really hate to have some kind of cancer--chemo and radiation, and the hair is gone. I know they make human hair wigs, so I am betting that people buy hair. If that is the case, then I will sell my hair so that I can buy three wigs--one blonde, one brunette and one red. It will be an experiment on which hair color really has the most fun--and I will try to skew the results so that I am blonde right at the end, then I can declare that blondes definitely do not have more fun.

I have also decided that I want women pall bearers, I will pick the eight women who know me the best, and they can carry my secrets to the grave. I think it a rather touching sentiment, but also a huge responsibility--as these women will also be responsible for helping my children to know who their mother was; I will expect these women to lie about the bad things I have done, and to over elaborate about the good things.

I haven't told Martin that I am dying yet, because I don't want him to think he can start shopping for a new wife already. I prefer to hold out tile the bitter end, and then I expect my eight pall bearers to say to Martin, "Debbie would not want to you to happy and just move on--and it is our job to make sure you are never done mourning." (My sisters will be excellent at this.)

If I wake up feeling like a bag of bile again, I will go see the doctor again, and this time I will cry when I tell him that I am sick. Apparently when you laugh about your own maladies, people have a hard time taking you serious.

~I Feel Like I Am Having An Affair~

2006-03-14T09:49:00.000-07:00

Did you know that when you have a bleeding ulcer you have to give up alcohol, caffeine and cigarettes? Knowing that I have to give up my three favorite vices has been tough to swallow.

Let's start with the beer, which has actually been the easiest habit to jettison. I replaced my nightly beer(s) with a fruit smoothy. I see this as a very healthy alternative, and a good way to pump some fruit into my scurvied system. The children are very fond of this new ritual, and I am rather proud of myself that my sacrifice make others happy. As a bonus, the medication that I am taking has a dizziness side-affect. The first two days of the dizzies bothered me--when I pay for the dizzies I enjoy them, but when they catch me unaware the enjoyment quotient is absent. I finally read the literature that comes with my medication, found out that dizzy is a side affect and have been using it in my favor: I just pop my daily pill while grinding fruit. The affect of the dizzy pill and the fruit drink is very similar to a margarita.

I have cut back to one cup of coffee a day, and I enjoy every second of the brown energy sliding down my throat. Thanks to the pills, my stomach feels much better and the coffee doesn't bother me. I could replace it with tea, but I am currently working on three vices at the same time, and I feel a daily cup of joe is the least harmful.

The smoking thing. Sigh. It's not going so well.

I haven't quit yet, but I have set my quit date and I have cut back to only three cigarettes a day. To make it appear that I have quit smoking, I don't allow anyone to see me smoking. This isn't such a chore, as I have been a closet smoker for years. (By closet, I mean garage.) When I am with non-smokers I don't smoke. I don't smoke in public, and when I smoke on campus I go for a little drive around the block.

Currently I am not smoking in front of my smoking buddies. This is more difficult then I thought it would be. See, my smoking buddies understand the need for the nicotine, and they wouldn't shun me for lighting up. However, because I want to live on the lofty heights of non-smoking mountain--it is my smoking peeps that I have to stop smoking around.

This has created a situation where I am sneaking puffs on the sly. Yesterday, for example, I dropped my kids off at my sisters house then lit up in the car. (The pack I bought Thursday still has a couple fags left.) I took my first couple hits and felt the nicotine goodness twirling in my system. I stopped at a light and held the smoke low so that other drivers couldn't see that I was a smoker--and then I heard a car revving next to me. When I looked out the window I saw Nicoli in the car next to me. He was smiling at me with his adorable little face; I felt like I had been busted by one of Martin's buddies with my lover.

From that moment yesterday I realized that cigarettes are like illicit love affairs. Those of us who smoke know that we shouldn't be doing it, and many of us are trying to hide it from family and friends. Much like stolen kisses and groping in dark hallways, smokers know that what we are doing is wrong, but we can't stop thinking about it.

I have decided to use the affair feeling to quit smoking. Until I reach my quit date, I will continue to sneak puffs and not let anyone know. I will jump through all of the elaborate hoops to hide my indiscretion--I will take a shower and brush my teeth to remove my illicit lover's scent. I won't take his calls when my friends and family are around. I will invent little chores for myself that require me to leave the house alone. I will sneak my cigarette's, then feel bad about it when I get home.

I don't really see any other way to complete the quit smoking project, I have already failed with the help of pills, patches, and gum. It seems like it should be easy to give up something that is killing you...but that is not the case. I was told once that when you give up an addiction, you need to replace it with something else that gives you the same enjoyment...

Unfortunately, Matthew McCognehey isn't taking my calls, and Brad Pitt is with Angelina.

~I Don't Care if You Are President, Clean Your Room~

2006-03-13T10:03:00.000-07:00

Kaitlyn will be turning eleven on the 30th of this month. In case you do not have an almost eleven year old daughter yourself, let me clue you in: eleven is the new twenty-one.

In the last few months she has become very conscious of her class room status. When the classroom elections came around her teacher declared that she did not like elections because they were really just a popularity contest. Kate, who wanted to be the class secretary so that she could record grades in Mrs A's gradebook (And conveniently leave the grades of her nemesis out) decided that she had to be the president.

In the life of a mother, there are literally thousands of ways to break your child's heart every day. I have been known to make Kate fall to the floor weeping by saying evil things like, "Unload the dishwasher." When Kate decided she had to be president, I saw it as a moment when she and I could bond over glitter paint and poster board.

And bond we did! Kate's election poster said, "Throw me a bone,Vote Kaitlyn Chessey for President." It was covered with pictures of herself begging and stickers of dogs and cats with the big eyes, and gobs of glitter. The poster was nice, but the campaign buttons festooned with big eyeds dogs and cats and even more glitter were fabulous, but I think it was the dum-dum suckers with the campaign slogan, "Don't be a (Sucker here) vote for Kaitlyn!" clinched the deal.

When Kate came home to announce that she was the current fifth grade president, there was much joy, some hooping and some victory dancing in our lliving room. My daughter is now confident that she is the most popular kid in the fifth grade, and I am aware that I bought an election.

There are some issues that have boiled over into our home life.

For example, Kate now spends much more time fixing her hair. As the class president, she is responsible for setting the hair style standard. This started out as a good thing, a child concerned with his/her appearance is a child that doesn't need to be reminded to brush their teeth. The problem with the hair styling is: Kate now believes she needs streaks added to her hair.

I am of the opinion that eleven is to young to start dying hair. I have told her, "No, wait til you are sixteen, then you can start monkeying with your hair." Those words caused tears. I have stated, "Your hair is already beautiful, streaks won't make it better." She assures me streaks will make it much better. AND all the girls in sixth grade have streaked hair, all her friends are getting their hair streaked, and only freaks go to school without streaks. I dropped, "But Kate, you are the most popular girl in class, Madam President. You need to be a leader, and not a follower." Those words started a torrent of tears that I am sure will continue until she is 16 and I let her get streaks.

Miss Kate spends many hours a day looking at herself in the mirror and trying different hairstyles. She goes with the up-do, the braids, the piggy tails (Which are cute, but make her look like she is eight, and she won't be able to get a fake id if she looks like she is eight.) She ties it back with the bandana so that she looks tuff, and she does both the sophisticated under curl, and the flippy over curl.

And. Like centuries of women before her, she cries because her hair just isn't right.

The two main problems are, of course the lack of streaks--and the length. Her hair is to short and not long enough. She needs to get it cut, and she needs to take vitamins to make it grow faster.

Two months ago she thought she was cute with her brown hair that has golden flecks in it--now she is on the road to womanhood in which the hair is never quite right.

I know that my daughter is going to shed many tears between now and the beginning of the sixth grade. I don't have a huge problem with the streaks, even though they are probably a gateway style that leads to stretched earlobes and belly button rings. My problem lies in the fact that streaks require professional application and maintenance. Unfortunately for Kate, she has a mother who is going prematurely gray, and all of our hair dying dollars are already spoken for.

It is starting to feel like eleven is the age when I stop being a cool mom because I use glitter, and I start being the woman between her daughter and everything she needs to be happy.

~I'm Sick~

2006-03-10T14:21:00.000-07:00

I went to the doctor today, because I was sick of being sick. Well. That and because I vomited blood a few times, and I figured that was an indicator of a problem that would not just go away.

Actually, my sister found out first, then my cousin, then my husband--and from there the sky is the limit. I am fortunate enough to have a whole tribe of people who love me enough to call me and say things like:

"Deborah Marie, now you tell me the truth. Are you bullemic?"
and
"I hear you are puking blood--can I have your emeralds when you die?"

It's a relief to go to the doctor and get some tests done so that I have a card that legitimizes my sickness. Today I have medication, and a hole in my arm where blood was removed. Currently I am being treated for a bleeding ulcer, which isn't a shabby diagnosis, as far as sickness goes.

For the record--I am not bullemic. (mom) I don't enjoy puking so I don't promote the process. It is true that I am an oppurtunist, and I have been known to eat a hot fudge sundae when I felt the puking was going to happen. I am not bingeing and purging--I am a woman who gets tired of vomiting chicken soup, so I shove something enjoyable down the hatch every so often--just to mix it up.

And it is true that my clothes are a little baggy--but that is because I am wearing hand-me down clothing. The clothing that I bought for myself is a little tight--so I wear the hand-me downs that are a little big. My perceived weight loss is an illusion created by fabric.

Going to the doctor--finally--is an odd thing. On the one hand it justifies that I am sick. I have been icky for quite some time, and I know some people close to me think I say I don't feel good because I don't want to (Add social function here.)

I'm not a sand bagger--I am a person who vomits blood.

I probably should have gone to the doctor weeks ago, but I figured I had a virus, or a nervous stomach, or I ate something bad...I just assumed I had something that would go away without paying a doctor.

But, it appears that I am really sick.

And ya know, that makes the D+ I got on my Spanish test last week sting a little less.

~Two Things~

2006-03-05T22:56:00.000-07:00

I just have two things on my mind this evening.

First, have you ever seen a bumper sticker on a cadillac, mercedes or BMW? (me either.)

Second, have you seen the commercial for "Vault"? Apparently, it is a soft drink that is like a power drink. And that sounds pretty cool.

However.

The commercial shows a man creating a scarecrow that vaporizers crows.

I am okay with the vaporization of small animals.

But!

Then the robot vaporizers a group of people with brown skin wearing feather head bands. The read over says, "hippies"--but the people are clearly Indians.

I am hereby boycotting the Valut soft energy drink.

Oooh, it is possible that I would get off on it's energy goodness.

But!

A commercial that shows a robot vaporizing people who are Indians is not cool, And calling the Indians "hippies" because you can vaporize a hippie and be funny--is not funny. I have known Indians AND hippies, and I wouldn't enjoy seeing any of them turned to dust by a ray gun.

I haven't ever boycotted a product before, but when you make a commercial that shows the vaporization of brown people in head bands I have to make a stand and declare-!

Vault will only pass my lips when they are cold, rigid and blue.

If I had a BMW, I would have that saying on my bumper.

~Knocking On Heaven's Door~

2006-03-03T09:04:00.000-07:00

I am not going to lie to you, yesterday I saw the pearly gates. Okay, that is a lie, and plagiarism, as I stole the line from my sister. I didn't actually think I was going to die--but I did think and dream about death.

I also came to the conclusion that I need a job, I need to contribute some money to the pot. There are days when the lack of an income earning occupation makes me feel like a parasite. (Other stay at home parent's, does this happen to you?)

I spent a considerable amount of time in the bathroom yesterday and I thought of all the different jobs I have had, and all the jobs I could surely do again. I think it is only coincidence that I was thinking about being a c-store clerk again when I had my head resting on the toilet seat. I don't want to be a desk clerk, or a bank teller, or a receptionist at a doctors office. (Though I considered that one for a couple hours, then I realized that the germs those ladies come in contact with are harsh.) I enjoyed waiting tables in the past--but I am to old to be a cocktail waitress now. I don't want to work at the school, or the post office, or the local prison.

In short, I want to get paid for writing, but most writing jobs require a degree--which I don't have. Yet.

So! I came up with the idea of "Eulogy Writer." I could have stumbled on that idea because I was so close to death yesterday. But the more I thought about it, the better the idea sounded. Some people may need help writing eulogies for loved ones, and I have been known to whip out a touching eulogy in the past. I rewrite my own obit every so often, just to make sure it sounds good when it is finally published.

Last night, when I was laying on the bathroom floor, the whole eulogy writer idea seemed good to me. I figured I could contact funeral directors to let them know my services are for hire. It seems like putting an ad in the paper would be crass--what could an ad say? "SO, someone in your family died and you can't think of anything nice to say? Hire me!"
This morning I feel much better--but I am second guessing the eulogy writer idea.

Do you think there is a market for that job? Would it require a degree? How would I market my credentials? How much should I charge? Would it be wrong to charge grieving people money to write nice words? Is it morbid to think I need a job, then consider capitalizing on the dead?

Honestly, I need some input on this job idea. If it is a suck idea and you know something better--give it up.

and, oh! Feel free to click an ad on your way out. It would be really cool if this website could be my new job.

~Reading This May Give YOU The Stomach Flu~

2006-03-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

The stomach flu raged though every member of my family, my sister's family, her boyfriend--and I powered through.

When Martin went down, I knew my number was up. The problem is, he sleeps in my bed, so his germs get all over me. Tuesday I was queasy, but I powered through because I had classes I didn't want to miss. Wednesday I made it until 2:00, and then I decided to give it up and just let nature takes it's course. Instead of doing yoga at 2:30, I was crawling into my bed.

Apparently we don't get to decide when the sickness will come full force, because I didn't actually chum until this morning--fifteen minutes before my Spanish test.

There is nothing worse then public toilet splash back folks. Just the act of splash back can cause untold gallons of stomach acid to burst forth with such force that some comes out of your nose.

After wiping off my chin and the tears from my eyes, I went to Spanish class. I explained to the teacher that today was my day for the stomach flu, so I would be leaving after the test. She grimaced, handed me the test--and then she did the sweetest thing.

She left the classroom and made a copy of lecture notes for me. It touched me so that I used the upper bathroom to evacuate the contents of my intestines. (For those paying attention, this means I infected two public restrooms in the same building.)

I am now home feeling very sorry for myself, because I am missing a literature test. This puts me two points down from an A. I meant to take the lit test before going home, but I felt like I had done my bit for public safety already.

Which leads me to some question:

How many of you go to work/school when you are sick? Why?

Is it unethical to puke in a public toilet?

Is it unethical to wipe your nose with your hand, and then use the same hand to open a door?

I am actually feeling a little lucky. When Manda had the stomach flu I took her son Joshy home with me. (He went down yesterday) Today, she has the Ikeman and she said she would keep him til evening.

The same man who's back I rubbed when he was down has spoken with me on the phone. He said he would bring me a 7UP, and he would pick the girl up from math club.

I am going to go lay in my bed now, and have a dream about Italy.

Make sure you wash your hands after reading this...

~There Are Things That We've Been Doin' That You've Been Miscontruin'~

2006-02-25T16:05:00.000-07:00

Today I walked around my kitchen a little bored with the way it looks. It's been my own home for more than a year, and I still come to little realizations that I can do anything I want to do; if I want to paint the ceilings black and add purple stars--I can do that. I didn't really know what I wanted to do with my power, until mi espouso favorito walked in the door. When he took off his coat and I saw his tarurean upper body I realized that he could lift the giant Asparagus ferns and place them on top of the hutch.

Which leads me to my point:

I have heard men bitching-and I think my habit of eavesdropping might have something to do with this-about coming home from a hard day's work to find the little lady waiting at home with a list of chores for them to accomplish.

Men, we don't generally have a list waiting. What happens is this: you walk in the door looking all muscular and our little knees get trembly when we think of all the things you could lift. If your wife has ever asked you to move the fridge from one side of the room to the other, she merely did so to watch your muscles bulge with the effort.

Furthermore, it seems that men are irritated when the wife asks them to do housework. For those men I say this; the only thing sexier then a man vacuuming, is a man vacuuming AND cooking AND holding a baby on his hip.

And speaking of kids. I hear men saying, "I can't go, I have to babysit tonight."

Um.

It isn't babysitting when it is your child AND, I don't think you have any idea how the sight of you rolling on the floor with our children warms the cockles of our hearts. Men who says things to their wife such as, "You go babe, I will stay here with the kids--I have been meaning to regrout the bathroom tile!" are often men who do not have to chose between blow-jobs and biscuits.

Another common male gripe is that women hand them things and say, "Can you just put this in your pocket?" Apparently the men think we do this because we consider them our beasts of burden.

You poor dears, you should have been told sooner that we do that as a show of our obeisance. We are telling you that you embody everything we desire and need in this world--and believe me, when you are packing a tube of lipgloss, our wallet and one tampon, you do embody everything we need.

It is really just a problem of mis-communication. I guess men just don't know that we are overwhelmed with desire when a big strong man lifts something heavy, or gets on his knees to scrub a floor.

And seriously ladies--have you ever seen anything sexier then a man on his knees scrubbing kool-aid stains off the floor?

~The James Frey Version of Trixie's Story~

2006-02-24T14:50:00.000-07:00

If you check the comments, you can see that I got a free pass to tell the story of the euphemism, "Counting cans behinds grandma's house." When I got the pass I wondered how I could make it a story with an object lesson, instead of merely a story about a woman who can't hold her beer.

At the same time, I have a project due Tuesday in which I write a short story about the Apocolypse, but not the end of the world Apocolypse...instead the little Apocolypses that happen in all of our lives; those instances when everything changes irrevocably and people look at one another differently.

The example the professor gaves us was, "Someone walks into a room and sees something they weren't meant to see, there is somewhat of a tugging and struggle, and the one person walks out--never to think the same about the person they walked in on."

I mulled it over for a few days, and realized that life changing doesn't have to be bad--it can be good. And! There are enough soulful poetry girls in my class that will cover "Someone died" and "I saw my boyfriend with another woman" and "I discovered my mom shooting up."

It occured to me that puking has probably never been a pivotal moment in a story in which all tension is relieved, and acceptance is handed out. (Though I may be wrong--when you think about it, the act of puking does relieve tension.)

I posted "One Hundred and Ten Beers" at my other site, as it is a story and not a blog. It is the creative truth, in that the underlying story is accurate, but most of the dialogue has been recreated. When I say the dialgoue has been recreated, what I mean is anything trite and tired was really said, and anything brilliant and pithy was made up by me, just this morning.

Check it out, if you want, and tell me what you think.

~Oh Wretched Day~

2006-02-22T19:19:00.000-07:00

I have spent this day powering through a righteous urge to check the tires. I have made my eating decisions accordingly. Because I feel the dark hand of chum gripping my shoulders, I want to make sure that the thing I eat shortly before checking the children is something that I can do without ever eating again. (Obviously bacon and cheese are not on this list.) Each time I have a bout of the pukes, I create an association between that food and the plumbing check. Consequently, foods such as 7Up and crackers are guaranteed to make me hurl.

But enough vomit talk.

Besides my upset stomach and brain that is expanding and trying to push out of my ear drums--there have been other wretched aspects to this day.

Last night while I was in class, my children got ahold of sweet baby (my lap top) and they did something so awful bad to her that I can no longer connect to the internet. I spent many hours trying to fix the problem and calling mi espouso favorito to tell him that I was seriously PISSED that kids had been allowed to touch her. I had thought that when I told my family, "If you so much as breathe on it, I will beak your fingers". That I had made myself clear. Apparently not. (I think they get it now.)

My list of petty problems for today is long and as diverse as, "if I have to tell you to stop putting feathers in your nose one. more. time. I am going to lose my mind."

There are also some good things.

First on my list actually happened last night, but when a woman realizes she is a rock star, the feeling tends to linger. With my rock star status, I believe I can pull up my socks and get on with all of the things I need to accomplish before I show up in Spanish class tomorrow and admit, "Mi amor tiene espousa perzosa." (Probably improper verb tense,and spelling: but it means, "My love has a lazy wife.")

It isn't that I am lazy, it is that being a rock star really takes a lot out of a person, and trying to decide what foods I wouldn't mind puking up can be incredibly time consuming.

This life stuff--sheesh.

~It Used To Be Fun To Sluff School~

2006-02-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

The Ikeman was up most of the night puking his tiny little guts out.

Which leads me to my favorite euphemisms for vomiting:

1. Pull over so I can check the tires.

2. I am going to step behind grandma's house to count the cans.

3. I am going to chum. (Which, for the uninformed, is the illegal fishing practice of throwing bait into the water to attract fish.)

4. I need to check the children.

5. I am going to test the plumbing.

The Ikeman is a little young to come up with a fancy phrase for what it is he is doing, unlike the AGFT ladies who came up with 4/5 of the above mentioned euphemisms. Ike cries, then declares, "I got the pukes!" and then the action begins.

I am rather impressed with his aim, he made it to the toilet every time. His big sister, Kaitlyn, is almost eleven years old and she has never made it to the toilet.

And this is where I admit that I am a horrible mother.

The last time Kate had to check the tires I brought her a bucket and made this speech, "If you feel like you need to vomit, just do it. You can't hold puke. Don't try. Go into the bathroom and let 'er fly. If you puke on the couch or the floor this time, you are cleaning it up yourself."

Did you catch that last line of motherly love and understanding?

But wait, it gets a little better. Kate was moaning about how horrible her belly felt and she went to the bathroom to squat next to the toilet and to wail while she kept her head pressed on the toilet seat. I, mother of the year material that I am, walked into the bathroom to say, "Don't put your head on the toilet seat honey, we put our butts right there. Stick your finger down your throat and get things started."

Not only am I unkind, I also give out eating disorder tips for future use.

Jake is a grade A puker, second only to me. When it is time for him to chum he excuses himself, gets it over with, flushes the toilet, washes his face--then goes to bed. He doesn't even announce what he has done--the only evidence is a sleeping boy and a lingering scent.

The beloved can check the children so silently that I am none the wiser, but he only does that when we have company. When it is just the Chessette's and I, he leaves the door open so the noise floats around the house--exciting my sensitive gag reflex--and then he crawls into bed, but first he asks me if I am poisoning him.

As if I would actually tell him if I were poisoning him.

As for me-! With my first two pregnancies I had to count the cans behind grandma's house 3-5 times a day, every day. I was checking the tires while I was pushing the first two out of my body. The list of things that caused me to chum was as diverse as Hamburger Helper commercials and the sight of dog hair on the floor. I tested the plumbing so often that it wasn't even remarkable, nor did it illicit sympathy. Oh sure, in the beginning I got some support from the spouse with words such as, "It is just morning sickness, it will go away soon." But as time flew by and the children needed to be checked more often the support turned into words like, "goddamn--why are you doing that to yourself?" (And now you can see why I might possibly poison that man.)

I am supposed to be in Literature class right now taking a quiz, instead I am at home with a rosy cheeked little boy who has great aim. There was a time when skipping school was great fun, but at my advanced age going to school is my escape. To make things a little less disappointing for myself, I just ate a hot fudge sundae with nuts.

I ate the sundae because I am confident that with my sympathetic immune system* and the fact that I have been wiping germy little lips for the last eight hours, I will be testing my own aim before the day is over--therefore the sundae calories won't stick. (Does bingeing before you think you will get the stomach flu count as an eating disorder?)

Surely all of you have a fancy little euphemism for puking--what is it?

*my immune system feels very sorry for sick people, so it often crashes to let me experience their pain. If I so much as see a cold sore walking down the street, I sprout one myself. No sooner does someone tell me about their strep throat then my own tonsils start swelling.

~Rural Teenager In Love~

2006-02-17T10:06:00.000-07:00

Before I begin the story I need to drop a few facts: During 1984 every student in Jefferson County got two weeks off from school to work the potato harvest. It was a vacation we called, "Spud Harvest." It was possible (I am not sure if this law has changed) for 14 year olds to get a daytime drivers license, and they were allowed to drive spud trucks.

SO! There I was, 14 years old, with my fist potato harvest job. My parents were friends with a local farmer and his wife, and the man hired me and a group of my friends to work the combine. My best friends Traycie, Nicole and I were on the combine. This job consists of a farmer on a tractor dragging the combine upon which my friends and I were standing. He would dig the potatoes from the ground and they would be gathered on the metal conveyor and travel past us, up the shoot and then they would fall into the potato truck that traveled next to us.

Our job was to pick everything that wasn't a potato from the conveyor belt. The majority of the non-potato items were dirt clods, but every so often there would be a dead rodent, a can, or a piece of trash. When the combine was fired up it would start screeching and clanging, and down the rows we would go with the farmer turning to yell, "You girls ain't pickin fast enough!" and "Stop talking and git to work!" every few minutes.

On our first morning break, the farmer stopped at the end of the field and we were allowed to get off the combine, stretch our backs and go potty in the empty drainage ditch. I was the last girl getting off the combine and I noticed the boy who was driving the potato truck next to us leaning against wheel with his arms crossed over his chest. What struck me was that his John Deere hat was cocked back on his head, and his sunglasses were sexy.

"Who is THAT?" I asked my buddies, and then I forgot to bend my knee to catch the stair and I fell off the combine.

"You alright?" Traycie asked, "That's Shane, he's cute ain't he?"

I was fourteen so I bounced right back up, "Does he have his daytime drivers license?"

With those words, I was filled with the possibility of dating this magic boy with his daytime drivers license. While I squatted in the ditch to pee I formulated my plan to be going steady with Shane before the day was over.

When lunchtime came, we rode in the back of the truck to the farmers house. The wife gave us all Mountain Dew and chips to go with our sandwiches. (This was rather bold, Mountain Dew being caffeinated pop in Mormon country.) When Shane walked by our picnic table he said, "Hi" to Traycie, and I knew that if I was going to get him to go steady with me I would have to do something drastic.

(As background, I have to say that Traycie was a very tall fourteen year old with a fully developed rack. Consequently, boys always said hi to her. I was a skinny fourteen year old with crooked teeth, thick glasses, a bad perm and a rack that wouldn't blossom until I was 19.)

I resolved that the only way to get Shane's attention was to remove my ball cap and let my perm fried hair blow in the breeze. But. It was dirty from the six hours I had spent on the back of a combine. I asked my mother's friend if I could wash my hair in her bathroom. Her husband told me it was a bad idea, but my mom's friend said, "You go right ahead honey."

I washed and conditioned my hair, but could not find a blow dryer. When the lunch break was over, I went back to the field with my freshly washed uncovered hair. I crawled back onto the combine--now with stiff knees from my fall--and began my clod picking job. There were three trucks that worked in rotation to take our potatoes to the cellar, so I had to wait for a couple hours for Shane with his groovy sunglasses and daytime drivers license to be back on the job.

By the time he arrived my wet hair was weighted down with dirt, and there was mud on my scalp.

I don't know if he noticed me or not.

Weeks went by, I had used my $200 in potato money to buy myself some really nice high waisted peg legged pants and a pair of contact lenses. I noticed that Shane pretended to never see me when we walked next to one another in the hall, and I could feel his interest in me bubbling while he played basketball and I peeked at him from under the bleachers. It's true he couldn't see my watching him...but the passion was felt by me non-the-less.

One evening the farmer and his wife were playing cards with my parents, and the farmer was talking about his diary boy and milk production. It seems that Shane was a very competent milker, but the farmer felt a little bad leaving him there alone with all those cows. I causally suggested that I liked milk more then any other thing in the wide world, and I volunteered to help Shane in the dairy--if only I could take home a couple gallons of milk each night.

All adults present laughed, I think my crush was pretty transparent, but they agreed that was a good deal. The next night my dad dropped me off at the dairy. He and the farmer walked around the plant looking at the milk stirring machine and that other thing that cooks the bacteria out. I was given a pair of cow milking boots that belonged to the farmer--thus meaning I was wearing a pair of size 12 rubber boots that came up to my knees--on my size six feet. When Shane arrived I was outfitted in my cute peg legged pants, the tall boots, a checkered button down shirt and $1 worth of purple eyeshadow caked on my eyelids.

The farmer lined me out on what my job would be--teat washer--and he and my father went to drink coffee while I earned my gallon of milk.

It went pretty well for awhile, I was really good at washing teats. Shane had neither looked at me or spoken to me, but I could tell that he was thinking about me when he attached the milk sucking machine to the ol heifers.

And then it happened--the object of my desire spoke to me. He said, "You gotta make sure you get all the shit off." and then he gestured at the teat.

With those words, a well spring of words opened up in me and I began with, "SO, your name is Shane right? I am Debbie. We have English together, Don't you just hate Mr Wilson? I have a red back pack, what color is yours?"

He suggested I go get him something from another room, and I immediately stopped washing teat to go gather what ever it was I was after.

But I was moving to fast and not paying attention, and I stepped in a cow pie, which caused my rubber booted feet to fly out from under me and I hit the concrete flat on my back. My head bounced hard enough in the sullage that I saw stars.

Shane, who was a fourteen year old boy, laughed.

I gathered my bruised self up and went to sit in the truck til my dad came to get me. I did take home a pail of milk--but I never went back to the dairy.

I did try one last time to seduce that boy, but I waited til I was 16 and I had a padded bra. I had spent my last few dateless years considered all the ways in which I had gone wrong, and on the top of the list was, "Boys don't like girls who have cow shit or mud in their hair." (A rule I still live by.)

By 16 I had graduated from the potato field and I was working in the potato factory. I was earning enough money to buy cute underwear, black leather boots with fringe, and the padded bras. My mother's birthday was coming up, and I knew Shane's mother was a baker. I called her and asked her to make a cake for my mother--a cake I would come to pick up.

I did not have a drivers license, so I had to have my brother drive me to Shane's house for the retrieval of the cake. I was wearing the leather fringe boots and purple eyeshadow when I arrived. I was also wearing enough tabu perfume to make my brother sneeze.

I walked to the door to gather the cake, I passed over the money and casually said to the mother, "Aren't you Shane's mom?" She said she was.

I said, "Oh. Thanks for the cake."

At that is the end of the story of the romancing of Shane.

When I walked back to the car carrying my cake I realized that if I did not fall down then I would leave that boy with a bittersweet longing for the rest of his life. I assumed he was looking at me out of the kitchen window contemplating whether to take me to the sophomore hop. I imagined him fingering his drivers license and whispering my name.

I can't say for sure that he ever wished to take me out on a date, but I am positive that whoever he eventually married did not fall as hard for him as I had...twice.

~Can I Get An Amen For The High Waisted?~

2006-02-14T22:22:00.000-07:00

Tonight I came home from class, and I measured my hip from the top of the bone, down to where it connects in the socket. (I haven't take anatomy yet.) I discovered that I had 8 and 3/8 inch of prime acreage for the growing of stress induced fat.

The first thing I wondered, as I have often wondered, is perhaps that area of my body is abnormally long. And if it is, where exactly is my hip? Is it at the ball socket, or at the bone under my rib cage? And if I have to add my butt into a measurement, do I do the top, the middle, or the bottom of the butt?

The reason I measured myself this evening is because of my pants.

I am sure you have all noticed that hip hugger pants are all the rage, and if you are still living a high waisted pant life-style--let me clue you in--All of your friends are making fun of you and your high waisted ways.

I changed to the hip hugger jeans when I realized that every pair of pants that I stole from my sisters were hip huggers. (I haven't purchased a pair of jeans for myself in more then two years. My closet is made up of stolen/borrowed items.) I am currently sporting a pair of hip hugger jeans that my youngest--mentally retarded/epileptic/cereberal palsy sister got for Christmas. She is much smarter then me. When she gave them to me she said, "I don't like them...My potty pants show." My thought at the time was, "Suh--weet, and please do some more shopping at the cool stores little sis!"

But after a few weeks of wearing them I have discovered a truth. My potty pants show.

My first personal experience with the potty pants and the hip huggers happened when my husband walked up behind me and replied, "I can see eight inches of your underwear" and I was wearing red fruit of the looms. (notice the length of my hip, and the amount of potty pant visible--coincidence? I think not.) I thought maybe that was cute, until I had my first experience of being thonged, and I realized that fruit of the loom and hip hugger was the equivalent of sandals and black socks.

My beloved and I were eating out and he was looking at everyone in the restaurant. I was cutting cheese enchiladas for the youngest when I suddenly realized that my beloved's gaze had locked on me so tightly that he could only be a man using his peripheral vision to check out another woman.

"What are you looking at?" I asked.

"That lady sitting next to you has her entire ass hanging out...And she is wearing a thong." he replied.

I glanced over and sure enough, the whole thong was visible. It was black strings attached to a butterfly with a string coming out of the bottom. The string running between her cheeks was totally visible and my thought was, "whoa...when I put on a thong that string looks like fishing line cutting into bread dough."

Later in the year, I set on the beach at the AGFT and Mare took a picture of me with my Spongebob underwear sticking out, next to Pearl with her pink fish thong. When I saw the picture of my clownishly lumpy Spongebob ass next to Jen's cute pert little thonged ass, I made a decision to become a thong girl myself.

The problem with the abnormally long hip region and the hip huggers and the thong and the thirty five years of stress, is that if I cinch the belt tight enough to keep the panties hidden, I look like a link sausage. Hip huggers are designed for tiny girls with boy hips, they aren't meant for women with cookie dough beneath their skin.

I have some questions: Why do they make hip huggers in sizes over six? Are they trying to make those of us with some weight look ridiculous so we are removed from the gene pool?

And furthermore--when will high waisted jeans come back into style? Remember how cool they were? I fondly recall laying on the bed to zip up my jeans, and when I stood up all of my belly fat was neatly pressed into the front panel of my pants. With tight enough jeans, I could make that area appear flat.

With these hip hugger jeans and a thirty-five year old body and an abnormally long hip region; the waist-line just keeps creeping down below my belly roll, and before long I am just a woman with an inner tube, wearing pants that are bunching between my legs and creating the illusion that I am packing a load. Add a thong to that scenario and you have hot sex in the trailer park tonight. (leave a twenty on dresser.)

I could embrace my senior citizenship and actually buy myself some pants with a high enough waist that I don't have to go commando to keep my potty pants from view.

I would prefer it if high waisted pants came back into style, then I could just steal the jeans from my sisters and friends, as is my custom.

~But I Can Grab My Foot and Lift it Over My Head*~

2006-02-13T16:49:00.000-07:00

Over the past week I have been talking to many women about the status of their relationships. It seems that most of us are having the same sort of problems. I wonder if this is a constant thing in relationships, or if it is like the phenomena of buying a new car, then noticing ones just like everywhere.

It also occurs to me that Valentine's Day is tomorrow, and I have known many men who admit to ending relationship's before holiday's so they don't have to buy gifts. Before I stand on my podium and yell at the crassness of men, I have to admit I broke up with a guy the day before Valentines Day one year, much for the same reason. (He married my anyway.)

It also occurs to me that with my new found trembling honesty, there are some things I don't think men have ever been told. Or, if they were, the were watching the football game at the same time, so they didn't pay attention.

So here it is guys:

1. We know when we are getting fat, you don't need to remind us.While you probably think you are bringing something to our attention that we were unaware of, it doesn't help. In fact, a man who says, "I won't live with a fat woman" might as well drive her to the store for the King Sized candy bar and the big Gulp. Our weight is directly correlated to how happy we are with the man in our life--if we are putting on the pounds, it's your fault.

2. We don't like who we have become since we married you either. The problem began when we started to trying to make you happy. As it turns out, the things you think you want in a wife, aren't really what you want. I have heard men talk about the perfect woman, and one of her attributes is that she cooks breakfast every morning. Sounds great, I would like that wife too. However, women who get up early can't stay up late--and if you want your board waxed on a nightly basis, we will be needing our rest. SO, you decide--blow jobs or biscuits?

3. When you think that we are not listening to you talk about your job, it is because we are not listening to you talk about your job. Let's just call a truce on this one already...You pretend I am paying attention when you tell me about your day, and I will pretend you are paying attention when I tell you about eyebrow waxing difficulties.

4. We think communication is over rated too. If you don't like the meal we cooked, or the way we are dressed--keep it to yourself. We'll stop bitching about the status of the toilet seat when you stop bitching that our fried chicken isn't like your moms.

5. If you want us to make sure you have a cold beer in your hand while you set on the couch and watch sports, make sure we have a cold beer in our hand during Desperate Housewives. I will stop asking you what is so cool about your game when you stop asking me if Terri Hatcher is dating anyone. (Of course you would have a chance with her if you weren't tied to me.)

6. We have enjoyable conversations with other men, and we do it because we like men. That's why we have one living in our house. We can laugh at another man's jokes without wishing to lick his balls--we don't lick yours and you take out the trash...Why would we do that for a stranger?

7. The with-holding of the sex thing needs to stop. Sex is supposed to be fun. If it is going to be used as a weapon, we need to decide which weapons to use before hand. I am down with either a hair brush or a ping-pong paddle.

8. If you tell us that our sister (or someone else's sister) looks really great since her boob job one. More. Time. We are going to get one ourselves. They are expensive. Think about it...Do you want to spend more time golfing or paying for our new boobs?

9. Stop telling us how to talk. We are ladies, after all, and we know better then to say the f word in front of old people and children. And if we happen to let a bad word slip, get over it. We haven't taken advice about our dirty mouths since our parents sighed, shook their heads, and declared we were beyond their control.

10. Don't add up our lotion/perfume/hair care bill. Do you want a wife that smells like a stable animal, or do you secretly like sleeping with a great smelling woman? You stop suggesting that $15 is to much for lip gloss, and we will stop suggesting that you go fuck yourself.

Whew!

I feel better.

Part of my trembling honesty is accepting that I am not a rated G girl. I do have a bad mouth. I am pretty sure that eventually I will lose my current fierce feelings, and I will find a happy medium between the kind me, and the gutter talking me...but until then...

I am not afraid to drive, and that's because I found my finger.

*This title has nothing to do with my post, but everything to do with Yoga class today when I found out I could hold my foot and lift it over my head. I am bragging. Besides all the obvious reasons to brag about my flexibility, there is the fact that I hae seen many want-ads asking for flexible employees. I am pretty sure I could bag a minimum wage paying job with my ability.

~Cheek Chewer~

2006-02-11T11:07:00.000-07:00

My first literature paper is due on Tuesday. I am writing on, "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gillman. If you haven't read it yet, I encourage you to give it a shot. It is the story of a woman who sounds very sweet, but in the end of the story she is gnawing on bed posts, crawling around the bottom of the room--and convinced that there is a woman trapped behind the wallpaper.

I will be writing my paper from the perspective that suppression and spousal repression are the road to madness. In 1892, when this story was written, women were still considered chattel and there was no recourse but to do what your spouse deemed necessary.

In 2006, women do have recourse. My god, but do you realize how important autonomy is?

In light of my own difficulties over the last few days, I have come to some profound realizations--and I may not have discovered them if I had passed the AGFT.

I do not wish to give the impression that I lead a miserable life, because I have everything I need to create happiness. Dude, I have pages of posts that highlight my ability to be positive even when I am doing laundry outside. This habit of making bad things seem alright, even funny, is like a lacquer that I harden myself with. (I bet you are also lacquered by life.) As daily life proceeds I add more layers of lacquer to steel myself up to do the things that need to be done. Aren't we all doing this?

The lacquer can be a good thing, because it props us up and reminds us of what we need to be accomplishing. The problem comes when we allow our lips to be covered. If we cover them up long enough, the scream that is trapped in our throat eventually falls asleep--and when it does, the light of passion goes with it.

On the AGFT the cold crackles over the layer of lacquer. The group of women tap on each other, and in great shattering chunks the lacquer falls off and we stand there before each other, naked and not ashamed.

In real life, there are things we can not say to our husbands. To our parents. To our children. To our bosses--there are things we can not say to anyone.

On the AGFT there are eight pairs of ears that are attached to eight mouths, and all of us are saying the things that we really feel. We talk about our honest desires. We don't repress our words to make them more palatable. We don't worry that there will be repercussions for admitting our truths. It is exhiliarting to find out that our feelings are shared by other women. It is powerful to realize that we are not warped or distorted, that we have all expereienced the same set of emotions.

Between you and me, we seldom talk about our husbands or our children.

That may sound bad, which is why I have never admitted it before. However, for the days on the trip we are not mothers and wives--we are just women.

On my road trip to Boise I discovered that I was an inner cheek biter. The right side of my mouth had a little patch of chewed skin and it seems that I pick at it with my teeth to remove bits of it in an effort to make it smooth. I'ts a nervous habit that I preform, much like other people bite their nails. This is something that I have been doing unconsciously for some time--I can't say for how long as I wasn't aware that I was doing it, until I was alone with myself.

On the trip home I had a bouncy moment that nerved me up and I returned to my inner cheek--and I discovered no ragged skin. This means that for four days I didn't chew my cheek. I didn't chew my cheek because my lips hadn't been sealed with all the things I can't allow myself to say. Instead of chewing, I had been speaking.

I am not going to be a cheek chewer anymore. That's auto cannibalism, and not cool.

In light of my non-cheek chewing life, I am leaving the twenty four hour post in perpetuity. I am still sure that the ol man won't be happy if he ever discovers that I posted it, but taking it down would be putting on a layer of lacquer, and I am not doing that anymore.

I like it. it's real. it's vulgar. it's crass.

I couldn't let my children read it, and I would be embarrassed if my father read it. However, I am not concerned that I am leaving the impression that I am a nasty talker. I spend most hours of my day being a sweet talker--but the element of crudity is there just below the surface, and I choose to let it out. I would not be proud to reveal those words to my father or my children--but I am not going to ashamed either.

I am going to start living my life in a state of trembling honesty. I don't know what the ramifications will be of me living a more honest life--

But at least I won't be peeling of layers of my inner cheek and digesting myself in tiny bits.

~Twenty four hours~

2006-02-09T18:00:00.000-07:00

The second poem I have ever originally written in my life was work shopped Tuesday night. It had been bumped to the back of the list for two classes, and I assumed it had been bumped because it totally sucked.

I almost cried when I heard good words about it. The professor said, "You should all keep a copy of this." to the class.

Dude, I am a poet, and I didn't even know it.

The last two days at the manor have been beyond horrible, and in light of the fact that I can do the poetry thing, I have written another.

This won't be here long. It's incrediably personal, and if the ol man ever reads it my fate is sealed.

However. I kinda like it, so I am posting it for twenty four hours.

What You Don’t Know

When you said that you were leaving me,
I asked for a hate fuck for the road.
You thought I was callous and crass
But you rose to the occasion.

While you preformed your ministrations
I thought about how to make you stay.
I considered more shake and bake chicken
I considered more ironing.

I lay beneath you contemplating
All of the suppressions I would have to make.
When you wiped off and then lay sleeping
I came to a profound realization.

Shake and bake and ironing are not what you need.
Clean floors and shiny pots will never please.
I can not cling to your legs and beg you to stay
I won’t let you remember me that way.

I didn’t consider that I had a life other then you
Until you suggested that maybe I do.
You think you gave me a fear of being alone
But what you gave me is
the possibility
of autonomy.

~I Strepped in Riggins~

2006-02-08T07:59:00.000-07:00

The trip began as all AGFT's begin--we met one another, hugged and passed out compliments like, "Oh my god! You look six foot tall and 115 pounds!" and "look at your eyebrows, they are fabulous!" and "You smell like a million bucks, if I were a guy I would lick you all over." When five of us piled into the vehicle, five of us were as high as kites flown on compliments can get.

Please don't tell...but...as soon as we left the driveway, five beer cans were popped open. Pearl slipped the AGFT cd (annually she makes a new one) and we began singing and telling bawdy stories. When the cop pulled us over and suggested that there was some inattentive driving going on, he nailed it. Naturally when lights and sirens appear in the rearview mirror, one or two beers are accidentally spilled. Just as naturally, perfume is sprayed, beer cans are covered with coats and lipstick is applied.

I believe Pearl got out of the ticket because when the cop asked if she knew why she had gotten pulled over she replied, "Because I was speeding." and after checking her license and coming back to the vehicle to list her offenses he asked her what she thought he should do with her she replied, "If I were you I would give me a ticket." When he suggested she simply slow down, she assured him that she would.

The next two hours we did drive slower, but the radio did not get turned down, and our crime spree was not finished.

As per tradition, we stopped at the half way restaurant, and something was stolen. This year we had a newby with the sweetest face you have ever seen. As the new girl it was her job to steal, and she did an admiral job of cleaning out the sugar dispensers and pocketing a butter knife. (On my year to steal I took an entire salad, bowl and fork included.)

We blew into Riggins on a cloud of expensive perfume, lip gloss and high heels. When we walked into Summervilles, the bait boys, fishing guides and bartenders cheered. An old lady at the end of the bar remarked, "You girls light up this whole town--look at all the smiling faces in here!"

Shots were consumed, booties were shaken, the dance floor became the ladies own personal playground. I am rather amazed to admit that I didn't get on the dance floor at all this year. During the first round of bootie shaking I was playing dice with a cop, his girlfriend some other fella and the bartender. During subsequent nights I missed the dance fest for various reasons...

It seems wrong to wait so long to mention this, but Riggins is all about the fishing, and this year we proved it. When I say we, I mean the girls. I did hook a fish, but after the bait was taken and I set the hook I had to set my beer down, thus giving my fish enough slack to escape.

SO, another year with no fish for me.

At the end of the most productive fishing day of our lives (I count their success as my own) we went back to the hotel to get ready for the dance off. Stiletto heels that required assistance to both put on and removed were crammed on to feet. Pants bejeweled with crystals were pulled on to hips, eyeshadow, lipstick and blush were all applied with perfection. Hair care tips were passed out, and hair care products were liberally applied. I have to tell you, the cosmetic industry made a killing. When my girls walked out of the hotel they were all in prime shape and ready to show the other group of fishing girls the proper way to dance on top of the bar.

Unfortunately, I missed that event because the strep throat that I had been brewing for about a week was aggravated by a day outside. I am lucky enough to be travel with a nurse practitioner who set me up with the Z-pak. While I was in the hotel room vomiting, burning with the fever and chilling, the girls were dancing on the bar the way only ex-cheerleaders in crystal pants can.

When the Z-pak was applied, I was told that I would feel 50% better in the morning. Maybe it was the power of the Z, maybe it was the power of Cathy's words--but I did feel 50% better the following morning and I was able to gather myself for another day on the river. More fish were slaughtered, again not by me, more jokes were told and comments such as "lube it or lose it" and "Is this where we put out?" were tossed into the wind. Nicknames were handed out, "Little Bladder" and "No Mas" being my favorites.

It was a different event this year in that it was all about the fishing. Oh sure, any wise person would have purchased stock in Michelob Ultra and Crown Royal before we left, and naturally we all benefited from the group therapy exercise.

But at the end of the first day of fishing my boat set the bar for the biggest fish, the most fish, and the most amazing fishing trip food ever brought onto a boat.

Seriously, how often do you suppose fishing snacks include fresh mozzarella balls wrapped in basil and drizzled with chile infused olive oil?

~Home Again Home Again~

2006-02-06T09:32:00.000-07:00

I got home last night at 10:07. The roads were perfect. When the AGFT was officially over and I was back in my car diving through Boise traffic I was so relaxed and content that I forgot to be afraid of driving.

And that appears to be the theme of this years event.

When the eight of us were together doing the group therapy lesson we talked about our irrational fears that we were confronting with this trip. One of the ladies at the event is terrified of water. Oh, she showers and drinks, but prefers to stay away from water that is more then two feet deep. On opening day she caught three fish, and is currently in first place for both the most fish and the biggest fish. (33 3/4 incher)

Another lady is afraid of fish. (She caught a 32 incher).

We talked about our fears of being irrelevant in the world. The minutiae in the lives of women who work and raise families leads to the fear that something about life is passing us by--and we are to busy to even know what we are missing. We discussed the fear of getting older and losing our adventurous spirits.

We discovered that days with the girls are better then weekends with boys, because there is a tendency, with women, to try to please the man. I am sure men aren't aware of that, or maybe they just take it for granted. When we are with a group of women, everyone is being acknowledged. No one is required to give something up to care for someone else's needs.

I have a notebook full of the one liners that struck me as brilliant, observations that made me laugh and scribbles of words that I added because one of the women said to me, "Write that down!" I intend to get all of them together so that I can make an accurate report of just how funny we all are. I want to record the amount of laughing that was done by the group.

But right now, I have much stuff to accomplish in my real life.

For today I am left with the knowledge that I am blessed to have the AGFT every year. Speaking for the women that shared my boat and my bed this weekend--the event gave each of us back a little bit of something that we put aside day in and day out. I do not want to suggest that being mothers and good tax paying citizens and wives that know how to cook the man's steak are things that we take for granted.

I would like to suggest that as women we take ourselves for granted so that we can achieve all of the afore mentioned things. In a group of eight woman each of us tells the other how awesome they are--three days of hearing you are amazing does something wonderful to the spirit. On the woman's weekend we acknowledge each others sacrifices and achievements and when we say to one another, ""Who's disposable panties* just blew off the boat?" we do so with love.

*check of the photos for clarification

~Fifteen Minutes From Now Tomorrow~

2006-02-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow at this time, I will be finished with my Spanish test, and I will be anxious to get on the road. I am using the word anxious to mean that I will be watching the clock and realizing that when the bells go off I am free until Sunday. I am also using the word anxious to mean that the idea of driving to Boise makes me feel like puking.

I used to relish the trip to and from Boise. I can recall feeling like it was utter luxury to have five hours alone with my thoughts. I would make myself laugh and cry--I would sing and practice dialogue; and I would stop at any rest area or C-store that caught my eye. The solitary drive from here to there used to be something that gave me chills of pleasure when I thought about it.

But then something happened to me, and now I dread driving. I remember that I used to love it, but I can't recapture the feeling. If the solitary drive were a person that I used to date and I saw it public, I would drop to the floor and Marine crawl to the closest exit.

I think it started to go sour for me the year I was trapped for six hours in a coffee shop because of a blizzard. Before pulling into the coffee shop, I had been creeping down the highway at 20 MPH and it was a complete white-out. Then I was stopped on the road for enough minutes that I thought I might run out of gas, and finally into the purgatory coffee shop.

I didn't have a cell phone that year, so I called Mare from the pay phone and told her how I had been trapped, then I perched myself at the counter for a a cheese burger and a cup of coffee. Because I am an eaves dropper, the first part of the purgatory stay was rather interesting. Two young couples were sharing a booth, and it was obvious that two of them were in love, and two of them were on each other's last nerve. The in love couple decided to get a hotel room next door, and they walked out of the shop with their arms around each others waist's and his face nuzzling her neck. The other young couple had an argument about how clear it was that the weather was the fault of the woman. The argument was compelling enough that when they left I was thinking, "Way to ruin my trip you weather controlling bitch."

Two farmers set next to me for awhile and we had a conversation about how the world was a'changin. I had a conversation with the short order cook about the status of the coffee pot when the power went out. When the brunch hour was over and the dinner hour was approaching I ate a piece of pie with a truck driver. When I was walking around the coffee shop, and after enough cups of coffee to leave me shaking me like a heroine addict I needed the walk, I found a church group in the back room. I knew a couple of the ladies that were in charge of all the children and when they suggested I stay to sit with them, I suggested that I needed to be seated in the smoking section.

I did leave the coffee shop to get gas, and when I returned to my stool, there were more truck drivers cluttering the counters and booths talking about road reports. Two were setting on the opposite side of the horse shoe shaped counter and they were staring at me with that open unabashed type of staring that declares, "Yeah, I am lookin' at you, and I am not gonna stop." I set next to the pie eating trucker and we talked about what his children had been like when they were younger and he told me about his wife that he married because the first time he saw her she took his breath away. He confided that twenty some odd years later, she still did.

We got the word that the weather was breaking up and the highway patrol was opening the roads for cars, but not trucks. The pie eater glanced at the unabashed starers and told me it was time to get myself on the road. I shook his hand and walked to my car.

And of course the battery was dead because I had left my lights on.

And of course it was a stroke of the best kind of luck that the pie eating trucker was moving his truck to the back of the building and he had jumper cables.

It is a little odd that twenty miles closer to Boise the sun was shining and the fields were green.

When I read the story of that day I see that it wasn't a tragedy, portions of it were pleasant. Maybe I drank enough coffee that afternoon to damage my driving dendrites, and now just the suggestion that I am going to be in a car for five hours alone is enough to get them fired up.

There are a couple of things I need to get out of the AGFT this year. One of the things I desire to find is that part of me that loved to drive alone. I want to reconnect with the woman who used to drive for hours to nowhere. I remember me when I didn't worry about tires or oil filters or transmissions, I was a lot of fun.

Another thing I want to discover is why I have become so afraid of things that I used to enjoy. I want to pin point the voice that whispers disasters to me so that I can yank it out by the root.

It is a sad fact that my fear of driving makes the day before the AGFT particularly painful. It makes me feel incredibly sorry for myself to acknowledge that I shackle myself with fear. I wonder how a woman who used to declared that the road was her middle name could come to a place in life where she would let vacations slip by because there would be a highway involved.

I need the AGFT to work some magic this year; I need it to help me find some feelings that I have lost. I know that I will arrive home Sunday night with a laughter hang over and a body that is sore from all of the dancing. Those things I get every year...This year I hope I come home with a swagger because I found my lost balls.

~Thanks A lot You Little Asshole~

2006-01-30T20:13:00.000-07:00

Last week the ol man came home and reported unto me that his little buddy had declared that he and I had the most awesome marriage that he had ever seen. Apparently this handsome, though assholic, man declared that our marriage was pert-near perfect, what with each of us doing our own thing, our touchy feely attitude and the fact that we always seemed happy to see one another.

As soon as I heard the news that we were viewed as happy I wanted to dot little buddy's eye's. It is one thing to secretly believe that you are happy, but when other people notice and then proclaim it--well. Three of three fates take notice of that shit, especially when you are one of Fate's Ho's and born on the sixth of September. (Seriously, put that on your calendar so you can send me a card.)

I do not remember the exact sequence of events that led to my demise, so to make my point clear I will proclaim they happened like this: Little buddy said, "So happy" Mejor amiga's said, "We need a writer" and the rest is written in unmitigated misery.

It is true that I have been an AGFT'er for five years. It is also true that the guilt laid upon me for leaving my family so I can drink and dance and say cuss words begins in early October and extends until the second before I leave. The punishment I receive for doing what I do begins exactly one nano second after I leave and extends until October, when the guilt phase begins.

You may think I am exaggerating, but take these words and tell me how they are anything other then guilt:

"Eat well tonight kids. Your mom will be leaving soon, and there will be no good food while she is gone.

"We can't afford to keep the lights on tonight, your mom is leaving for her trip soon."

"Your eye is falling out? That is to bad, unfortunately mommy thinks it is more important that she caress the silken chests of fishing guides then you being able to see."

Okay. I admit, two of the three examples I have given are lies.

However! All three are very close to the truth.

When a person has a blog and is married it becomes necessary to smooth over the icky stuff. We do this because if we were to write the truth at all times and we have spouses that read our blogs (My spouse does not do that) it might make something icky into something down right unpleasant.

In the interest of honesty, I must admit that I did put my hand on the chest of a fishing guide last year. Do not click on that link to see my perdition. If you do, you will see that for a moment last year I was all sex kitten and touching and feeling a man whom was hired by me and my buddies to catch a fish...and I...Horrible, not so happily married woman that I am...Caressed all over him and created a picture that will haunt me for the rest of my days. It is quite possible that when I die that will be my obit picture with the caption, "100 year old crack whore finally dies...Hooray."

It is never going to matter that the guide in question was touched by each of us and photographed. It is completely inconsequential that Stretch Armstrong himself could not have kept his body further away from the body of the guide when the hand felt the fur. It isn't even worth mentioning that said fishing guide is dating a freaking super model and his interest in Stretch Armstrong me is about the same as his interest in head lice.

As of today, the three fates have recognized that the little asshole thinks we are a happily married couple, and all three of them have put their knitting hooks into my life.

I leave for the AGFT Thursday morning. Between now and then I anticipate arguing and equivocating every second of every day. I will cry. I will probably end up throwing something. I will leave my home Thursday morning and I will be at that stage in life where I don't even care that I am a complete pussy driver who has to drive for five hours all by herself.

Part of the AGFT tradition is the fact that I leave my house feeling like a bag of dog shit for abandoning my family. The other part is that I accept the fact that if I die on the highway at least I did it for me.

Sigh.

Last year I took Mrs Jones, and she drove. Oh, I still had the guilt of knowing I sucked giant donkey cocks because I desired a vacation...but at least I knew that I was giving another woman the gift of a life changing experience...and that I wouldn't careen off the road and freeze to death in a ditch alone.

This year I am already burdened with all of the ways I suck because I am ditching my family to take a vacation that I can't afford that is being paid for by women who love me enough to pony up the cash and the most heart warming reason for the ponying of cash that was ever invented...

and I am already at that place that a psychotic driver needs to be:

The roads are going to be icy and I will probably be run off the road by terrorist head hunters who want to eat me soul. Fuck it. I'm goin."

~It's not Funny, But it's not Serious~

2006-01-27T10:22:00.000-07:00

I have thought talking about eating disorders was funny for years. Fifteen years and twenty pounds ago, I used to ask for an eating disorder for Christmas. When I am in public and I slop food all over myself, I blame it on my eating disorder. It is in the tradition of proclaimed my own disorders (Because I can't afford a real psychologist to declare them for me) I told my sister that I had an eating disorder when she asked me what was wrong with me.

My sisters don't read my blog, and apparently they haven't ever met me...Because the took the following conversation to be a serious indicator of a serious eating disorder, and they called the mama.

So what's wrong with you?
I have the pukes.
Why?
Oh, probably because I have an eating disorder.
what do you mean you have an eating disorder? Are you sticking your finger down your throat?
god no, I am much smarter then that. Instead I have convinced my consciousness that I am only attractive when I am hungry, and now my body rejects solid food.
Are you serious?
Sure, years ago I asked for an eating disorder for Christmas, and I finally got one.
This isn't funny, have you see a doctor?
Why would I see a doctor? I have ten pounds more to go.

I have been baffling my sisters with bullshit for years, and it will never. Get old.

It is true that my stomach is having a bit of a problem with solid food, but it isn't a cool psychological diet. It is a combination of stress and other Factors that have caused me to have this conversation with my husband:

What's wrong with you?
I just feel like crap.
Do you need some Midol?
why do you gotta be such an asshole all the time? Gahhh. Are you a freaking Neanderthal and you don't understand that a man can't mention anything about a period ever?

It's more likely that I have PMDD, which I have also claimed at one time or another, though I can't remember what I thought was so cool about it...

~Note To Self: STOP WITH THE VOICES!~

2006-01-24T23:05:00.000-07:00

It happened again tonight.

I am sure that I have mentioned that I have a speech disorder. The stem of the problem could be that when I get nervous I begin to wonder if my tongue is to big for my mouth. I used to think I should have my tongue shaved on either side so it fit between my teeth, but then I discovered that I had an unusually narrow palette and therefore I was a freak with a narrow face, but not a freak with a tongue that was to big.

Now I must emphasize that my speech disorder isn't on a constant basis. I talk like a regular potato fed Idahoan most of the time...But in those instances when I get nervous, I use stupid voices full of inflection and wild arm movements followed by red faced smiling. If I were Pentecostal I would be cool with the feeling of, "Dammit. I am 'bout to say thrash on the floor and utter non sense syllables...But I know it's so right." But I am not Pentecostal, and I must admit that I am always embarrassed after I speak in public.

It usually goes down like this:

The prof asks a question, and I know the answer. I mean I know it stone cold, but I am not a hand raiser--so I set quietly until the sound of no one raising their hand pounds on my temples, and mine shoots up, when I am acknowledged I begin to speak using a scary voice for anything dark, a happy voice with fluttery hand movements for happiness...and my personal nemesis...the mystery voice. The mystery voice has a "duh-dum...duh-dum...duh-dum tada!" rhythm.

When I begin with the voices the professors always shoot me the "Is English your second language?" eyebrows followed by the "Oooh....! You are just nervous" forehead creases followed by the "Hurry up and finish your answer, and please don't speak very often this semester" indulgent smile.

In the future I will be needing a reference letter from other professors that clearly states that the voices go away.

~My First Paid Writing Gig~

2006-01-23T11:32:00.000-07:00

I have had a pretty good case of the blues for the last few weeks, and they stem from the morning wake-up call from the bill collectors. After the morning wake-up, the phone rings until 7:30pm with more bill collectors. I need to make a recording that says, "Yes, I know I owe you. Yes, I intend to pay. No I can not pay today, No I can not give you a check by phone..."

The money blight stems from my school career that will someday earn me a decent living, but curtailed my C-store career. (While I wasn't exactly racking in the dough, I was paying some bills.) The second rung of the poverty ladder is the fact that it is Winter in Idaho, and thus the famine end of the feast or famine construction trade.

Besides the stress of the bill collectors--who I admit have a legit reason for calling--there is the 'how can I turn this potato and that egg into enough food for five people?" blues and the, "If I am going to write a bad check for groceries, I better get cash back for gas" depression.

Last night I had a melt down that resulted in me screaming at my children, then sending them to bed without dinner. (I did feed them dinner, but they stayed in their room til their dad got home, which was exactly what mama needed.) Throwing a bit of the "My mom is a bitch' guilt on top of the cash flow situation makes it pretty hard to come up with blogs that are amusing.

Because of my poverty situation (At this time someone could point out that I am not in poverty since I am using a computer, and if you do that I will yell at you and send you to the bank where you will meet my banker lady and her sharp stick that she uses for the poking out of eyes.) I gave up the AGFT. (All Girl Fishing Trip.) that I have been attending for the last four years. The AGFT is about reconnecting with the girls, laughing, talking, singing, dancing and in general feeling empowered by the love of women.

Knowing that I was bagging the AGFT really put the blues in my bucket, and I have been a mope fest for at least a month. When I first told the ladies I had to bail because of my expensive school habit, they offered to have a bake sale and pay my way.

I found that to be undeniably sweet, tear worthy even, but I told them I couldn't do charity fishing, and while I know they all have their powdered sugar on French toast secret, I didn't believe they were really going to set up a booth. They admitted that they weren't really going to cook, but would pay anyway. I declined.

Then I found the AGFT pictures from years past and realized I was missing out on the only vacation I take without my family. I also understood the implication of missing out on all of the positive affirmations that the AGFT entails--last years AGFT was the reason I applied for school.

Today I talked to Mare, and she told me that all the ladies had chipped in to buy my fishing pass and pay for my hotel room...And they were doing it because, "We were going to hire a writer anyway, so it might as well be you."

(Pause for eye wiping.)

I am aware that this new story is similar to the bake sale story, they weren't really going to hire a writer, but dammit! If they are willing to make up such a good story, what kind of freak show would I be not to go? Isn't saying, "I can't do welfare fishing" exactly the sort of thing that was implied in the bible where it says, "Pride goeth before the fall"?

This morning I woke up to the bill collector telephone call and the most stringent wish that it was still night time and I didn't have to get out of bed to face this day.

Now I am overwhelmed to know that mejor amiga's (pronounced "me-whore" for the uninitiated, it means 'best') are not only willing to pay my way, but they took the time to come up with a really great story that saves my pride. It seems wrong to call them, "Me whores" but...My bitches are fabulous, and I am one lucky woman to have them.

Next Thursday I will have a good percent of the bill collectors satisfied, but I don't think all of them. I will probably feel a little guilty when I tell my daughter, "No you can't go sking because we can't afford it, go get mama's suitcase so I can pack for my trip." I will stock the fridge with hot dogs and the macaroni and cheese. Then I will go to my Thursday classes, but bail early so I can make the long drive to Boise. I will probably feel a little bad that I am a welfare fisher that ditched her family with processed meatstuff and powdered cheese so she could dance on a boat and drink alcohol before noon--

---But if the past is any indicator of the future, there will be many hours on Friday and Saturday in which I will feel rejuvenated and I will declare I am having the best day ever--and I will mean it.

And once again I am moved to tears by the generosity of my friends. Knowing that I will spend three days with my girls and that I won't have to pretend to be cheerful--which I have been doing a lot of lately--is huge.

~Grandma was Right~

2006-01-22T11:25:00.000-07:00

If you had a grandma, and I bet you do, she probably told you that, "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." I know my grandmother told me that, and I am here to tell you--the old lady was right!

I was raised during the new school of thinkers who thought you had to be cute to catch a man, and while it probably helps--I think an inspired dish of lemon chicken trumps a pair of fake boobs everyday of the week.

And I have proof to back up my claim, but of course it is going to take me a second to get to that part of the story, first I must talk about my hair.

When I was a child I was unduly influenced by Crystal Gayle and I resolved to let my hair grow to the back of my knees. I could think of nothing more luxurious then sitting down to go potty, but first having to throw you hair over your shoulder. I gave up on the Crystal Gayle idea in my teen years when perms were all the rage, and I stuck with frizzy shoulder length hair until about the time I got pregnant and could no longer afford the perm, or the time it took to get a perm, or the maintenance on the perm. So, for a few years everything just grew, and for awhile it was a god awful mess, but now it is flowing nicely and I am back to the Crsytal Gayle dreams.

My plan is to have my hair long enough that it brushes the top of my ass. I came to this idea at the age of 14 while at Yellowstone with my grandparents, and I saw a woman who had hair that brushed the top of her ass, and the vision of her standing by the rail gazing at Yellowstone Falls still sticks with me. The woman had a face like a horse, but man! That hair was divine!

It occurred to me about a year ago that this was my very last chance. I am 35 years old, and just around the corner is the day when my best friend's pick me up to take me to lunch, but instead take me to a hairdresser. While there, they will gently explain to me that I am to old for the do I am sporting, and I will see the wisdom in cutting it all off, perming it and dying it blue.

If you think I am wrong, riddle me this. Have you ever seen a 70 year old woman sporting any other hairstyle?

I am currently just a handwidth away from my ass brushing hair goal and every time someone says to me, "Your hair is getting so long!" I take it as a compliment. Last semester a young woman asked me if I was wearing hair extensions, and I had to fight the urge to kiss her on the mouth.

And now back to grandma's theory.

One of the side affects of so much hair is that it is a giant scent magnet. Any scent that I travel through attaches itself to my hair, and over the past few years I have shuddered when I caught a whiff of my own hair and it smelled like the bathroom stall I just evacuated. Consequently, I have to wash it very often so that it doesn't smell like satan's ass.

Last night I made Shake and Bake chicken, broccoli, biscuits and mashed taters for dinner. When I crawled into bed--having foregone the nightly shower cause I was just wiped--the ol man curled up next to me and declared, "You smell so good."

A half hour later I was in the bathroom and when I put my head down and my hair fell into my face I realized that my hair smelled like chicken and taters.

Man, for years I have been wasting money on scented shampoos and conditioners. If I would have known then what I realize today, I would have saved my shampoo money and simply waved a bag of pork rinds around my head before bedtime.

The end result of my latest discovery is that if I were a smart woman I would combine Grandma's wisdom and my ingenuity and I would invent bacon scented shampoo.

Admit it, you want a bottle.

~NOT Average!~

2006-01-19T18:13:00.000-07:00

On my way to school this morning, the dj on my favorite station said he was going to give the stats for the average American woman. He said, "The average American woman--and I am probably talking to YOU..."

Usually when I find out that I am average, I can find reasons why I am glad that I am average, I aspired to average, and I am cool with it. (Lies. All lies.) But anytime I find out that I am the opposite of average, or a non-ave if you will, I feel quite good about my miserable little life for a few moments. (Of course I am not mentioning those instances were I am sub-standard, such is in mathematics.)

This is the list of that creates the average woman:

She is 5'4. (I am 5-9!)
She weighs 160 pounds. (I do not!)
She wears a size 14. (Not me!)
She has a 36 C bra size. A couple months ago I went in for the bra fitting at my local Victoria Secrets. I have heard that stats about how many women are wearing the wrong bra size, and I thought that since it was a statistical norm, I was probably wearing the wrong size. SO I stood in front of a mirror and a lady took my measurements. As it turns out, I am a C.5 cup. I can stick with the c cup that I am currently sporting, or I could go with the D, and either would be acceptable. I stick with the C because I watch enough of the travel porno channel to see what happens to the girls if they aren't fully supported. SO, while I am working the c-cup, I could wear the D cup. Therefore, I am not actually a c-cup, just a woman very afraid of what gravity will do to the cans when it gets it's dirty little talons into them.

The end result of the quiz was my realization that I was taller and thinner then average. Listen, a girl doesn't get news like that every day, so I was pleased.

But as I continued driving it occurred to me that I didn't know what my ears looked like. If there was a whole group of us who had our ears ripped off by terrorists, and we had to pick them out of a pile so they could be re-attached--I wouldn't be able to find my own.

Kind of a spooky thought isn't it? Do you know what your ears look like?

That got me thinking of all of the area's of my body that I couldn't pick out of a pile, and the list is pretty lengthy. There are things on the list that, as a woman, I should have regularly looked at with a compact, but frankly, the one time I looked it scared me and I have never looked again.

There are things that I could pick out of the pile, such as my ankles and wrists and toes (If the toes were in bundles. I might get a couple wrong if it was a mixed pile, but I would be sure to attach them long, short, long, short, long.) I believe I would recognize my double chins and my relief society triceps. My knees and calves would be no brainers because of their delightful array of scars, and my abdomen would be a cinch thanks to an appendix removal scar that left the sign of pi in my belly button. I could pick out my eyes--except that I wouldn't have eyes if my eyes were put into a pile of eyes, which would really suck.

Frankly, the fact that I have a scar the shape of pi-the irrational number- has never surprised me. Instead of conjugating Spanish verbs on the way to school this morning I was thinking of which parts of my body I could pick out a pile, and how many of those parts were average and probably interchangeable...

How 'bout you? Which parts of you are so spectacular that you could pick them out of a pile?

~Es They-bow-rah!~

2006-01-18T17:27:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is my first Spanish test, and I am confindent that I will do alright, and I have come to this decision because I know most of the words we are learning; thanks to my stint at the Gas and Sip. One of the major things I have learned is that I am a dork, and it is possible that all of the people who talked Spanish to me at the register were laughing at me--and not with me.

My first foray into the Spanish speaking world was with Senor Mosqueda. I have written about him before, but I want to do it again.

I first met Senor Mosqueda when he came into the store with a white paper bag under his arm. He is a very short man, with a bit of poochy belly. It is obvious that he slicked himself up for the walk to the C-store because his shirt was clean,his pants were pressed, and his hair was groomed in that fifty year old Mexican man way. He sort of skirted in and cast about some nervous glances as he walked towards the beer cooler. The Yetti was working with me that night and he suggested that I keep an eye on the old Mexican guy.

My first reaction was, "He could grab one end of a shelf and pull it out the door and my response would be to hold the door for him. I am not stopping a shop lifter. Ever. And if this place gets held up I will hand the robber the keys and ask them to lock up when they were finished, or not, whatever--and I would go home.." (that reaction may explain why I was never made employee of the month. ) (But since I have been unemployed, I have been 'unemployee of the month" EVERY month.)

My only action was to watch him. It became clear very quickly that he was putting a case of beer inside the white bag he had tucked under his arm. He grabbed some spicy hot cheetos and approached my counter, with his eyes cast towards the floor. Without making eye contact he placed the beer and the cheeto's on the counter and waited for me to ring him up.

I did some quick mental math and realized that the reason the man brought a white paper bag was...can we be honest here? It is hard for a person with brown skin to walk down the street with a case of beer, and an immigrant especially can't take the chance to gain the attention.

I said, "Ho-la! Como Esta!"

His eyes darted up at me and he muttered, "Muy bien, y tu."

I replied, "Moo-EE Bee-en! Co-mo Is Two Yamma?"

This was when the man showed me his huge smile. He was missing four teeth right across the front, and his gums, where the teeth had been, were red and swollen. When he smiled his entire face picked up and folded itself into merriment. He opened his eyes wide, lifted his eyebrows high and twinkled at me.

SO that is how we met, and from there I met his wife--also missing four front teeth--and his two children--both of whom had lovely large country music singer teeth. The family had some friends, and soon I was "O-lah" and "Que Pasa" ing all over the place. Most of the peoples that I spoke Spanish with patiently pronounced words with me when I got them wrong, and each of them advanced the conversation from "what is your name" to "here is your forty two cents" to "would you like a bag with that" and finally, "Tell me truthfully, do you think Hillary is going to run for President?"

I am sure that I am editorializing my memory to make it more then what it was, but whatever. Embellishing is all the vogue these days. I am sure the following event happened at least 200 times, but beyond that I might be exaggerating:

The Mosqueda's and their buddies would always greet me when they walked into the door with, "It's Deborah!"

This didn't ever seem odd to me, as I often great my friends by saying, "It's (Add your name here.)!"

This week in Spanish I realized that every time I introduced myself to a Spanish speaking person I said, "I call myself its Deborah."

In my poor Spanish--which I will translate to English now for your reading pleasure--I had this conversation many many many time.

Hi! I call myself its Deborah. And formal you?
Your name is It's Deborah?
What's happenin?
are you mentally unbalanced or are you trying to speak Spanish?
I speak a little pepper!
AH, one of those. Alright, if it will help me get out of here faster,I'll play. I call myself Juan, what is your name?
I call myself 'It's Deborah."
"It's Deborah is your name?
No, it's Deborah is my name, what is your name?
I call myself Juan.
Juan! Hi! What's happenin? I call myself "ItsDeborah"
Listen lady, I don't know what the fuck you have been smoking, but I want my change and a bag, and I want to get out of here. Good bye. Get it? GOODBYE."
I will see your armadillo!
Good bye
Goodbye!

I have learned alot this week about what an embarrassment I am to myself and gringo's everywhere. However! I am sure that I will do well on the test tomorrow because of all of the times I had that conversation with Spanish speaking people, and how often they took the time to teach me proper pronunciation.

Now if I can just get the spelling...

~Here I Go Again~

2006-01-16T10:44:00.000-07:00

By the end of this post you might be saying to yourself, "For hell's sake, is she going to write bad poetry for an entire semester?" The answer is, "No." We are only concentrating on poetry for part of a semester, and I might be good at it before then.

So far the book I am assigned to read about poetry talks about the rules, and how to break them. I am a little confused with the rules such as rhyme, but don't rhyme and count, but don't count and you need a certain numbers of stanza's but don't use a certain number of stanza's...

...I like the poetic language and I hope to master it, but unfortunately my heart has a giant clown's nose on it and the nose is used to scoff at anything vaguely romantic or sentimental. It isn't that I can't do sentimental or romantic, It is just that I don't do sentimental or romantic.

I did try to write a romantic poem yesterday while Martin watched the 18 hours of playoffs, and the kids skipped around the house hopped up on pork rinds and tins of smoked oysters. (The chosen food of the playoff season.) It could be stated that the mood in my writing room made me unperceptive to the romantic voice in my heart--

--it could be that I simply don't have the capacity, because this is the 'love' poem I came up with:

His desire for her was
A bottle of lotion
On the bedside table
That he hid when his mother
Came over to visit

Her love for him was
Black thong panties
That she kept in the top drawer
And considered someday wearing
Though she never did

The problems I see with this attempt at poetry is that it may be incomplete, I didn't clarify anything. It also occurs to me that maybe I don't want to--I know there are supposed to be a certain number of lines and breaks, and I also know that I don't have to follow those rules--so maybe this poem is exactly long enough.

The other problem is that I don't know who it is about or really, what it is about. Is it unrequited love, or is it thinly veiled smut? When I tried to write the next lines I started thinking about who it was about from different angles--maybe people just dating, or perhaps people who have been long married or maybe even people having an affair.

But when I added those extra lines that would sharpen the image of the people involved, the poem became contrived.

I am not sure if it is complete because I like the way it disturbs me, or if it is something I will finish, or if it is something that needs to be dissected and added to different works that are better.

I do know that the children are not in school today and that means that they are ramming around the house squealing and running and in general defying every order I have ever given because they think that when I am occupied they can do whatever they want. It might be the introduction of pork rinds and oysters into their diet. I think my family felt that skipping the Sunday breakfast that I usually cook and replacing it with Football food has shifted the balance of power at Chessey Manor.

I need to go flex my motherly muscles now. It won't be pretty, there will be crying and at least one child will declare that it is unfair. Perhaps I should stop trying to write love or hate poems, and start writing poetry that details the minutiae of motherly life--cause who wouldn't want to read a poem about washing dishes and wiping runny noses?

~It's National De-Lurking week~

2006-01-13T12:04:00.000-07:00

Word on the street is that this is the week where lurkers come out to comment.

I am utterly excited to think that this could have an affect on me, I would so love to check my site and see that I had 100 comments! It's the little things ya know?

As an update, I did check my lotto ticket this morning and...I did not win.

yet.

But it is only a matter of time.

~The Night Before the Luckiest Day of My Entire Life.~

2006-01-12T20:16:00.000-07:00

I got a letter from my psychic friend Rochelle the other day, and she promised that Friday the 13th is going to be the luckiest day of my entire life, and will set about a series of changes that will create unprecedented happiness in my life for the next 364 days.

This is great news. I have had a letter from her before, and she prophesied I would begin 72 days of unprecedented happiness. It started like this.

If you read that post you can now clearly see that my psychic friend knows her shit. That actual day wasn't especially happy, but it was only a few days later that we begin working on this house.

I have re-read some of those posts and I see that I wasn't the happiest of campers, in fact, I denied that I was living the 72 glorious days on a number of instances, such as the day I stepped on a board that had a nail in it. The nail was driven through my shoe and into my foot and I had to pry the board to get it off.

It hurt.

But! That board just so happened to be a board that was the perfect length to frame in the jet tub--and I have to tell you, the jet tub is a fantasmagoria of pleasure.

During those 72 days I bitched about things like getting stucco crammed into every one of my crevices, and then going home to the house that had no water with which to wash.

But! The stucco looks pretty and I am proud of the fact that I applied portions of it. I can do the construction lady thing, and I have the callouses to prove it.

So, in retrospect...Those seventy some odd days that I spent building this house weren't very fun at the time, but the fruit of my labor has been warmly enclosing me for more then a year. And I have indoor washing facilities, and water that runs all the time, and heat--and you can bet your bippy that those things make me happy. (Though I tend to take them for granted, until I remember what life was like without those things.)

The astute reader would now pooh-pooh my psychic friend by suggesting that Friday the 13 is a classically bad luck day--everyone knows that.

But oh (!)you nay saying astute reader! What you should know is that I was born on September 6th (write that on your calendar so you don't forget to send me a card) . People born on the 6th of September are better known as Fate's Ho's. It is our misfortune to have the special attention of a couple of the fates, and they like to slap us around a bit. Apparently, Fate takes special pleasure in setting us up for the funny fall. There are always elements of humor to our misfortune...And of course there is plenty of set-up for something really grand, only to have it snatched away in a rather ironic fashion.

As it works out, when a day is especially bad luck for everyone else in the entire world, it is a great day for us sixers, cause we aren't expecting anything good.

To prepare for the luckiest day of my life I have purchased a lotto ticket--of course--and I will check the results tomorrow. The lotto was drawn last night, so I could have checked today--but I feel that checking it a day early would only hex my odds.

Tomorrow morning when I check my ticket to find that I am a winner I will begin that 364 days of pure pleasure promised to me by my psychic friend.

Of course it could be another big funny in that I actually have a really miserable year but when I look back on it I see that I ''grew as a person" and "overcame adversity". It is even possible that my psychic friend isn't at all psychic and what she really wanted to do was sell me the $19.95 lucky amulet.

I did not buy the charm because--and I am only being honest here--magic charms and amulets creep me out, and it has everything to do with my Christian roots. I also didn't buy the amulet because if my good luck is written in the stars, is a cheapo necklace really going to affect that?

In closing I would like to add that this whole post is written ironically. The psychic stuff only affects me when it amuses me. I am no more sure that I am holding the winning lottery ticket tonight then I am every. Other. Time. I have ever bought a lotto ticket...

...Doesn't everyone buy a ticket being sure it is the winner? Don't we all have our lotto life pre-planned?

What are you going to do when YOU win...And will you take me on at least one vacation?

Please?

~Blech, Gak and Egads~

2006-01-11T19:00:00.000-07:00

I arrived at my Creative writing class ten minutes late last night.

I left in what I thought was plenty of time, but it just so happens that I am a complete pussy driver if there is snow and ice. I walked into the class trying to control my frenetic breathing--I had to park in the next county and hike to class--and I took a seat. The instructor came to my spot and asked my name.

I was crimson because he walked stairs to get to me. I said, "I am Deborah Chessey." He informed me that there was no 'Jessy" in his class, and was I sure I was in the right class? I "ch-ch-chessey"ed"at him and assured him I was only late.

It appears that I have registered for a writers workshop and that my professor is a prolific poet.
Poetry is his gig, and we will be doing it often.

My poetic history includes the fella that I met who told me he wrote poem for me. It was a good one that started with, "My heart is like a crystal, it can glitter and it can shine. But in the hands of a careless woman it can shatter anytime."

I have plagerized those lines anytime I wanted to pretend that there was some depth to my petri dish soul.

To make myself feel better I have to tell you that HE plagerized the poem that he recited to me. I don't know why it makes me feel better to claim that I plagerized a plagerized poem...But it does.

The honest truth is that I have never written an original poem.

Oh, I have claimed the crystal heart, and I know everything that the man from Nantucket has ever done...But no original work has spilled forth from me.

I know that poerty is supposed to be about finding that part of me that has been lost and abandoned and it needs a voice that relays itself in iambic perimeter. I want to be able to achieve that goal...But really...If I have buried that thing that would sing to a poet, why would I want to unearth it?

Poetry seems to be about love and hate and unfulfillment--why why why would I want to justify any of those feelings? Isn't it better to go with my current state of mind and deny deny deny that those things ever happened? For fucks sake, if I have forgotten that poetic thing so that I could get on with life; why bring it to effigy?

Discovering that I have to write no less then FIVE poems is like going on a first date and having the man say, "show me your pussy."

I have the element, but I ain't giving it up.

I have all of the required elements to make a poem...but I have spent so much of my time denying that those things exist that tapping on the door of that tomb discombobulates me. I will not, can not, shall not, shake a skeleton to evoke an emotion that can be contrived poetically.

Before I begin I have failed.

I wrote the first poem that I have ever honestly composed today...

...And I know that it is Yak vomit and monkey shit.

I want you to tell me how to fix this simple prose so that it becomes something that will garner me an A.

I will not, can not, shall not, tap that vast resevoir inside of me that has something actually poetic to say. I have spent many years suppressing that surge and I will not remove the chink that holds it all in place to garner a grade. When you put a baby to bed, only the foolish mother wakens it.

I know that the poem I am posting here sucks.

I know that it is yak vomit and monkey puke.

Please tell me how to fix it so that I can get the A.

Never

Don't knock on the face of effigy,
Don't shake the door of the tomb.

Don't ask me what I think of you,
Don't drink the wine to soon.

I've swallowed you whole,
and you've been digested.

The scene is now complete.

I will not disgorge you,
I will not let you breath.

I feel you rattling the cage,
and I know that you want out.

But I have spent my life supressing,
and I will never

never

never

give you light.

What I am searching for is an A in creative writing. I know that poetry is not my gig.

Tell me how to turn THAT into an A.

~Controlled Falling~

2006-01-10T15:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I did Yoga, which counts as my first day of school, but today counted as my real first day of school.

I can justify that I just wrote a valid statement by relating my last two days to the first two nights of Monday night football. It seems sometimes the first game is on a day other then Monday--so that is the first night of football. Then Monday is THE first Monday night football. (Two celebrations, both called the first.)

I signed up for the beginner Yoga class because I couldn't really count the Yoga I have done at home as real Yoga. I assumed beginner Yoga in a collegiate setting would be much more advanced then what I had been doing at home--but nope. The hardest thing we had to do yesterday was the dog, and dude. I can so do the dog. When the class was over I didn't feel like I had done anything at all, and I felt a little bit of displeasure knowing that my work-out plan wasn't going to do much firming.

But this morning I woke up with sore spots all over, and I realized that I did work-out, It doesn't have to be hard to be effective does it? (and I am speaking only in the terms of work, things of a more pleasurable nature OBVIOUSLY have to be hard to be effective.)

As you probably do not recall, some weeks ago I decided to stop looking humorous and instead adopt a more sophisticated manner of dress. I didn't want my sophisticated new self to look intimidating and severe, I was going for tailored sexy.

The first item that I bought for my new look was a pair of black boots. I bought them because they were knee high leather and as soon as I saw them I mentally heard, "These boots are made for walking" (Not the Jessica Simpson version.) The boots have a zipper that is great fun to zip, pulling the zipper for such a distance on my calf is very much like a yoga move, and if I perfect it, I can make it a stripper move. And nothing says sophistication like a couple good stripper moves. The boots also have four inch heels. I am 5'9; with the boots on I am over six foot tall. They did have the boots in my regular size, but I found that larger boots were more comfortable, so I bought a size ten. If I knew a cross dressing man, he could borrow them. When I wear them I feel like a giant, which wouldn't be such a bad thing--if I had ever practiced walking in heels.

I have worn the black boots a few times, and have had a rather good time in them. Bending over and/or squatting with tall boots on strikes me as quite the seductive move, though I am sure that when I start walking again the sexy affect is immediately stifled. When you think about it, walking is just the controlled act of falling forward, and catching yourself with a foot before you face plant on the concrete. I was doing pretty good with the black boots--no broken teeth--so I decided that I needed a pair of brown boots to go with a brown jacket.

The brown boots have a much narrower heel, and it is made of wood. The black boots have rubber souls. This difference is an important factor. In the black boots I can control my falling forward with a minimum of noise, with the brown boots there is a decided 'click' with each step.

Okay. Click sounds little doesn't it? Like a four foot five 90 pound woman is bound to make in heels. As I have already proven, I am a big woman. So rather then a 'click' I make more of a "clop". I do remember my mother telling me once that when you walk in heels there is only supposed to be one noise, "click" not two noises, "click, CLOP".

I spent every walking minute today concentrating on just making one noise. It was tough. I found that if I only made the one noise I felt like I had an extra joint in my ankle--which is a cool thought, but I don't think I actually evolved that extra joint, though I could probably fall right off those spikes and add at least a hinge.

The other factor of the tall boots that I wore for the first time today was that they make me taller then many people. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing...

...Except that in Spanish class we had to stand in two circles, one outside the other, and introduce ourselves to everyone in turn. The circles were meant to cram us all close together, because Spanish speaking people have a lesser need for personal space then do American's, and the professor wants us to get used to close standing. So! There we were, in the circle, introducing ourselves, and my breasts were eye level with at least two people. The first was a lady and she blushed when she turned towards me and found nipples. (Not that my nipples were poking out, but had we been naked and cold she could have had her eye put out.) The second was a young man and we had to shake hands many times because he kept forgetting to add his name when he introduced himself. I could have stepped back, or hunched my shoulders, or bent my knees to make it more comfortable for these two people, but I did not. Instead I stood still hoping that I wouldn't fall like a sequoia, taking out most of the circle with me.

I am still down with the boots, but I won't be wearing them everyday.

Other then my boots distracting me with their pokey heels that are perfect for hooking onto chair legs, my day was gloriously filled with syllabus' (syllabi?) and a lunch wherein I laughed so hard I had to put my hand over my mouth so that the hyena sounds wouldn't burst forth and scare other diners.

I hope you had a good day too.

Hasta Luego.

~And THEN! *** and * went to *and they****!

2006-01-09T10:32:00.000-07:00

I had two telephone calls late last evening. The first was my mother. She said she was proud of me and that she thoroughly enjoyed reading my blog. Her praise was effusive--and unexpected--enough that it brought tears to my eyes.

Then she said, "I gave Appleseed's mother and sister your web address."

I asked her if she had read my blog recently, and wasn't she aware that I talked about grinding glass for Appleseed's oatmeal? She assured me that it wasn't 'rude' to say those things, and furthermore it was kinda funny.

I had a discussion with it about my ol man, and he--who has not read the post--suggested that anytime you talk about garroting, poisoning or grinding glass for someone it is rude.

I was contemplating erasing the Appleseed posts when Manda called me, at 11:00 demanding to know what I had written, and asking me if I was rude. I thought about it for a second and declared that I had not written anything rude (If you don't consider 'right between the eyes' a social gaffe) and furthermore, rather then call me in the middle of the night to have me tell her what I had written she could log on and read it for herself. (Of course clicking a link on her way out to help pay for the gas I will need to go to school. hint hint.)

Today I am thinking about censorship.

When first started this blog nobody read it, and at that time I had the freedom to write anything I wanted to write. But over the years many people that I actually know have begun to read my blog and this creates the following situations that I can not write about:

1. Because my big brother reads it, I can't talk about the time his six foot six self tried to teach me to walk in high heels because he insisted I walked like a jock and no one would ever date me. After sashaying around for a while he told me he would kill me if I ever told anyone about it.

2. I can't tell the story about the one time I saw my mother drunk when I was a kid. I can't talk about how funny I thought it was to see my mother dancing with--and singing to--a wine bottle--and I surely can't admit that I used that situation to my advantage by asking her to wash my dishes. (Which she did, while singing.)

3. I can't talk about my female cousin that I practiced kissing with when I was the tender age of six.

4. I can't tell anymore funny sex stories.

And there are other really good stories stuck in my vault that I can't even begin to mention, because I see that in the act of not writing about the afore mentioned subjects, I have written about them.

The ol' man has fluctuated from telling me not to write about him at all--to happiness that I have written about him. His "my wife is a blogger!" happiness started last week, and it lasted for a couple days.

Two of his college buddies googled his name and found my site, then wrote to me and I gave the letters to Martin. On those two days Martin was happy...

...But then he wanted to google my site to see what sorts of things showed up, and as it turns out, if you read through all of the references to my site there are a couple porno sites listed.

My husband is again insisting that I stop using his name, and also the fact that porno sites come up when you google outtabodymommy is a bad bad thing. I pointed out to him that any word that you google, including 'butterflies', will eventually lead to a porno site. And frankly, you haven't made it on the world wide web until a porno site has you listed as a link.

Today is my first day of school, so I will have less time to devote to my website and the defamation of character that I add to these pages. Soon I will have better things to write about, such as the nameless strangers in my class that pique my interest for whatever reason, and therefore earn a sentence here. I will never tell anyone at school that I have a blog. To do so would tie my hands up with the need to sound intelligent and informed, something that obviously doesn't matter to me right now.

As a final assurance. Appleseed's people? If you are to read this, know that I am not really planning to off the man. If I were planning to commit a felony I wouldn't admit to it before I began.

Like the time I planned to jack a car, rob a bank and then fly to Aruba. I didn't mention that did I?

See. I have enough discretion to censor myself.

~Angels and Demons~

2006-01-06T14:18:00.000-07:00

I like the visual reference of angels and demons stalking the planet out to get us, or to help us. As I have aged I have realized that these otherworldly creatures aren't going to come visit me, but I have met people who fulfill either roll. It occurred to me this afternoon that I have also played both rolls for other people--which is an interesting concept.

When I began thinking of myself as both an angel and a demon, I found the summer of my nineteenth year at the forefront of my mind. I met some people who changed the course of my life, and in turn I changed the course of another person's...And I have never seen either of these people again.

In the Spring of my nineteenth year husband #1 was hired as a Park Ranger (not be confused with a power ranger) in Glacier Park. In the infancy of our stay it was nice, we had a great apartment with hardwood floors and a view of that famous Glacier Park mountain. We didn't have a radio or a television--but for the first week that was okay. During the second week I began to have nightmares about Grizzly bears. To help alleviate my fears #1 would bring me home books about bear maulings in Glacier Park and photographs of the remains. All of the bear mauling paraphenalia--including the cast of a Grizzly foot as big as my torso that was on the coffee table--had a very dramatic effect on me.

I spent most of that Spring in that apartment with the doors locked--in case bears could turn handles--and I spent my time cleaning our humble abode, and tying flies. Each evening when #1 got home we played cribbage after dinner. (God but I hate that game.) Each morning I would find something like a melted butter dish on top of the stove that needed to be cleaned before I could begin tying flies.

We had only one vehicle, and that was the one he drove the one block to the Park Ranger Station. I was more effectively imprisoned in that cabin by my fear of bears then I ever would have been if he would have shackled the doors shut. I can't say with certainty that #1 orchestrated a situation where he had a woman waiting for him at home that had been completely deprived of any other human contact, but I do know that he often suggested that I shouldn't be stepping outside of the door without a big strong Park Ranger armed with a pistol.

He and I did have some good times, like the time he took me fishing and pointed out the bear berry bushes dotting the banks. I cast the pole and the reel flew off into the water. Obviously I had broken his favorite rod, and while I was wading into the water to retrieve the reel he got into the car and left. I admit that when I was walking down the road as the sun was setting and bear thirty was approaching I was sobbing in fear and soaking wet.

When he came back to get me--I had only one more mile to walk before I was at a store--I was happy enough to see him that I didn't nag overly much.

While I was walking, sobbing and dripping I made the decision to get a job so that I wouldn't be dependent on that man. The store that I almost reached the day he ditched me became the place where I worked.

While working I met some people, including Christine. I also began using my flies to catch fish from lost Lake. In a matter of weeks I was the resident fishing expert and when tourists came for fishing lures and tips they were all directed to me and I would give them my recipe for catching giant Rainbow Trout from St Mary's Lake. (Guaranteed. It's that good.)

At some point in July #1 and I had the argument that ended our marriage, and it had to do with my recipe for catching giant trout, and his disbelief in my method. It was an argument that ended when I screamed, "fuck YOU". Then I threw his pole into the water and again began walking--this time in the rain. He picked me up, predicatably, one mile away from my final destination. I was freezing cold and I don't remember arguing with him as I huddled by the heater, but I do remember him telling me how much I owed him for the pole.

Less then an hour later I was in the tub, #1 was at the store buying a cherry pie (After I suggested we have apple) when Christine walked into my house. She told me she was leaving the next morning and tonight there was a going away party. I got out of the tub, got dressed and we were gone before #1 was home with the pie.

The next morning a very much drunk me came home and packed my stuff in garbage bags. My last face to face with #1 included him telling me I was a shitty wife and me agreeing with him most heartily and giving him back his ring.

The next few hours of that day included Christine pulling over so I could vomit many times, and then taking the two of us to the Glacier Park Lodge where we had a room in the loft. It was a huge room with eight beds, massive wooden beams and windows set to high in the walls to be seen out of. The sunlight pushing in the windows lit all of the dust motes and I lay in bed the entire day watching the lazy pattern of falling dust highlighted by the sun dissecting the sky.

The day after that was a day spent in White Fish doing all the touristy things we hadn't done and would probably never get the chance to do again. We drove through the night through vast acres of nothing at all. For a three hour stretch we could only get one radio station, and it was being repaired so it had only one song that it played, "Ba-Ba-ba-ba-ba-baren"over and over and over.

Before we pulled into Yellowstone Park we made an agreement that there was no reason to tell anyone that my nineteen year old self was married, and furthermore we placed a $50 bet on our ability to nail some unsuspecting man.

There were very specific rules to the nailing--we couldn't pick an easy mark. We had to pick a man that had an indeterminate reason why he couldn't sleep with us--but it had better be a legit reason.

She picked a Buddhist that had taken a vow of celibacy, and I picked a man who was engaged to be married and had been engaged for a year and a half. During the engagement they had not had sex--saving it for marriage. To make my mark even more of a challenge, he was also the fella that arranged the prayer meetings.

But the story of how I became a succubus will have to wait for another day. I would like to end this post with the fact that a woman named Christine once rescued me---and I doubt I ever thanked her.

Finally! Don't forget the Haiku contest. Come on people. Write me a poem, Odie did it..don't let her fabulous start intimidate you.

~Haiku Contest~

2006-01-05T12:24:00.000-07:00

I picked up my school books yesterday. Most of them are 1000+ page volumes that are guaranteed to send me to the chiropractor. When I got them home I got them out of the sacks and opened each one.

I found myself drunk on the smell of new books and their promises of an educational opportunity. I opened every one of them and begin reading to see what sort of things I will be learning. The Spanish book is really cool, in that it is written in Spanish, and the Spanish /English dictionary that came with the packet doesn't seem to list any of the words. The Spanish book reminds me of last semesters philosophy book that I opened, read, and hoped that by the end of the semester I would understand every word of it. (I hope I come closer to that goal in Spanish then I did in Philosophy.)

This semester I signed up for Creative Writing, and I took the class because it sounded wonderful. I thought that going to a class that was about just writing creatively would be great fun, and rather simple. When I opened the books that are required for the class, I noticed that one of them was devoted entirely to poetry.

Which leads me to believe that we are going to have to read and write poetry.

I did go through a phase where I liked poetry, but it might have had more to do with the soulful eyed boy who introduced me to it. He had the unruly black hair of a poet, and the ability to read it in such away that it was pleasurable to listen to.

But other then the three weeks, that one summer eight hundred years ago, when I liked poetry and bought Walt Whitman--poetry isn't my thing.

My biggest problem is that I can't write it. Oh, I can do, "Roses are red, violets are blue" and I can recite nasty limericks by the dozen, but I haven't ever done the real thing.

I started reading the Poetry book and I discovered, in the first dozen pages, a book that was written passionately about the art of poetry. I have to give the author credit for capturing my attention. He did it with a line about the day breathing like a horse. Doesn't that sound better then, "It was a hot and humid day."? I can see the potential of poetry in my writing arsenal, if I can learn to say things poetically, I should be able to drive through passages much more quickly, and lyrically.

This is where we get to the Haiku Contest that I have decided to sponsor--but more about that later.

In other news, Samuel is coming home from the hospital today, and I have to agree with Paul who stated in his comments that Johnny Appleseed already showed his true colors. I have every conscious intention of being polite to the man. I will in no way hinder their relationship--my sister will get my full support because she is an adult and blah de blah.

However, unconsciously I seem to be holding on to a grudge. I have that dream diary habit now and record my dreams. Over the last few nights I have some interesting entries, such as: "Pleasantly grinding glass to put in Appleseed's oatmeal." and "right between the eyes, but I said, "Hi! Good to see you" first. And "Garrot or poison?"

Apparently my subconscious is sticking to the polite plan, even when grinding glass to put in oatmeal. (Which the conscious me sees as a flawed plan--why would Appleseed ever eat my oatmeal? It would be a better plan if it was in a salad with other crunchy things like walnuts.)

And now! To the contest.

My plan is to use this poetry thing so that I can write things more concisely--if I can sum up an entire thought in three short lines, wouldn't that be great?

For the contest I would like you, dear reader, to write a haiku that sums up this entire post. I think it will be a bit of a challenge as it includes both educational joy and garrots. I will give the contest one week and I will mail a copy of the outtabodymommy soundtrack to the winner. (And I promise not to use your address to stalk you.)

When I sit down to write, I listen to the same songs everytime. The musical line-up is what I use to get into the writing mood. You may not treasure the soundtrack--but it will be a free cd to add to your collection, and that is always nice.

Please leave your haiku in the comment section so that everyone can read them, next Thursday I will announce a winner.

Thanks for participating, and good luck.

~Sweet Babies~

2006-01-03T17:19:00.000-07:00

Today, right around 7:40, my nephew was born. And oohhh...Samuel is adorable. My first impression was that he looked like a garden gnome, and I couldn't wait to get my hands on him. Melissa and I both dressed him for the first time and I got a bit of a baby fix, but not enough to sate me. Brand new babies are like heroine, once you get a tiny hit you are compelled to go back and wallow in more.

Because we have a new nephew I decided that Martin needed a new camera. He may have noticed that our old one was broken and I am pretty sure he has been longing for a new one. So I did that for him. When I gave it to him it already had forty-five pictures on it.

I think that makes it even more special.

I have been referring to Samuel's dad as "Johnny Appleseed" for quite a few months. I think I might need to start calling him by his real name, and stop adding four letter words before it. Last night he stepped up to the plate, told his parents--met my parents--and told Manda he would take her to the hospital. I believe he is still there holding that tiny baby and looking into those eyes that are both brand new, and yet seem as wise as the ages.

Why is it that brand new babies always look like they have wise old eyes? For the first few days with each of the new babies I have had, it seemed that their tiny eyes told me stories of things that I couldn't fathom. An infant's gaze is full of trust and wonder, and I hope that the sight of those infinite eyes move the father into that stage of manhood that demands he pay attention. The stage of life that is called "Father"--the one that makes your old life fall away, and your new life, with it's new definition of love, eclipse everything else.

My sister has been dating the father for three years. Well. When I say dating I mean they had house dates, I don't think he ever took her 'out'. During those three years he has never met my parents, and never introduced her to his parents. When she told him of their upcoming child he did the big 'adios' and did not make contact again until yesterday, when he said he told my parents he would take her to the hospital.

And he did.

I have to say that I haven't spared many kind words on that man. I haven't even said that many polite words about him.

But I have hope that he is the man my sister has always thought he could be.

My hope is that feeling that is born out of love, and not trust. I love my sister and I think she deserves to have a happy life with her children and the man she professes to love.

Melissa and I spoke about the situation this afternoon and we agreed that we would be very polite to the man. If he assumes that we hate his guts he is fairly accurate--but! We also have incredibly good manners, and so from this moment on we will speak about him in a neutral manner. We will not continue to suggest he is Satan's first cousin. There will not be any way in which we hinder his relationship with our sister and their child.

People can change, and holding your infant child can be a motivator.

However, for the record, if he breaks their hearts there will be a shanking.

Melissa has offered up her services since she has no children right now, and she is pretty sure she can use mental incompetence as her defense.

In the meantime, I have pictures. Check them out.

If you are a prayer, please pray for my sister and her new baby and the man that she loves. A brand new life took his first breath today, and he deserves every security and happiness.

So does my sister.

~The Year in The Rear View~

2005-12-31T10:32:00.000-07:00

As is my tradition, I looked over last years New Year's Resolutions. It is always interesting to see what I thought was important last year, and how many of those things I achieved.

I didn't play more twister, but I did have more parties. I don't know if I laughed more often, because I didn't keep track of how many times I laughed each year--but I think I filled my quota. I am sure I nagged my children about their rooms as often as the year previous; but I do not feel like I played with them more often. I did pack some pretty kid intensive weeks in over the year. Staying in MO on the farm so I could take them fishing and for walks to the pond certainly counts.

Last year it seems I wrote my Resolutions with nothing substantial on the list. I didn't star on a reality tv show, but I did stop wishing that I could. If you ask me, no longer wishing to be Reality Rita is a bigger hurdle then actually being on a show. I can't believe I even wished for that! What if my family would have signed me up for that intervention Show. I do like watching, "What Not to Wear", but I hope that my fashion sense is affected by my budget, and not just because I have bad taste.

I notice that my list last year doesn't mention college, or Hawaii. Those two facts tickle the Epistemological optimist (B+ in philosophy) inside of me.

Last year when I wrote my Resolution list, I failed to even think of the two most wonderful things that would happen to me in 2005. I don't mean to denigrate the facts that no one that I loved passed away, or that I patched up some problems with people who are close to me. I had many good days. I planted many trees, and flowers and blades of grass. I cooked some good meals and had some good conversations--and those things were all very nice.

But let's face it. No many things top Hawaii, and not many accomplishments are more rewarding then a successful semester of college.

This year I will make another list, so that next year I can read it to see how I have matured in a year.

I am changing it to my "New Year's Hope List", instead of New Year's Resolutions. It only seems appropriate that I am saying these are the things I hope I do, instead of these are the things I resolve to do.

1. I hope that when I read this list next year I have two wonderful things that I accomplished that I can't even fathom doing today.

2. I hope that I have at least one semester of straight A's.

3. I hope that I change what ever it is that I am doing wrong that causes my daughter to whine and cry for the majority of the time she is in my presence. By this time next year, god willing, my little girl will no longer burst into tears when I suggest she pick up her crayons.

4. I hope that I am finally able to quit smoking. It is time, when will I realize that?

5. I hope that I can juggle my schedule well enough that I achieve my college goals without neglecting my family and friends.

6. I hope that I continue to have parties, and I hope that some of them involve me scooping all of the poker chips out of the center of the table.

7. I hope that I get to spend a week on a beach with my children and my husband. I hope that I get to experience the sensation of being rocked in a big warm ocean with the sun touching my skin and the sounds of whales blowing in my ears.

8. I hope that I meet a person who teaches me something new and profound, and I hope I am able to use the information that I gather for the betterment of mankind.

9. I hope I reconnect with some of the people I disconnected from in 2005.

10. I hope that I am so good at Yoga that I can stand on one foot and wrap my other leg completely around my head.

And now it is your turn...What is your 2006 list?

~Randomosity~

2005-12-30T12:22:00.000-07:00

Today I have many little things to talk about. I am pretty sure that by the end of this post I can connect all of them together to make a profound statement about the human condition, but as I begin I will just list.

1. My final grades for last semester have given me a 3.65 GPA. Is that Magna Cum Laude?

2. When a guest comes to your house and uses the bathroom then turns on the fart fan--it is best to stay out of the bathroom for a very long time. When a guest turns on the fart fan it is best to assume that they meant it.

3. I have made a little over $10 on my advertising in the last three weeks. Cha-ching! Of course I would do much better if you would click on an ad to navigate away from this page. Man, what a great idea! In the interest of making that an enjoyable task for you, I will try to write something that makes the ads more interesting.

4. My new computer is named Sweet Baby, and when I put in a cd and set cross legged on the floor with her on my lap the vibrations are quite pleasant. Hell, they are more then pleasant, they are so enjoyable that I will only put her on my lap in the privacy of my own bedroom.

5. My Christmas break has been dragging on and on and on...I am a horrible woman who wishes that her children were back in school.

6. I have signed up for four days of classes next semester so that I can be out of the house more days.

7. I have discovered the writing guidelines for Harlequin Romance and have decided to slam out a little smutty book so that I can pay for my college experience. There is an established formula for the writing of the Harlequin, and I am pretty sure I can follow the guidelines well enough to get a book done.

8. I am going to use the words, "As he ran his hand across her creamy inner white thigh she felt the inner coils of passion begin to unwind."

9. That's a pretty cheesey statement.

10. My last name is Chessey, which often gets confused with cheesey, so I am fine with it.

So! If I combine all ten of those things and try to make them connect what I come up with is: I am trying to make some cash with writing so that I can go to school and pay the fart fan bill. I want my guests to be able take a dump at my house with the complete confidence that the smell will be whisked away. I am not a very romantical person, as you may have noticed, so writing a Harlequin may not be the job for me. However. I am willing to spend hours with Sweet baby on my lap and ear phones tucked in my ears. It's the little things that I do for my family that make me such a good mother--things like screaming, "Can't you see that I am busy?"

Thanks for stopping by today, come back soon! Feel free to click an ad on your way out and as always, your comments are always appreciated and enjoyed.

It's a Mother's Holiday

2005-12-28T11:17:00.000-07:00

Last night I took my sister to the hospital for the birth of Samuel. I set with her for six hours and watched the contraction machine register giant contractions--and there wasn't anything I could do for her. At 12:30 they unattached her and sent her home, she is scheduled for a c-section next Wednesday. Until then she simply gets to suffer.

After depositing her at my parent's house I drove myself home. It was after I passed the spot where I once dumped a truck into a ditch that I began to think about this Christmas season. This year it is easy to make a correlation between the birth of our Savior and the agony his mother must have been going through. This season is filled with lovely music talking about Mary, but I have never heard a song that described it like it probably was: picture yourself giant pregnant riding a donkey and then finding out you had to give birth in a barn--and after the birth, with no washing facilities, you have to greet visitors including angels, shepherds and the wisemen. According to the music Mary was a lovely host that evening.

And now that I have committed blasphemy by suggesting that Mary had pain when birthing the savior, I would like to further offend by suggesting that the tradition of torturing the mama on Christmas lives on. Think about all of stuff mom goes through to get to that moment of the day when she sets down to eat the fabulous meal that she created surrounded by people in nice clothes.

This year I was in charge of the Christmas meal, and I admit when I first got the news I was thinking of all the work involved. My mother has been priming me for this year for quite some time--the fancy serving dishes for Christmas presents in years past were big hints. Last year the silver that came in a box was pretty big--but the twelve piece serving of China for this year pretty much clinched the deal. I thought about all the crap my mother did every year and considered I wasn't ready for the task--but the Pier One Gift card that I got Room Karyn suggested I could have any fancy stemware that I wanted, so my Christmas celebration was decided.

I might still have groused about my Christmas day and the work I had to do. While I was baking a ham and Martin and the kids were playing I didn't have that martyr feeling that I usually get when I am working and they are playing, and the reason is...I got more gifts then I ever could have hoped for.

Martin and I live on a very tight budget, and buying presents for one another this year was not a priority. We have three children to waste money on--we decided our gift to one another would be a mortgage payment. I think Martin was feeling very guilty about our lack of gift giving, and that I imbedded that reaction in him when I took him to the Roseanne show six years ago to complain he never bought me presents.

On Christmas Eve he looked around at the awe inspiring number of gifts that I received from my parents and he remarked that he couldn't even afford to buy the paper to wrap those gifts. He was telling the truth.

I suppose it isn't being a shameless braggart when I am simply telling the truth, but I feel oddly shy about talking about the gifts I received.

My parents divorced when I was little. SO I have two sets of parents. I felt sorry for myself when I was kid--but now that I am thirty five I feel like happy dancing.

One set of my parents got me a car. They said it got good gas mileage and would help me save money while going to school--and it does get good gas mileage. (Silver, 1996 Dodge Stratus.)

My other set of parents got me a lap top, they said it would help me while in school. And I believe that it will. (Silver, HP Pavilion dv1000. Special Edition.)

I am completely shamelessly spoiled this year.

Which leads me back to this being a mother's holiday. We get to cook the meal and wrap the gifts and wash the dishes--and every so often a bunch of wisemen arrive baring a humbling amount of gifts.

~The Greatest Gift I Always Had~

2005-12-23T22:27:00.000-07:00

My mother gave me 47 (forty-SEVEN) Christmas cd's yesterday. I have Christmas music from every era and every genre. There is a cd that is the Christmas guitar, one that is old country music and--of course--that Perry fella with the funny last name. Traditional music is featured as well as the New Age and even a bit of Rock.

Last night I had Martin move the stereo from the basement family room (Which hasn't fulfilled it's potential) into the living room so that I could listen to the music better. When he plugged in the speaker wires and the dulcet tones of Amy Grant filled the air I immediately got tears in my eyes.

Go ahead. Pretend that Amy Grant's rendition of Silent Night doesn't tear YOU up.

When Martin walked into the kitchen he noticed my teary eyes and asked me why I was crying. He then began on a list of chores I had forgotten I even asked him to perform, and he promised to complete every one of them.

See, the old me would have capitalized on that situation and confessed that I was crying because the garage was in shambles--but the new me had to admit that I wasn't crying because of something he had not done. I tried to explain to him the reason for my tears. Unfortunately, I don't communicate so well with the spoken word and he didn't catch it--but someday he will read my blog and he will understand.

What he got from my hand waving and eye wiping of last night is: "I am just a women. These things happen."

And this is why.

When I was a child we spent every Christmas Eve at my Grandparents house. I assure you that up until the moment that we loaded into the car I had been at home cleaning something and searching for my sisters Christmas clothing and their black patent leather shoes.

I know that it was important that we all make a bright shiny Christmas appearance at Grandma's house, and I can picture every one of my little sisters in Christmas dresses plumped out with a stiff lacy slip, white stockings and the lovely black patent leather shoes. I have a visual of my big brother in a Navy blue turtle neck and plaid pants. I can not tell you what I was wearing, but I am sure that I was decked out in holiday finery as well.

On the trip to Grandma's house my mother would run down the rules, "No begging. Kiss and hug all of your Aunts and Uncles and tell them Merry Christmas. DO NOT eat more then two cookies."

When we arrived at Grandma's house--

The Christmas Season began.

It was easy to follow all of my mother's rules.

I didn't have to beg for anything--as soon as we walked into the door caramel corn, fudge, divinity and cookies were at my disposal. I recall making an effort to mind my mother and only eat two cookies--but I ate enough fudge and caramel corn to make a Carnie vomit.

Kissing and hugging my Aunts and Uncles was an embarrassing thing that I had to do. But you know, I relished the fact that when I leaned into to kiss my Uncle Merle he would grab my wrist and wouldn't let me go until I said the password. My Aunt Lorna always smelled like "Youth Dew" and she always suggested I taste her caramel corn. My Uncle David would pat me and ask me what I thought Santa would bring me, and my Aunt Marie...

...Oh...My Aunt Marie...

It is possible that I got gifts at this event, though I do not remember ever taking home a package.

What I remember is the smell of my Grandmother's house.

It smelled of coffee and cake.

It smelled like that 364 days a year--but on Christmas it was mixed with the scent of pumpkin pie and cookies. As soon as we walked into the door we were enveloped in that scent, and the arms of our relatives. I recall the sight of my cousins running around with candy in their hands and my desire to escape the arms of my elders so that I could join the throng of sugar covered children.

At the proscribed hour my grandfather would suggest that everyone begin singing.

From the moment we walked in the door and began stuffing our faces with food we had been living for this moment--and like a true Prima Donna--my grandmother would pooh-pooh the idea and suggest that she could no longer play the organ.

Before long she would be coaxed to the organ, my Uncle Roy would break out his guitar and . all of my Aunts and Uncles would gather 'round, and the music would begin.

My Aunt Lorna sings in a pure, sweet Soprano. My Aunt Louann and my mother sing Harmony--and my Aunt Marie was their melody. My Uncle Roy has a voice that can not be described other then with these words: When I enter the Heavenly Gates a voice like his will greet me. My other Uncles harmonized together, Merle's baritone playing off of Jim's Tenor and Uncle Dave and Uncle Chuck playing high and low notes,Uncle Larry has a strong vibrant voice that would carry over the others on the high notes.

For hours each Christmas Eve they would sing--my Grandma on the piano, my Uncles picking their guitars and bango, my grandfather rocking in his chair tapping his fingers on the arm...

...and all of us children listening.

One year I requested that they sing, "The First Noel."

My Grandmother said she didn't have the music and my Aunts gathered round to find it for her.

And then.

My Aunts and Uncles--in their perfect harmony and melody --sang that song.

I asked for it.

It was for me that they all sang.

On that day I did not cry.

I was transfixed by the sounds of their voices and the knowledge that every adult was doing exactly what I wanted them to do, and they were doing it so beautifully.

And that it why Christmas music makes me cry.

I was blessed with a childhood in which music ran supreme.

My Aunt Marie, my Uncle Merle, my Aunt Bonnie my Uncle Mike and both of my grandparents have 'graduated'.

But oh...

When I listen to Christmas music I can hear them all again.

~Monkey Math~

2005-12-22T10:17:00.000-07:00

Picture it: August of 1992. I am living in Boise with husband #2 and the Rocket Scientist. (I call him a Rocket Scientist because before he became the owner of a night club he was a rocket scientist.) The three of us lived in a house that we were remodeling, and the boys were partnering up to open the bar. Our marital bed was in the dining room because our bedroom was in shambles, and I had to use a flashlight to go to the bathroom. I needed the flashlight because there were holes in the floors where old rotten boards had been pulled out.

I had decided to go to college, and one of my primary reasons was that Mary said we could take some classes together and the idea of going to school with Mary everyday was heady. (Mary, as in My Mary. The sister of #2.) Because I had been out of high school for so long, I had to take a college placement test. I wasn't worried about the English parts, nor the logic parts and I figured I could make a reasonable standing on the history parts.

But I was worried about the math parts.

I think when I painted the picture of how we lived I made it sound miserable, but the truth is I was having a grand time. We would spend all day working on the house or the bar, then we would set in the backyard plinking cans with the bb gun and drinking beers. The Rocket Scientist was a fine room mate under those conditions. He often went to buy the Albertsons chicken and Cole slaw. Between all the working and playing we were always busy, and truthfully I liked the house better when it was under construction then I did when it was antisepticly cleaned and perfectly groomed and manicured.

So! Back to the test day. I am standing with these two guys that I really like and we are having a great time going over quadratic equations and that other math equation thing with the big name.

The next day I took the test. I got 5 out of 30 correct. When I came home and reported my grades, #2 and The Rocket Scientist both began laughing, one of them noted that if you took a gorilla to the testing lab and set it down infront of the computer screen, percentage wise--the gorilla could get more answers correct.

And then they proved it mathematically. (Or maybe they were just faking the mathematical proof--I wouldn't know if their equations were accurate.)

We went over some more math stuff and the next day I went back to take the test again. The second time I got three right.

I didn't not tell the boys about the second taking of the test. I don't think I told anybody. But the experience did give birth to the term "Monkey Math" to describe the remedial math that I have to take while in college.

I am signed up for Math 015 next semester. When Martin heard the news he immediately began to question that choice--didn't I realize that Math 015 was the same thing Kaitlyn was learning in 5th grade? I told him that was wonderful, and I hoped that they would cover addition and subtraction for a few weeks. He suggested that he could teach me Algebra, and that I should sign up for Algebra 101 and he would tutor me to a perfect A. I thanked him for his offer and declined.

And now we are having one of those marital spats that will probably last for weeks. At the heart of this spat is that Martin wants to make an A on my report card, and he is sure that he can do so with patient understanding and much writing of the equations. I have complete confidence that he could tutor Algebra, and his student would make an A.

However. I can picture Martin helping me work through a problem and then him saying something like, "Babe...we have gone over this before" with a certain tone on a particular day of the month...And I will horribly verbally abuse my spouse. I don't think I can be a good student under my husband's tutelage because I seem to have an attitude anytime he tells me to do something. It is the "You are not the boss of me" and I think mixing equations and attitudes would be a toxic marital brew.

I am considering dropping math 015 and taking a different class. Part of that is because I want to avoid the argument over remedial math, and part of it is because I am sure there is something much more fun that I could take.

Eventually I will have to embrace my Anthropological roots and take the monkey math...but can't it be something that I procrastinate until the bitter end?

~It's Not Supposed To Be Fun~

2005-12-20T18:29:00.000-07:00

I think I started to get the clue that parenting wasn't supposed to be fun in the first few weeks of my first pregnancy. Because it was my first time, I was naive enough to think that after the child burst forth from my loins the fun would begin.

Oh, there have been some fun times. Like the first time I gave each of my three children a pickle-- the cute faces--oh how we laughed! I thought the first steps would be fun, but they were mostly just fret with the worry of the ambulatory child cracking their head on a coffee table. Watching them ride a bike is fun, but again with the head cracking anxiety.

Last night it occurred to me that there are so many parenting rules that make parenting un-fun.

For example: We are not allowed to let our minor children watch rated R movies. Instead we have to buy them rated G movies, and for weeks and months on end we are bombarded with Disney sayings.

I now realize that if my children watched rated R movies, we would have much more conversational fun; and they would understand why I occasionally burst out laughing.

SO let me set the stage (I got an A in theatre, so this should be good.) Dinner time. Jake is at the serve through looking down at his Shake and Bake chicken dinner. He is considering the fact that he will need a beverage to wash down the gravy, so he asks for milk.

Flash back to Saturday. (Flash back can be very artsy ya know)

I bought a new gallon of milk. When I opened the hatch on the Durango the milk slipped out, hit the ground and began leaking. When I was a child milk was sacred--there was most definitely a reason to cry over spilt milk in our house. I panicked at the sight of the battered and leaking carton. I grabbed it so I could cradle it next to my body then I carried the oozing carton into the house and immediately began my milk triage. Unfortunately I didn't have a gallon container to transfer the Vitamin D enriched milk into--but I did have two half gallon jugs.

Both jugs came from Brewery's. (We think it is cool to buy Brew Pub jugs full of brew pub beer because we are dorks.) As I dumped the milk into the beer jugs I considered that giving my children milk from beer jugs might be wrong--but it was the only container I had available for the milk transplant.

Back to the dinner table where Jake is pondering the consistency of my gravy. He asks for milk, I bring the Wolf Pack Brewing company jug to the table.

Jake: What kind of milk is that?
Me: Special milk.
Jake: How did they milk a wolf?

Now. Had Jake been able to watch rated R movies he would have understood my reference when I said: "You can milk anything with nipples."

He would have countered with: "I've got nipples Focker--can you milk me?"

Holy cow, it even makes me laugh when I write it.

But he didn't say that--because I am not the kind of mom who likes to have conversational fun with her children and thereby exposes them to rated R movies.

Instead he was grossed out by me saying nipples, then he wanted to know if they were wild or tame wolves, and if they used a machine or if an actual person did it and why did you say nipples and what color of wolves were they and if you drank wolf milk would you be able to jump higher and run faster and and and...

Somebody else might suggest that I am doing more damage to my son by answering all of those question then I would be if I simply let him watch Rated R movies.

But no. I will not do that. I refuse to allow my children to have to go counseling because of the stuff they saw on the television.

Obviously I am doing a good enough job fulfilling a counselor list all by myself.

~Is It To Early For New Year Plans?~

2005-12-19T16:38:00.000-07:00

Today is the day before my final grades have to be posted. I have only checked 87,000 times to see if they are there yet--so far I have two A's. I am almost eligible to write "Magna Cum Laude"on my white thong with the green sharpie I found!

I also began making plans for next year. Today I signed up for a Yoga class so that I can have a much better bikini body when I go to Hawaii.
The following questions/statements would now be valid:

1. When am I going--do I have reservations yet? no.

2. Where will I be staying, have I checked for accommodations? no

3. Is it work or pleasure? Oh, it will be pure pleasure.

4. Have I checked plane rates? nope.

5. Have I been invited by someone I know in Hawaii? Huh-uh.

6. Have I been saving money for this trip? Nada centavo.

7. Have I suddenly become so rich I can take vacations? I love the sweet optimism implied in this question.

8. Is this another one of those stupid, "When I win the lottery" plans? No. This is an actual plan for this year. The 'when I win the lottery' plan has me moving to Hawaii.

9. What exactly am I doing to implement the plan? If you look in the second paragraph I clearly stated that I am taking yoga so that I will look good in a bikini this year. That is the extent of my preparations for the trip.

10. Is this another one of those times when you applied for a Reality TV show? Don't be absurd, I am in college now--I don't have time to apply for Reality TV Shows all day long anymore.

In a nutshell, I want to go to Hawaii, so I am preparing to plan for it. I have found that in the past when I write at Outtabodymommy what my future plans are--they come true. It is probably self-fulfilling prophecy at it's finest and most obvious.

Whatever works! (I better get some tan passes, I might be going sooner then I think.)

~Ghosts From the Past~

2005-12-18T10:34:00.000-07:00

Frankie sent me some pictures yesterday. The pictures are from my first wedding, when I was 19. When I look at them it almost feels like I am looking at pictures of someone else--very surreal.

I have a number of responses to them. First is amusement--look at the 19 year old girl with the pick and the can of Aqua Net!! She's concerned her hair isn't big enough--bwahahaha. The not so funny part is that I was concerned that my hair wasn't high enough, and as you can see my mother is closing in--probably to make the hair taller. Take note of the blazingly white dress, and know that I borrowed that dress from a friend of my mother's. The material was stiff, and it rustled like dead leaves when I walked. I wasn't really loving it, but when you are 19 and getting married it is acceptable to have a dress you aren't loving, it is rather like when you are 5 and wearing the living room curtains as a wedding dress.

Look at the face on the girl? Doesn't it seem obvious she is only playing dress-up, and why didn't she take the offer to go to West Yellowstone for Lunch that day?

Frankie is the lady who escorted me to the chapel and she suggested we go to lunch in West. I knew we would never make it back in time for the wedding, and that seemed like the worst kind of shame. I was thinking that I shouldn't be getting married to that man on that day...But I considered how awkward it would be for everyone at the Church without a bride.

Now I realize that it would have been really cool to miss my wedding to the man whom I wouldn't be living with in a matter of weeks. I would imagine the wedding guests would have eaten cake and melt-away mints anyway--and it would have been legendary, "Remember the time Deb didn't show up for her own wedding?"

I put the picture of Frankie up because I am pretty sure she will write to me immediately and tell me to take that picture off. I must say, she is more beautiful today then she was when she was bringing the pick and the Aqua Net and the blue mascara. I feel like putting her picture next to my picture is only appropriate--as she is the one who reminded me of that day I had pretty much forgotten.

I guess we don't get to deny our past. We can be ashamed of it and we can second guess our motives--but we can't pretend it didn't happen.

Especially when a bundle of pictures of a teenager getting married arrive in the mail.

~Who Have I Become?~

2005-12-15T20:04:00.000-07:00

We put up our Christmas tree this evening; I broke so many of my own rules that I am not even sure if I would recognize myself in the mirror. I simply have to ask myself--who have I become?

I remember the years where I began hand-making my ornaments in October. The ornaments consisted of tiny candles, raffia and flowers. There were also clear Christmas balls stuffed with flowers and adorned with ribbons, and who can forget the Mad Search for the Perfect Angel?

The Search for the Angel began in roughly July, when I found a Christmas store at a tourist town that was opened year round. I noticed immediately that EVERY angel had blonde hair, and thus began my quest for an angel with dark hair.

Who the hell says blondes are the only angels? Corporate America--that's who.

I ended up in a doll maker shop with a fist full of twenties and the breathless request for a dark haired angel to adorn the top of my tree.

When she was delivered to me I was dismayed to find fabric wings attached. I took her to my mother. My mother, the Queen of Christmas (And I am not just saying that because she has internet service) created lovely feather wings, and a halo.

The angel spent three [childless] years on top of a tree worthy of Better Homes and Gardens.

When Kate was three she begged to take the angel out of the box to put her on the tree. She called the Angel, "Sulucy" and that is still the angel's name.

The back of Sulucy is covered with twelve years of Scotch tape.

I do not remove the tape from the year previous, and I won't even consider hot gluing those wings back on. I know my way around a glue gun, but the tradition of the angel includes taping on the wings. There is something reverent about the process of holding those glorious feather wings (That are thirteen years yellow and thirteen years dust filled) and having someone run tape across them. It is true that the old tape tends to slough off, but it can be tacked back down with a fresh batch of tape.

Each strip of tape has finger prints on it from Christmas Past. The question is--whose finger prints on what year? If I had the tape analyzed, I know that I would find twelve years of finger prints. How many of my husbands, children, siblings, parents and friend's have helped me tape the wings back on?

When Sulucy was new, her dress was blazing white, and it billowed. Thirteen years later, Sulucy's dress is golden from greasy hands holding her ,and dust attaching to that grease and festering in an airless, lightless box.

This year I broke my Christmas rules many ways.

1. I put colored lights on my tree.

I have insisted on only white lights for as long as I have had my own Christmas tree. One year Martin brought home a strand of red lights to put on my tree--and I actually sobbed. As I recall it, there was some flinging of my pregnant body and the words: "If you put red lights on MY tree I might as well hang myself in the closet!"

2. I allowed my children to place ornaments.

FIRST TIME ever. In years past each flower and strand of lace was arranged so finely that I couldn't allow other humans to see me do it, And God have mercy on any child who dared to move an ornament or strand of beads.

3. I considered putting Sulucy back into her box, and putting the much better angel with the techno light-up wings on top.

This year I have the most Charlie Brown Christmas tree that I have ever allowed into my house. We got it from Martin's buddy who said, "Hey! If you are going to get a tree, I have one in my yard that my wife wouldn't let me put in the house. You can go get it if you want...But I am telling you, it ain't that pretty."

I let my children decorate the tree because my box of pristine ornaments that were hand made months in advance have been replace by ornaments that my children have made. There is the spider that Jake made in Kindergarten. A spider doesn't necessarily symbolize Christmas, but it came with the story of the old lady who had spiders decorate her tree (great story)--so it had to be hung. And there are the ornaments with my tiny childrens faces glued on. And...oh...the Christmas tree cut-out card ornament.

When my kids were adding all of their home-made ornaments to the Charlie Brown Christmas tree with the colored lights, it occurred to me that for the first time in their lives my children were having a Christmas tree that they designed.

Kate took Sulucy out of the box tonight, and while we were taping on her wings she asked me how long I have had her. I told her thirteen years. She said, "That is longer then you have had me!"

I told her about the Mad Search for the Perfect Angel, and I suggested we put the newer, better, techno lighted angel on the top.

Kate said, "Did you have her made with brown hair so she looked like you?"

I replied, "No. I thought that if I ever had a daughter she would have brunette hair. I wanted my angel to look like my baby girl."

When Sulucy was brand new, she was a resplendent display of feather wings and heavenly white gown; She didn't need techno lights to glow on the top of a Christmas tree that took me months to build.

This year Sulucy has her wings taped on, and her entire personage is yellow. If she were a garage sale item, no one would pay more then ten cents for her, if even that.

But when my daughter said to me, "You dreamed of having me before I was born and made Sulucy to look like me?" I realized that Sulucy was precious on top of my Charlie Brown Christmas tree that was given to us by a friend, and decorated by the hands of my sons.

I am not the woman I used to be.

Let's be honest, I threw all of the fa-la-la together just this evening. The old me planned for months, I used to care about having a color scheme and a 'theme'. (One year I had birds--they were lovely.) This new me allowed my children to do it.

Before I began writing this post, I thought I would end on a sad note, perhaps stating that I have lost the feeling that I used to have for Christmas.

But as I finish it I realize, I didn't lose the feeling of Christmas. I finally realized- it isn't about me.

My tree this year is about what my children would think is beautiful.

I think it is rather poetic that the angel I bought so many years ago to symbolize my unborn children is now touched with the pantina of age, and she adorns the Christmas tree that the old me never could have tolerated.

I don't know if this means that I have grown as a person, or if I have simply come up with a pretty cool reason not to decorate like I used to. But I do know that I am fine with it, either way. While I may not have the same mania for Christmas decorating that I used to have, I can't say I miss it.

Right now, my children and my husband are upstairs watching a Christmas movie, bathed in the colored lights of our Christmas tree. There are dishes on my kitchen counter and boots on the foyer floor--

---and I think that this might be exactly what I wanted that day I took a fistful of twenties to a dollmaker and asked her to make me an angel.

~And Lo, There Was The Clip Clop of Galloping Feet~

2005-12-14T18:01:00.000-07:00

Done.

Done!!

I finished my final final, philosophy. I am sure I passed. I would love to have an A, but I am so cool with that C. I can change my Magna Cum Laude underwear with the green sharpie marker I picked up out of the parking lot this afternoon. Instead of the Magna blah blah blah I can write, "Graduate!"

A most excellent word.

When I walked out of the class room I noticed that my feet were making a "per-chunk, per-CHUNK" as I walked. I recognized this as the slow galloping walk that I used to do when I was most especially happy. When my feet are per-chunking, my arms are swinging, my shoulders are back and my face is smiling. I used to do that walk quite frequently, but as of late I have been doing more of the "Oop-! Oop! I hope I don't fall on the ice!" walk. The Oop-oop carries with it an attitude of timidness and frailty that I am not ready to embrace. I know that when I am eighty I will be doing the oop-oop almost exclusively. But when I was in my early twenties I did the per-chunk most of the time.

When I am per-chunking I am breathing better, I am swiveling more and I am most definitely looking up--gosh but the per-chunk is a good thing.

Besides finishing my final final and realizing that I don't have to memorize those words anymore--I also got the ads!

The ads thrill me. I understand that some people do not like the ads...and I am aware that while I get more then one hundred hits a day-- I am lucky to get four comments. I assume that the people who read this site, but never leave a comment ( and dude, I so commiserate, I never leave comments at my favorite sites.)are the same people that aren't going to click on an ad. (Which is how I get paid--by the way--and I am not allowed to solicit repeat clickers, by contract--so I would never do that.) While I am sure that my readers aren't ad clickers (though it would be cool) I am still thrilled by the potential to get a check from google.

Another most excellent word--potential.

And! Besides the unmitigated joy of the final final and the ads I ALSO found a green sharpie on the ground. And it works.

Did I hit the trifecta of happiness or what? It is no wonder that my feet were per-chunking.

~Ch-Ch-Changes!~

2005-12-14T10:17:00.000-07:00

I took my second to last final this morning at 7:30am. My very last final is philosophy at 3:00. While it is possible that I will get four A-'s, I would even be content with a B or two. And. Well. A C in philosophy is doable, and everyone knows 'c' stands for 'cool'.

Tomorrow is going to be the first day of a new life-! No homework what-so-ever, just back to being a housewife at Christmas time. I think I might enjoy the time off, knowing that it is temporary. Today I really appreciate the fact that when I am done with my last final, I get to switch gears and take four different classes! I won't have to memorize things like "Nota Notae" and "COLA" anymore!!!

Okay. I will stop with the exclamation marks now, I just got a little excited there.

In other news, I have decided to put some ads on my site. I have two reasons for doing so--if a woman can make a few bucks from her website, that would be awesome. I could spend my commission money on things like tubes of carmex and those little fish that cost one cent each. Besides the idea that I can justify the time I spend writing on this site by saying I am cashing a paycheck--it will be cool to see what google advertises here.

As I understand the fine print of the agreement I signed, the ads will customize to the content of my site. I can use the ads as a daily therapist. If I post something and I get many ads for things like, "Effexor" or "AA meetings in your area" or "Suicide hotline" I will know that I am a little depressed. If I get ads for "Victoria's Secret" or "Love Lube" or "Mormom vibrators" (We call them 'face massagers' when we buy them at Walmart) I will know I am talking about sex to much to be ever be considered a respectable journalist. If I gets ads for "Best Apple Pie ever!" or "Ten recipes for those left-over yams" or "100 ways to clean the fridge" I will know that I have started lying again and am pretending to be a good mom.

You get the picture. I think ads will be fun--let me know what you think about the ad idea please.

It's time to get back into the Philosophy grind...for the last time. (I just got the shivers, and I mean the good kind.)

~When you Point Your Finger, Three Are Pointing Right Back at You.~

2005-12-12T20:07:00.000-07:00

After I wrote the post about people lying to me I became much more aware that I am Deborah, the Mistress of Deception. Every so often I make the New Year's Resolution that I will not tell anymore lies, but then a golden opportunity presents itself and I can not resist.

Last week my children began looking for their Christmas presents. I told them to story about how I used to hide their Christmas presents under THEIR beds and the present searching frenzy began. I am not able to keep it a low level of hype--instead I say things like, "Boy, If I were a kid I would clean out that hall closet to see if that's where the goods are stored this year."

I got my daughter to arrange my shoes with those words, and the guest bedroom closet has never been so organized. (I have also suggested that if everything were tidy inside the closets, it would be easier to check.)

See, I am telling my children damn lies. There are no presents to find. I have been so obsessed with finals that I don't even have my tree up yet. (Thursday; It will be a festivus for the rest of us.)

The problem is: I don't feel at all guilty. I should--considering my vow to stop telling lies, and manipulating my children to do my bidding should make me feel a little bad. But I would have to say I am more proud then ashamed.

One of my old lies came to bite me in the ass today. They say that all lies eventually come back to you--and I am hear to tell you that is true.

'Los, one of the members of my old Youth Group now works for Martin. He is a friend of my cousins. The first time I met him went down like this:

I was coming to see Uncle Roy for the first time since I got the TransAm. (Another manipulation that I am proud of*, consisting of a boyfriend who said, "You can drive my TransAm til your car gets fixed." and an Oldsmobile that probably still hasn't gotten fixed fourteen years later.)It was a hot car, I was mucho impressed. I blew into the yard with the T-tops out and AC/DC blaring on the stereo. (Okay, that was a lie. It was probably Ace of Base, but AC/DC sounds so much cooler.) My ten and eleven year old male cousins were duly impressed with her fiery redness and sleek curvy shape. They asked me if I would take them for a ride. I agreed, and added 'Los to the mix. When we pulled out of the yard I stamped on the gas--I screamed over the radio, "Check it out boys! We are going over one hundred miles an hour in a quarter mile!"

Today 'Los was in our garage and he spotted the TransAm. (The one that won't be on Pimp my Ride) He said, "OH DUDE!" and walked over the the TA. He lovingly ran his hand over her curvy hood, "Damn! I remember the day you took us for a ride! We were going over one hundred miles in less then a quarter mile...You had the speedometer pegged!"

I shook my head and replied, "That was you? I really hate to ruin a memory for you, but we were going thirty five--I pointed at the tachometer when I told you how fast we were going."

Now, I don't know if I ruined that memory for him by telling him the truth...But I can't say I am sorry for the lie. It sounds like 'Los has a great memory of that day--I bet if he had a soundtrack for it, AC/DC would be playing.

Funny how pointing out that I am tired of all the lying leads me back to a whole pile of my own. I might make another New Year's Resolution to stop lying...

...But then I think of how many more things I can get my children to clean and it occurs to me that I will never change.

*That boyfriend later became my husband. My first birthday after our marriage his family gave me a birthday party--and he forgot. His sister called him to remind him that it was birthday party time, and as it was Sunday he did not have a place to buy me a gift. So! He gave me a five dollar bill and the title to the TA. The five dollar bill was to transfere title. I have always assumed that five months later, while going through the divorce, he thought, "I shoulda stopped at Albertson's and gotten her some flowers."

~Finally~

2005-12-07T22:29:00.000-07:00

Today was my last day of regular school. Next week is Finals week. Before I begin to freak out about that, I choose to commemorate this last day of my first year of school in thirteen years.

I think having a more focused direction in which to force my minds energy is a good thing. I don't think that I am thinking more now then I did last year at this time, but I am thinking about more complex things then what sort of invention I could come up with for dryer lint. (Dryer lint is a gold mine waiting for someone to discover.) In that sense, school is the best thing ever, it is wonderful to have new things to think about. (Seriously, what could we do with dryer lint?)

The last day of regular school is a chance to set back and revel in the fact that after you get tested, you don't have to do it anymore. You don't have to come sit in the same classroom with the same teacher and listen to the same people. Next semester you get to try something new and completely different from what you are doing today. Because of the realization that this same set of circumstances is coming to a close, I tend to look around the classroom and think things like, "Blind girl with the watch...I hope I get to see you again some day so I can ask you why you have a dial watch. Guy with the funny hat and the jittery legs? I hope I have you in another class, because each time you open your mouth to speak I am awed by the brilliant words that come out. Girl with the yellow and black hair...I wish I would have been in class the day you screamed the 'f' word and slammed out of class."

I know other people feel the same way, because suddenly today I had many friends. People asked what classes I was taking next and said things like, "You will do so good in broadcasting, you have such a beautiful voice." (I pointed out that I was going to be a journalist that wrote when I grew up--not the face. Public speaking makes me want to vomit. I just want to write the words.) There was a moment today when I was in a complimenting clutch and we were saying things to each other like, "I was amazed by your composure when you got up to speak!" and "Oh my GOD, I just LOVE your hair." It was a heady experience--and dude. I bet it happens on the last day of every semester.

Tonight I went to Philosophy on a tide of compliments, and when the smarty pants confirmed our appointment to be in a study group I was completely honored that the 106%'S wanted little ol 76.5% to be in their group. I was so honored in fact, that I raised my hand to answer a question in class. When the professor called on me, I began speaking with authority as I explained that a genuine triadic relationship was where one aspect (A, B or C) could be removed from the equation, and a relationship remained. My professor said, "That is exactly wrong." and explained why.

Besides the fact that I humiliated myself publicly in front of the smarty pant study group (I am not going to take any of their calls until Saturday--I won't let them call to tell me I can't be in their group anymore.) I am utterly ashamed that I got it wrong...Because I know the right answer.

I learned the right answer last week when My Mary came to Philosophy with me and we learned about degenerate triadic relationships. And for what ever reason...Maybe no reason at all, you know how these things happen...Mary, Kim and I all started to giggle because we were all thinking about a menage a trois, and how that was a degenerate triadic relationship where one partner could leave and a relationship between two (It doesn't matter which two) could still remain.

It has been a good semester. I had good professors and I met some really great people. I am truly blessed to have such an experience. It is possible that I Could get at leat an A- in every class. I will not be getting straight A's because, sadly, I have gathered some C's along the way. But! With the percentage game working in my favor and some heavy studying I can do the A-'s, and everybody knows that an A-'s lives in the same neighborhood as the A's....

And now...What's that? Oh yeah. Finals week. I need to start preparing for that

right

now!

~Stop Lying to Me, Especially if you Don't Mean It.~

2005-12-06T10:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I stopped at the Post Office and sent my daughter in with fifty cents and a letter to mail. The advertised price of a stamp these days is 37 cents, but apparently that is a lie, because I only got a dime back. It isn't that I am necessarily pissed that the Post office got me for three cents--it is because I think if a stamp costs forty cents it should just say forty cents on the stamp. I am sure the three cent overage is because the stamp vending machine can't kick out pennies as change. So I ask you--why state that a stamp only cost thirty seven cents when there is no way for me to get my three cents back?

Furthermore, I signed a new cellphone contract so that I could get to free camera phones. While I was filling out the paperwork I realized that I could have free nights and weekends--! For only $9.95 a month. Why do they call it free nights and weekends when I have to pay a monthly service charge for it? Shouldn't it be 'unlimited nights and weekends' for only $9.95 a month?

This is the time of year when free stuff has traditionally appealed to me. Last year I had to break my coupon addiction because I realized that getting one free cube of European butter wasn't worth the cost of buying three cubes of European whipped butter for the amazingly low price of $7.95. I did get a free turkey from a store last year, and I still have two cans of French onions and a small bottle of pimento's that I bought this time last year. I know they were coupon items. And the free turkey only cost me $150 in overpriced food stuff--like the pimento's.

I have received actual free things that were pretty neat--such as a T-shirt from the guy who sold me the cellphone. I was really pleased with the free shirt, until I got it home and realized he gave me an extra large. A man should never give a woman an XL t-shirt. It is like giving me something free and mocking my weight all at the same time. My husband suggested to me that the man wasn't insulting me--he was giving me a big shirt because women sleep in t-shirts and he was actually thinking about me in bed when he picked the shirt. (I consider that a nice try from the man who mocked my bathing suited self.)

Today I got an e-mail from Amy: Hello my name is Amy,I am a fun loving, attractive, intelegent woman. I will be in the USAfor 12 months on business.I really enjoy meeting new people it's so exciting. I recieve free airfares so I travel quite often. I am looking forward to your reply. Reply to my personal email onlyplease. By the way, I saw your profile and luved it. My personal email isquicks@caffeboomz.infoI will reply back with a picture, Promise. ttyl..,

I know that Amy is lying to me. First, why would an 'intelegent' woman write to me? And where did she see my profile and why in the hell would she want me to reply to her personal email onlyplease? I even doubt that she receives free airfares. The biggest hint that she is lying is the fact that she claims to be traveling to the US on business. Unless she is looking for a perfect seed potato, she isn't coming to my neck of the woods.

I am a little irritated at all of the lying going on. I would really prefer some honesty--unless you want to tell me something really great about myself, then lie like you mean it.

~From Cindy to Gilda~

2005-12-03T16:09:00.000-07:00

Last night one of the young men who work for my husband stopped by. I call him Nicoli (pronounced "Knee-Koe Lie") because it matches with his Russian last name. Nicoli is in his early twenties, and many years ago he was a member of my Youth Group. Last night was the first night he had been to our house since we got back from Hawaii last year, and Martin pointed him towards the picture collage that I had on the wall. The collage includes everyone who was in Hawaii with us and pictures of Martin and I smiling like it was the happiest day of our lives (So far, it may have been.).

In most of the pictures I was wearing a white swim suit cover over my bikini. As I am sure you are aware, white isn't the best color to be photographed in if one wants to look slender--the reason I looked so thick around the middle was the glare of the camera, not because I am the mother of three.

I included one picture of me in the brown crochette tankini, primarily to counter the chubby looking me in the white shirt. Sure, my hair is a sea snarled tangle and my eyes are closed and I am smiling so hugely that each of my teeth are showing. The picture also includes a boogie board that I had next to my hip, and the juxtaposition of all the colors makes me appear to have boy hips, and a nice rack--no tummy bulge in sight!! Okay, I did have both of my thumbs up--the reason being I was in the process of pointing towards the surf when the picture was snapped. Oh how I loved that boogie boarding event. There aren't many sports in which I excel, but I took to boogie boarding like an Orca takes to eating seals.

The point I am trying to make is that I really liked that picture of me, primarily because I look exhilarated and elated at the same time, AND because I considered it a fine showcase of the months of dieting and Pilates that I did before the event.

After Nicoli left, Martin was standing in front of the collage with a big smile on his face. I assumed looking at those pictures of all of us on our most perfect day filled him with the same sense of joy that it had always given me. Then he laughed, and I walked towards him and asked him what he was laughing at. I assumed it was the picture of us on the ocean hugging one another. There is a man behind Martin with his arm up, and in the picture Martin looks like he has three arms.

First he said, "Why did you wear that smock?" Apparently he has forgotten that the reality of the white shirt is that it was flowy and my colorful bikini showed threw it. I thought it was damn sexy. Then he laughed again and asked me why I had chosen to put the picture of myself in the brown tankini inside the frame, didn't I realize that I had my thumbs up, my eyes were shut and all of my teeth were showing? I told him I did realize that--it was a picture of utter elation. He said, "You just look humorous babe."

I realize that he didn't say anything bad, such as I looked liked I was packing a ten pound infant, or that my thighs meet all the way to my knees or that my wrinkles were all finely displayed. He simply said, 'humorous." Which isn't bad...

...Except I thought I looked sexy. It is a hard pill to swallow when you think you look like Cindy Crawford, but suddenly realize that you look like Gilda Radner.

My heart must have made an audible sound when it broke, because Martin immediately began to back pedal. I am sure that if I would have listened to what he was saying, I would have found some nice words in there. But I wasn't listening. I was taking the picture off the wall and removing the Gilda Radner snap shot. After I removed the shot of me I realized that I didn't want to put another one in there, at least not one of myself. Maybe eventually I will find a nice snapshot of a Palm Tree to stick in that slot, but until that day the entire collage of happiness is shoved in the top of my closet.

After stuffing the collage in the closet Martin was still talking and insisting that I was being touchy about the whole thing and for Godsake, there is no reason to throw the picture away. He then mentioned the giant Glamour shot that hangs in our bathroom. It was a picture I had taken when I was twenty-one, and my mother framed it and insisted I hang it in my bathroom because it was so cute. I had always thought I looked vapid and silly--but on the off chance that I was wrong and I really looked hot, I left it there. When Martin mentioned it, I realized that I had always been right about the vapid, so before going to bed I removed it from the wall and put it in a closet.

It's a rather suck thing to realize that at the age of thirty five I look humorous, not that humorous is in any way bad...But! If I haven't achieved sexy by the age of thirty-five the odds are pretty slim that it will ever happen.

Last night I put my funny yoga pants on and a hysterical tank top and I slept in the guest bedroom. The only thing worse then thinking you were sexy then finding out you were humorous is to slip right into puffy eyed crying.

This morning I woke up with a bit of a sadness hang-over. I got dressed for the day in an amusing sweater and a jocular pair of blue jeans. I had to take the kids shopping for boots. In my boot shopping for the kids I found a pair of black leather boots with three inch tall heels that were my size.

Today I spent an awful lot of the money I had planned to use for Martin's Christmas present on camisoles, high heeled boots and pencil skirts.

Last night I was heart broken to realize that my husband thinks I look 'funny'. Right now I feel pretty damn good--It is amazing how a little bit of shopping can change one's attitude.

~I Wish I Still Had my Appendix~

2005-11-29T09:26:00.000-07:00

Many years ago I was in a difficult situation and rather than take care of it directly, I blew my appendix instead. Being hospitalized affectively took care of the problem and ever since that day I have wondered if I mentally made the appendix blow or if it was just very excellent timing.

Today it occurs to me that I wasted my appendix. I should have saved it, because if I had it still I would consider using it today so I wouldn't have to give a ten minute oral presentation tomorrow.

I do have a pair of tonsils, but having them removed it probably elective surgery and I probably couldn't get it scheduled for tomorrow. I am holding on to my gall bladder for something really big because I hear that after your gall bladder is removed you can't eat pork. Frankly, I can't see anything bothering me so much that I am willing to give up bacon forever.

Two days ago I started to feel a little achey and it occurred to me that I might be developing a kidney stone, which would be a righteous excuse not to give a ten minute speech AND a little Demerol vacation at the hospital. But as soon as I began to think, "Bring on a stone!" the feeling stopped.

Maybe the trick to sacrificing organs is not to acknowledge that you know that you are doing it on purpose.

I believe I got this freaked out about giving an Oral presentation when I gave my last one and forgot much of what I wanted to say, so instead I flourished like Vanna White. At that time I believed I would only have to give one Oral Presentation, so I was relieved to know I wouldn't have to go again. Two weeks ago the professor assigned another ten minute oral presentation, and since then my organs have been under the gun.

It would seem that after a full semester with these same people I would be more comfortable talking in front of them. But this speech is about religious discrimination. The only discrimination I am personally aware of is Mormon/non-mormon. I know there are returned missionaries in my class...And I am not sure how to talk about my experiences without sounding like I am discrimination against them.

To counter the problem of how to write a great oral presentation about discrimination without being discriminatory I have done the research, but not written anything..Instead counting on an organ to bail me out at the last second.

The idea of going to college and graduating Magna Cum Laude was easy to formulate, actually doing it is hard work. I wonder how many of my organs will survive the journey.

~Thanks~

2005-11-23T08:38:00.000-07:00

I went to bed early last night. This means that the children were under Martin's command, and he probably didn't realize he had to put them to bed until one of them suggested that maybe it was bed time. Consequently, I was able to wake up early and all three of them are still sleeping. Martin has gone to work and I am sitting in my office alone with my PC and a cup of coffee.

And I saw that this was good.

The solitude of this moment has caused me to reflect upon my life, and realizing that tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I am filled with Thankfulness.

I always dreaded doing the roundhouse thing at Thanksgiving dinner where we all had to tell the crowd what we were thankful for this year. I always knew I could go with the pat answer of, "God, my mom and this fine country" and I would be off the hook. And I am thankful for all of those things; but today, before the holiday, I am thankful for a more limited number of things.

I am sitting alone in my office; there is not even one child close to me begging for marshmellow cereal. I just rearranged it so that it is a more womanly office rather then a catch all with a computer. Two nights ago I steam cleaned all of the carpets and rugs, so it smells like brand new carpet again.
Right now I am thankful for this exact moment; I can hear all three of my children with their sleep sighs and my house is clean enough for company.

Speaking of my sleeping children, I am also thankful that in the past year I have made an effort to do extra nice things for them. They may not have thought it was particularly nice of me to stay with them in Missouri for two weeks, but I know it was nice of me, and I realized it the third time I walked to the pond to catch turtles and I came back covered in chigger bites. I am sure that I created some memories that will be pleasant for my children this year. It is important to give children happy memories to look back over when they are choosing your nursing home--and I am thankful I invested in my future by going to the bird refuge.

Deer hunting season has just ended and therefore there are pieces of meat wrapped in plastic and stuffed into my freezer. Some of the meat is recognizable--thinks like, "Left rear hind quarter" and "Entire rib cage", but some of it is just stuffed into bags and there are no guarantees that it even came from a deer. It could not so much be meat as an entire collection of Bambi's friends. Inside the house I have little individuals packages of meat that came from the butcher. Meat with names like, "Steak" and "Boneless breast of chicken." I am thankful for these packages of meat that came inside my house without their faces on.

I am doing a load of laundry and a load of dishes right now, and I am completely elated by the sounds of the machines that are doing those jobs for me. As far as I am concerned, the dishwasher is the greatest invention ever. I hope the gentleman who invented it got head jobs everyday for the rest of his life...Of all the men in the world who deserve it, he is the one.

I have a ten minute presentation to give next week, and I haven't completely nailed down my subject yet. I have begun to have nightmares that the professor calls on my and I have no material--and then she berates me and drives me to run crying from the classroom. I am so thankful that I have a different list of things to worry about this year. It seems that I have always found something to worry about and it is nice to have something academic, important and controllable. In years past I have worried about a wide variety of inconsequential things--such as bathing on the second floor and if I would be able to get a load of laundry done before my outside facilities froze solid.

Intertwined with all of the things that I am thankful for there is at least one thing that I am humbly grateful for: my drool worthy peps.

I have been blessed with a wide range of people who love me, even though I have moments of unlovability. I have friends and family who actually love me unconditionally and I know that if I ever had a traumatic brain injury and was left speechless and drooling on myself; there are still people who would pick me up and take me to town for lunch.

What could be better then a handful of drool worthy peps? You know who you are.

Thanks.

~Watch for Flailing Children~

2005-11-21T10:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I decided to have a great day with my children. Martin was hunting, so I had them all to myself. I decided to enjoy them, and also to make sure they enjoyed themselves. I planned a day filled with errands, and bits of joy--such as going out to breakfast with their best buddies, going to the Mall to see Santa (And pick up air freshener) a trip to the Art Museum and then to the child abuse capitol of the world--Walmart.

There is something that happens to every parent and every child when they walk into Walmart. Perhaps it is brought on by the anxiety of watching for falling prices, but everyone gets anxious. On every aisle there is at least one parent saying to their child, "I am not telling you again!" in various decibel of voice. It seems there is always at least one wailing child who gets smacked by their mother--and while I looked at the screaming child thinking, "That kid needs a spanking." moments before the smacking--I am always shocked when a mother actually hits her child in public.

The One Who Shall Remain Nameless brought the Walmart phenomena to my attention. Her fiance had a three year old daughter and when she misbehaved he threatened her with, "Do you want to go to Walmart?"Because even three year old children recognize that kids get beat in Walmart.

My Walmart experience yesterday was typical. Kate started whining about her need for a new coat, because her old one is to fluffy. Jake started begging for something each time the cart stopped. I swear it is compulsive--he just gets into a begging frenzy. His desire to throw things into the cart is eclipsed by his lack of understanding about the things he begs for. It doesn't matter what it is...He just needs it. He's always wanted one, he assures me while tears begin streaming from his eyes. In the past he has begged for toilet bowl cleaner and every sort of soup and vegetable. His personal best was the day he begged for feminine hygiene products. Isaac also has a ritual where he hangs out of the side of the cart whining then he wants down while his Stretch Armstrong arms are clearing the shelves in my wake.

I have never smacked my children inside Walmart but I do confess that I have gotten on my knees, grabbed my son by both his arms and hissed into his face, "IF you don't shut-up I will staple your lips together." See--Walmart does something to the parents. We revert to a lower sort of life form, one that must hunt and forage and use foul language.

Yesterday I performed and act that I believe all three of my children will one day report to their therapist.

My cart was half full of junk I probably didn't need, and I had said, "If you whine one more word at me, we are walking out of this store and there will be no tutti-fruiti's for any of you." one dozen times. We turned a corner, Kate and Jake both ransacked the end of the aisle display with shrieks of, "It's FREE!! Can we have two?" and Ike used his amazingly long arms to scoop some into the basket. I was stuck at the end of the aisle feeling my old dog Brandie after she had the puppies and she would try to run away from them, trailing her long doggy boobs through the dirt.

I yawned a giant yawn, hoping that if I got some oxygen back to my brain I would be able to get through the store without reverting to some sort of verbal violence. When I yawn my eyes water. Ike spied the tears on my cheeks and said, "Mom's CRYIN!" The two olders stopped their frenetic digging to look at me. They were stunned into huge eyed silence. "Why are you crying?" Kate asked.

I could have told the truth and told my sweet young children that I wasn't crying I had only yawned...But I was in Walmart, where the air is thick with the disappointment of children and the swallowed tears of embarrassment that their parents can't shed. I said, "Can you three please stop whining and begging? Your making me crazy!"

I would like to report that we walked out of the store with my three children suitably docile, but the truth is that by the time we reached the fruit section and one child wanted the bag with one more green apple and the other child wanted the one with one more red apple, all of the motherly guilt I had heaped on them evaporated.

As far as the rest of the day went--they didn't want to set on Santa's lap because he was creeping them out and they enjoyed the Art museum about as much as I enjoy I trip to Walmart.

~I Highly Recommend the Bi-Polar~

2005-11-15T20:51:00.000-07:00

(It has come to my attention that people who really know me read my blog. I need to warn those people that they should not read this post; it is about something you really don't want to know about me. This isn't a teaser to make the people who know me read on...it is an actual warning. Trust me. If you will be looking at my face ever in your life DO NOT read this.)

I went to town with the person who-shall-remain-nameless today. (My sister Melissa has asked me to NEVER write about her on my blog, so from this point on I will refer to her as the Nameless One. Fortunately, she never reads my blog. She refers to it as, "That little internet thingy you got". By the time she does read it she should be pleased to know that she is the Nameless One.)

We went to town to get baby shower invitations for my sister Amanda. (oooh...the invitation are so cute. They are little diapers that tie with a ribbon, and on the inside I wrote, "Diapers greatly appreciated.")

When we left I told Martin that I would be home in about an hour. That was at 3:30.

I arrived home with the Nameless One and her boyfriend (Who shall also remain nameless) at 6:30 slathered down with "Like a Virgin" cream and clitoris stimulator.

That's the thing about going to town with the bi-polar; you never really know what is going to happen before you get home. When you go to town with the normal for baby shower invitations, you probably come home with baby shower invitations and maybe a a tiny sack of melt away mints.

But with the bi-polar--!! Holy shit, the sky is the limit.

(I did tell the nameless one that I was going to write this post and she asked me who exactly was the bi-polar one in this scenario, because it certainly wasn't her. First I said, "It's me...I am the bi-polar one" because she is taking tae kwando and she could probably kick my ass. Then I asked her if she was denying that she was bi-polar. She told me that she was not bi-polar and I proclaimed, "Ah-HA!! The first step to recognizing if you are bi-polar or not is asking yourself if you are in denial about being bi-polar." I know that this is the first step of accepting your bi-polar nature because a trained professional told me. Okay. She was a waitress, but she was a waitress in a nice restaurant, so clearly a professional waitress.)

You may be wondering about the clitoral stimulator cream and the "Like a Virgin" cream...Because if I were reading this blog this would be what I wanted to know.

So, the answer is really simple: The clit cream was on sale at Walmart and it seemed like a good idea to me. I didn't plan to apply it before getting home...but hey, things happen.

The "Like a Virgin" cream is stuff that you slather on that creates a virgin like appearance to the hoo-haw. And the way we got this...Well. Laws were broken. Quite frankly, if I told you how I got that cream I would be persecuting myself.

Suffice it to say, I have got the area all gussied up for company, unfortunately I can't exactly tell the ol' man all the details because he would be appalled. Shocked and appalled. Horrified shocked and appalled. Shockingly horrified and appalled.

Sigh.

This reminds me of the good ol' days when I used to walk out of my house to meet my best friend* for an afternoon road trip and I wouldn't arrive back home for two days. (Never slathered down with creams or ointments, but probably hung-over and sunburned.)

If you don't have a bi-polar friend, I highly recommend you find yourself one; They are great for shaking up the mundane life of dream journals and tuna casseroles.

*If it appears that I am suggesting that I have traveled with the bi-polar in the past and you read this and think I am talking about you...No! No! It's ME. I am the bi-polar one. YOU traveled with ME. Please don't kick my ass.

(I am not really bi-polar. I just play a bi-polar person on the net. Unless you traveled with me and recognize yourself in the afore mentioned post...Then, It's me! I am in denial. )

~Best of All It is Free!~

2005-11-15T09:55:00.000-07:00

I have known for quite some time that when I have been drinking I talk more precisely. I believe that I adopted the habit so that I wouldn't slur my words and sound like I was drunk, but since then it has become a source of ridicule when I am in large groups of my friends. On the AGFT, for example, my statements that, "I would like to partake of another beverage" have been greeted with peals of laughter.

For many years now--I have been partaking of fermented beverages for quite some time--I have been aware of my habit of over ennunciating and whipping out my good vocabulary when a little bit tipsy. I always thought that I did that so I didn't sound like an idiot drunk...

...but thanks to my new hobby I now realize that my drunken ennunciation and over-blown phrases are not a product of me trying to make myself look more intelligent. Instead those words are me getting more deeply connected with my subconcious.

While the drunk me talks precisely, the sleeping me has a rockin vocabulary.

Two weeks ago my family was woken by the sound of the fire alarm going off at 2:30am. Thanks to my many years of waking in the middle of the night for the cries of children, my response time to minimal. I was half way across the kitchen before I realized I was moving and at the bottom of the basement stairs smelling for smoke and looking at my children when I realized why I was in motion.

You can all relax, my house was not on fire. After twenty seconds the alarm stopped blaring and I was telling my daughter that after we determined if there was a fire she could go back to bed. I do not know why the alarm was going off, there was no smoke. I was a bit shocked to find both of my male children sound asleep after the alarm and my husband groggily walking around asking what was going on. (Apparently in an actual fire emergency Kate and I will be the ones to get everyone outside with marshmellows.)

After the alarm incident I went back to bed and tried to go back to sleep. I woke up numerous times before morning came and the third time I thought, "That was really important...I should write that down!"

And thus began my dream diary hobby. I now sleep with a pad and pencil next to my pillow and when I wake up I scribble down what I was dreaming about on my notebook before I go back to sleep. The number of entries I get every night leads me to believe that I don't sleep for shit.

In the last two weeks I have the following interesting entries that mingle in with all of the entries that say normal things like, "High Five with Martin" and "Chocolate Cheesecake":

The opaque window of my future.
Beauty shop Genesis.
wallet full of techno colored credit cards.
Pomegranet (Persephone)
The International Advisory Committee demands my garage be cleaned out.
The Duke of Saxon is # 15 on the service list.
Intermediate does not equal insubstantial.

Some of the references I understand. The Pomegranet/ Persephone thing has to do with the queen of the Underworld who got tricked into being the Queen by Hades because she ate three seeds of a pomegranet. Obviously my subconcious feels like I am the queen of hell and I got tricked into it with three little seeds. (Or children, if you will.)

I am impressed that my subconcious doesn't just want my garage cleaned out, it declares that the INTERNATIONAL advisory committee DEMANDS that it get cleaned out. It isn't enough that I want it done, local officials mean nothing to me. Hell, Bush didn't even make an appearance, I went straight to the advisory committee for the world to get that job done.

Intermediate does not equal insubstantial obviously refers to the fact that my monkey math class IS important.

Some of the references I do not get, and I think it is possible that those references were put in there when my subconcious realized what I was doing so it threw in some good stuff to distract me during my waking hours. (Cause I am not already distractable enough.)

I highly recommend that you get your own sleep diary so that you can wake up in the morning to see what you wrote, and much like me you can ask yourself, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

~Changes~

2005-11-11T15:43:00.000-07:00

I am working on a new banner, and when I say "I" am working on a new banner I mean that I thought I would like one, so I told my sister in law that I wanted one and drew a picture and she turned it into that.

What do you think? I am personally pleased with the giant eyes with the cutesy eyelashes. I like that the balloon is clearly a lady and clearly startled. I believe the floaty quality adds to the outtabody element...and the use of red clearly shows my passionate nature. The use of the bird to cross the t's seems to me a simple bit of brilliance.

Any suggestions for the new banner? What do you like, what don't you like...want a t-shirt?

And in other news:

Yesterday I considered taking another job at a C-store. I would like to make enough money every month to pay a couple of my bills. I have a deep seated need to say, "I can afford to buy the Chicken of the Sea Tuna in water because I have a job and I deserve this luxury" Rather then just always buying the Western Family chunk light tuna. I found a C-store that is hiring and planned to go in today to let the manager know that I had the position covered.

But!

This morning I got an e-mail from the college. At the beginning of the year I filled out an application for college work. No one ever contacted me and I assumed that was because I used my three children as a personal reference. (And I added that the children might not give me a great reference because I made them clean their rooms and eat their vegetables.) Perhaps it is a computer that randomly kicks out names to fill jobs and when I go to interview the person doing the interview will say, "uh...it says here that you can cook a meal, do homework and sweep the floor at the same time, while those are excellent qualities we were looking for someone with different skills." Perhaps the person doing the interview actually read my application and thought, "Dude, this woman whould be great fun to work with...look what she wrote down under strengths!"

Also, I would like to address annonymous who was offended by my racial slur in the previous post. This person was mostly offended by my complete lack of shame in the retelling of the story--racial slurs are never funny.

I agree that racial slurs are not funny, but I can't say I am necessarily contrite that I used one on that particular day. Perhaps I didn't make it clear that I was the house mother for gang members who told me they were going to rape and kill me more often then they said, "thank-you." I also did not relay in the previous story that these particular boys used the n word everyday in such ways as "Sup Nig". The n word was attached to every sort insult, for example, "broke as...stoned assed...skinny assed...fat assed...boney assed..." I think I can stop there, but please note that any other way the n word and 'assed' can be strung together those boys strung them.

I must say, they came up with the best insults when they were insulting me. Such as the time a boy stood in front of me yelling, "You ain't nothin but a sittin-on-the-couch-drinkin-your-iced-tea-tellin-us-what-to-do-skinny-assed-funny-walkin-bearded-lady-BITCH!"

It occurs to me that African American people own the 'n' word very much like women own the 'b' word. I can call myself a bitch, I can greet my friends with the words, "Sup bitch' but any man or teenaged boy that drops the 'b' word on me is going to be very sorry.

And.

Right after I finished laughing about the bearded lady bitch insult (because the kids does get credit for creativity) I did punish the boy who uttered the words by making him write fifty sentences that each said, "I will not call my house mother a sitting on the couch drinking her iced tea telling us what to do skinny assed funny walking bearded lady bitch while I am living at the Gate House at (Name of camp here.)"

Conversely, it can be said that I also punished myself for accidentally dropping a racial slur in a moment of extreme duress by working at the camp for another year. (Please note that I didn't call anyone the n word, I called an action the n word.) Trust me when I tell you there isn't a single thing that can be said to me about that accidental racial slur that hasn't already be said to me. In fact, it was even added to the list of reasons why I should be raped and killed. (On another note, I was more offended that they wanted to rape AND kill me then I would have been if they would have just chosen one or the other option.)

Perhaps in a setting such as a blog we don't give an accurate assesment of ourselves. In the writing process we make things more important, or less important then they are in real life. I am well aware that I personally try to find the funny bits in everyday life so that I can spin my life as much more humorous then it really is. With that in mind, it is possible that when I wrote a story about the euphemism "peachy" I inadvertently branded myself as a racial slur saying kind of woman.

The truth is, in my daily life I am not a racial slur saying kind of woman.
I am a sitting on the couch drinking my iced tea telling kids what to do fat assed funny walking bearded lady bitch.

~Sweet Victory~

2005-11-07T19:15:00.000-07:00

Today many people said, "How are you?" to me. When I am asked that question I have two standard replies, "Fabulous." and "Peachy".

When I say I am fabulous that means I am having a day that is okay; A rather ordinary vanilla pudding sort of day. I could simply say I was 'fine', but I gave up on fine years ago...When I discovered peachy.

My mother called the female genitals a 'peachy.' It wasn't a traditional bad word at my house, but it was certainly flirting with 'naughty'. I would never, for example call my mother a 'peachy'...But I did tell my brother to stop being such a peach when my mother was out of ear shot.

I vividly recall the first time I answered, "Peachy" when asked how I was.

I was working at the boys camp, it was 6:00am and I had just woken up and was in the process of herding twelve juvenile delinquents to the chow house. (It was a cowboy themed boys camp.) I believe I have mentioned I do not wake up well. When I was the house mother for twelve boys the only time they tip toed around me was early in the morning.

On this particular morning they were not waking up in the best of spirits either. I had the early morning argument with Curtis:

Take your pills.
I can't take my pills before breakfast, C'mon Debbie!! You know they kill my stomach.
(Perhaps the pills really did hurt his stomach...perhaps he liked to be off his meds so that instead of being drugged to the gills all day he could let Satan come out to play.)
I'm not playin' with you Curtis.
Oh C'mon...Deb...puh---lease....

At that point I gave him the look that I only possess in the morning. It is a look that chills juice and causes husbands to whimper in fear. Little children do not stand a chance of withstanding the weight of the look, they immediately burst into tears. Teenaged boys have been known to shit their pants.

It's one hell of a look, and it only lasts til 9:00am.

On this particular morning, after my run in with Curtis I was in a foul mood and without coffee. I was also cold. I was pissed at my partner because he was a giant peach who always made me drive and I was enraged to find that the gas tank was empty.

After scraping the Red neck hole into frost on the windshield, we drove to the gas tank. (I am sure you are familiar with the red neck hole in the frost on the windshield. But in case you are not, it is a frost free area of the window roughly the size of the drivers eyes.)

My partner, the peach, had the job of filling the tank. I had the job of sitting in the van with twelve boys who were shivering in the cold and worried that if we got to the chow house late all of the bacon would be gone.

The peach could not get the lid back on to the gas tank. The boys were moaning and groaning just enough to work my last nerve and I rolled the window down and asked my partner what the hold-up was.

(Stop me if you already know this story.)

He said he couldn't get the lid back on.

In utter exasperation I yelled at him, "Just Nigger Rig it...Let's go!"

Eight of the twelve boys in my van were black. Seven of them were ex-gang members; of those seven, only six had suggested that they wanted to rape and kill me.

After I said the 'n' word there was a deadly silence...The kind of silence that allows you to contemplate just what exactly you had said; the kind that feels as if time has stopped. This silence is the trick of fate. For a pregnant second it feels like you can suck your breath in really quick and take back all of the words before time starts again.

But alas, you can't take back the 'n' word that easily.

The silence popped with a malevolent hiss. Twelve of the twelve boys in the van were hissing at me. Literally. The force of the air pushed from their lips caused goose bumps to raise on my arms and I am sure most of my gray hairs were born at exactly that moment.

Well, I know when I have done wrong and my mother taught me to always apologize when I had clearly crossed the line. I grew up in a Christian household and I know that in times of trauma one should WWJD.

And because the lord loves me, I was blessed with the morning voice that makes bill collectors cry.

I said....

dammit...

what did I say...

It was something good, I swear.

Unfortunately I do not remember what I said. But whatever it was, it stifled the hissing, and nobody pulled their shank and drove it into my skull.

That morning I walked into the Chow House and another House parent asked me how I was. I told her I was 'peachy' and I truly meant it as a derogatory remark about female genitals.

She said, "You are always so cheerful! How do you do that?"

On that day, when I added peachy to my reportoire of "How are you" answers, I added something so profane that I could never say it to my grandmother. Yet, I can say it to other people somewhat cheerfully.

(And now the point of my story.)

Today was not a peachy day.

It was a truly fabulous day. School was successful, I took my children to the bird refuge, visited my mother AND I managed to feed everyone a balanced meal.

There aren't many days as a mother that feel successful. Today I got the gift of having one of those days. When I told my kids I was taking them to the Bird Refuge and they reacted like I said I was taking them to Disneyland, I knew that I was doing something right at this moment. And quite possibly I had dones some things right earlier in their lives. How lucky am I to have kids that are overjoyed to see a duck a goose and some wild grass?

It's a wonderful thing to say I am fabulous today and I really mean it.

Though peachy days make much better stories.

~The Grass on This Side of the Fence is Withering~

2005-11-04T13:24:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in class Monday with my wrinkles and gray roots. Next to me sat two traditional college students. They were talking to one another and the words, "Yeah but she is an older student." caught my attention. I turned towards them and they asked me if I thought that being older made going to school easier. The theory being, most older college students get better grades, so it must be that older students had fewer distractions. I can't say that I was particularly offended by being lumped into the older student category--especially if the relationship was the better grades.

I told them that we get better grades because we waited so long to do it we approach it with the attitude, "By God I am going to be perfect at it." I am sure many of us feel like this is our last shot--if we don't get it right this time we might as well roll up our sleeves and get a job pickin' taters. The desire to get it perfect-- and completed quickly-- creates a focus on school work, and really all that is needed to do well in school is the focus.

I left the conversation at that point because I felt like I exhibited my wisdom in such matters...And also I am fine with people thinking that the grass on my side of the fence is greener then theirs.

Another young lady I spoke with exclaimed, "You are so lucky to have a husband who supports you while you go to school! I live with my parents and have to work twenty hours a week--I can't wait til me and my fiance get married and settle down. I would love to just go to school and raise babies."

There again I smiled and nodded--I don't need to tell that girl that being married and having children and going to school is hard stuff. She seems to be on her way to finding out all by herself.

The truth is that maybe school is easier for older ladies. The reason is pretty simple: Going to school offers immediate positive affirmation. When you do a project and hand it in you are now done with it forever--unlike laundry and mopping the floor which will never be done. When you get a grade from your teacher, and it is a good grade, there is the affirmation of knowing you did it perfectly...And so far in my parenting trip I have never felt like I did something perfectly.

While school is a grand time of higher learning and positive self affirmation the reality of life at home rather sucks.

So far today I have put in three hours working on homework, and I really need to spend at least that many more. While I am doing homework Ike spends some of his time with his book next to me on the bench. I pause in my paper writing to name some animals and shapes, but he isn't getting 100% of my attention.

While I am doing my homework and reading the story book, I am also doing the laundry. Considering all of my facilities are currently inside, laundry is a breeze. This is a far cry from the good ol days when my washing machine was outside because it leaked, and I hung clothing on the line. Every half hour I pause to change loads, fold and start another. I will never be done with my laundry, but I sure am thankful I don't have to go outside to do it.

In the back of my mind I am considering what I should cook for dinner tonight. What I would like to cook is a delivery pizza. However, there are members of my family who feel unloved if dinner comes from the hands of the pizza boy. I have to cook an actual meal that requires some slicing and dicing and dipping in flour then boiled in oil for my family to have the affirmation that mommy loves them and is still on the job.

Even though mommy isn't really on the job. It has been quite some time since I took my children to the bird refuge or played a game with them. I spend most of my time lining them out on chores and asking them to be quiet so I can concentrate on my homework. They are getting to a very self sufficient age, and I am taking advantage of that fact to further my own goals...But I often wonder if I am neglecting my most important job when I ask them to stop talking to me so I can write a paper or memorize a fact.

The younger ladies seem to think that being married rather then engaged makes things much more settled, and consequently easier. I don't have to tell them that 'wedding' is a word you can cross off your to-do list, but 'marriage' is a word that needs some attention every day. They will discover it soon enough, and there is no reason to disillusion them when they are trying to pick out wedding dresses.

Unfortunately the attention my husband is getting from me most of the time centers around where he can take the kids so that everyone will be occupied and leave me alone. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that if the words I say to my husband most often are, "Could you just give me a couple hours of quiet time?" He isn't exactly brimming with excitement to see me. We seem to be arguing more often and about a more diverse set of topics. We recently argued about whether or not we argued to much. I could fix this problem by spending more time listening to what he has to say, but I never seem to have the time.

Besides the areas of time that I am taking from my family to give to school there are area's outside of my family that are practically withering because I have not attended to them. I haven't been to my mother's house in for ever...And I used to go over to visit quite frequently. Before my school days my sister Amanda would eat at my house a couple times a week, and I would see Melissa and Melinda at least a few times a month...Now I infrequently talk to them on the telephone.

I think about my best friend who lives in Alaska when I am driving to and from school and hear a song on the radio that reminds me of the traveling days...But I don't bother to call her or write to her because as soon as I get home I start doing homework.

And in all of these things that I am neglecting, there are moments in everyday where I make purely selfish decisions. I either take really long baths or naps and again I want people to be quiet and leave me alone so that I can think about homework.

SO yes, school is easier for older people--at least it is for me. School is the one thing that I am completely prepared for and the only thing that I am accomplishing at full capacity.

I better get good grades. I need to justify neglecting every other aspect of my life.

~I Turn Into a Bat at Midnight~

2005-10-31T19:55:00.000-07:00

Around 5:30 this evening Barbie came to my house to deliver my youngest child. She was wearing a red devil costume that was cut clear to the promised land and holy shit (!)she was working it. As she took off her LL Bean Green jacket I realized that there would be some hot loving goin' on in my neighborhood tonight--if her husband was smart enough to have the trash can pulled to the street.

I looked down at my own costume--sweaty housewife/student who just found out she was packing 100% in her theatre appreciation class* (And I only mention that I am packing 100% in my Theatre class because I am packing 100%in my Theatre class) and I realized that there was nothing on my person to inspire my beloved to hot monkey lovin'.

So! I sent the bigger kids off to trick or treat with their friends and I allowed Ike to have free reign of his candy bag (An evil plan that had him careening around the house than crashing into a sugar induced coma) and I put on a black drapery dress, lined my eyes in black, my lips in red and ratted my hair. When I was finished I decided I was the Queen of the Damned, I slapped on some heels and prepared for a shocked and amazed man who would be inspired to perform some hot monkey lovin.

Unfortunately.

My Queen of the Damned costume actually inspired this response: "It smells like food in here, got something cookin?"

I tossed my hair, licked my lips and responded, "Oh yeah...I got something cookin' alright."

To which the response was, "Great, I am starved."

The Queen of the Damned can cook a mean steak and look fine while she is doing it, but as the proverb goes: "You can lead a man to steak and taters, but you can't make him eat. (At the trough of hot monkey lovin)."

Halfway through the meal my husband (Please note that he has been denigrated from my 'beloved' to my 'husband') asked what exactly I was wearing, and why was I wearing a costume. I informed him I was the Queen of the dammed, dammit, and I had some things in mind.

When he told me he had to go back to work this evening and wouldn't be home til midnight I informed him that the Queen of the damned turned into a bat at midnight.

The sad truth is, I wasn't kidding. If I go to bed without washing this black eyeliner and red lipstick off my face I am going to be incredibly scary, and anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I don't wake up well.

I probably should have stuck to with the sweaty housewife/student packing 100% in Theatre Appreciation costume...I do that one believably. It seems everytime I make an effort to be sexy I inspire a man to want an apple pie and some mashed taters.

The curse of the Idaho woman I suppose.

*did I mention that my midterm grade in Appreciation of Theatre is 100%?

~Preparedness~

2005-10-25T12:55:00.000-06:00

It is almost winter in Idaho. When winter is just around the corner people on the tundra began to stock pile for the long cold season that is about to descend upon us. We prepare for being snowed in for days on end, consequently food needs to be stockpiled and so do essentials like toilet paper and water. We think about what would happen if the pipes froze or the electricity went out--how would we stay warm? What would we eat?

Winters have been rather mild for the last 7-9 years, but I remember times when we were snowed in and the electricity went out. While my children have never experienced being snowed in without running water or electricity, I have and therefore I need to prepare. Sure, it hasn't happened in many years...But it could happen again.

While I have been preparing for winter I have watched the news coverage of the Katrina disaster et al. The other night it occurred to me that I am preparing for circumstances were I could hunker down and still feed my children...I have not prepared for an eventuality where I would have to pack up and get out.

And if the news is any indicator--I should be thinking about what I would take if we had to leave quickly. With that in mind I started gathering my important things in one spot--things like identification and financial records. I decided that I should have a seventy two hour kit with things like bottled water and batteries and flashlights and energy bars and toilet paper. As I thought about what would be most important to take my list kept getting longer, and what I thought I could fit into one suitcase soon became a pile of stuff that would require a pick-up truck to move. Aren't the pictures of my babies as important as birth certificates? The tiny molds of their hands and feet can't be replaced, surely they are as important as a battery operated radio. Toothpaste and deodorant would be important--and so are lip balm and conditioner.

That lead me to, "What would I wear?" When I got to what would I wear I realized that fashion probably wasn't a huge issue for refugees. In my effort to get my priorities straight I wrote the preceding post, "What if?"

It is written about clothing because I am also reminding myself not to spend to much time worrying about what could happen. It is prudent to have some sort of emergency plan, it is neither prudent nor wise to obsess about every tragedy that could happen so that it can be prepared for. I can't spend my life repacking seventy hour emergency kits with clothing that is both comfortable, stylish and the right size for each of my family members. There is not a FEMA sanctioned refugee uniform that I must purchase.

What if? Reminds me that everyday that I get up and put clothing on I have done something for emergency preparedness--and god willing it will be the only thing I ever have to do.

~What If?~

2005-10-21T23:46:00.000-06:00

Let's pretend that you just discovered that you were going to have to spend the next 68 days in the same clothes.

What outfit would you choose?

As for me.

I would choose my favorite jeans, then ones that are hole and stain free. I would wear my red tank top with the built in shelf bra, my gray BSU t-shirt and my white zipper front sweater--because I live on the tundra layering is always a good idea. I would have on my very best bra and a pair of white cotton potty pants. My socks would be spongebob, and my shoes would be the thick soled leather frankenstein shoes.

I pick that outfit because it is ambiguous. The levi's with the sweater can be fairly formal in my neck of the woods. The levi's and tank-top can be be very informal.

What about you?

And.

When you tell me your outfit, please give me an idea of your location. I sincerely wonder if city people would choose something better, and if the Amish ladies would remember their bonnets.

~Talk About hypocrisy~

2005-10-20T12:04:00.000-06:00

I, the woman who has decided to go back to college at the age of thirty-five; me, the lady who disrupted life as everyone had known it at the Manor so that I could get an education--have grounded my daughter.

Here's the hypocritical thing.

I grounded her from math club.

I am trying a new pattern of parenting with my ten year old daughter. We are currently stuck in this cycle of whining that is about to make my pull my hair out and I realized that if I was having that reaction to her than I as parenting very well. (Page 4 article 6 in the parenting handbook, "If the sound of your child's whining causes you to wish to poke out your own eardrums, seek intevention.")

I have tried all of the other things such as giving her allowance (and taking it away), grounding her from the telephone, computer and television. I have done, "You can just sit in your room until it is clean" and "If you come out of this room before it is clean I am going to come undone." (She asked me the other day what would happen if I did come undone and because I didn't really know I said, "You don't want to find out.")

I go through stages of thinking that perhaps I am to hard on her--she is only ten should she be responsible for unloading the dishwasher? And then, much like generations of women before me, I think of what sorts of chores I was doing at ten:

I put my hand on my hip and begin: "I had to wash dishes in the sink EVERY NIGHT and I had to dry them and put them away!" I remind her that she is being a whiner and she should think about how easy she has it. Why, when my mom was ten she had to get the water from the hand pump in the yard before she could fill the sink and wash the dishes before drying them and putting them away!

But there are times when I want her to do something above and beyond her regular chores and I feel like she should be rewarded for doing those chores. (Her reward for loading and unloading the dishwasher is that I keep putting food on plates and giving it to her.)

So! Yesterday I was picking her up from math club and I was feeling a little nauseated and head achey. I turned a corner and heard a can roll across the floor and I remarked, "I need to clean out this Durango."

Kaitlyn piped up, "I'll do it if you take me to Math Club tomorrow!"

I said, "Deal!" And we began the negotiating process--she didn't have to vacuum it or windex the windows, but if she could remove all of the toys and empty bottles it would be perfect. I thought I was getting a fabulous bargain--for heavens sake it's Math Club, not roller skating at the Starlite, and she was feeling rather superior for manipulating me into another day of adding and subtracting intergers after school. She did take the time to ask what would happen if she did not preform her job of cleaing out the Durango. I reminded her that we had an oral contract and we each had to fulfill our parts.

I don't know what Kate was doing while she should have been picking rocks off the Durango floor, but one hour later when I checked on her progress she had added more toys. And some purses and an extra pair of shoes.

It is possible that I over reacted when I said to her, "I guess there will be no math club tomorrow." (Well, if you paraphrased that is what I said.)

And lo the flood gates opened and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth--but a normal level of wailing and gnashing. It is the type little girls do to show their mothers that they are really sorry that they didn't do what they were supposed to have done, but they also had no intention of going to do the chore now. The whine is something that traveled with them from infant hood and it has a certain tone that used to make mom's come running...but at the age of ten that same tone of crying produces an effect in mother that is: "GO Away Little Girl." And every little girl knows that going away to play with the Brat Dollz is better than staying to hear a hardship story such as the story about her dad who had to milk cows every morning before school.

Four or five times during the night when I said something to Kaitlyn such as, "Pick your shoes up off the floor" she would reply, "Will you take me to math club?" Which lead to, "Are there still toys in the Durango?" And more wailing.

This is our normal pattern, the one I am trying to break. Usually at the end of eight hours of wailing I hiss, "Alright! But only if you promise to do (insert any chore here) when we get home."

This morning as she was walking out the door with tears streaming down her face and pitiful sobs ripped from her chest I felt like an evil rotten mother for asking her if the Durango was clean when she asked about math club. When she said no I told here that was her answer, and I shooed her out into the big bad world with the snot of the down trodden running down her lips.

How many kids in rehab centers and mental health facilities say to their doctor, "I was in math club when I was ten, then my mother grounded me from it and that is when my spree of crime began."

Are there women who could have been scientists when they became adults, but their mothers grounded them from math club that one time and so they became crack whores?

How many female serial killers have a math club incident in their past?

I will be taking her back to math club on Monday, but for today I feel like a horrible mother for taking away my daughter's math club because she did not follow through. For heavens sake...It's math club.

This mothering thing is tough. How do you know when you are supposed to be a strident, "You do what I say" parent, and when to be a, "Oh alright, but next time I am really really going to mean it." parent. ??

~Potty Time~

2005-10-18T13:05:00.000-06:00

I got my mid-term grades yesterday, and as I feared I am getting a B+ in Economics. I have resolved to spend more time studying so I can clear the A in that class. I do understand that I can get credit for that class with a D but dammit! I am a really old woman who went back to school and I want to be a perfect student. Getting A's is my new obsession and quite frankly I think it is a much healthier obsession than some of the other's that I have had over the years.

As I drove home from school yesterday I comforted my obsessive compulsive self with the words, "A B+ is right next door to an A. If you put forth the effort you can join the party going on over there."

I am obsessive, but I am also distractable.

The idea of the A being next door to the B reminded me of the fact that I have new neighbors on the East side of my house. Technically they have lived there for a couple months and people--other than me-- from inside Chessey Manor have met them. I have nick-named them the "No See 'ums" because I have only made eye contact with the woman of the house one time. (Two nights ago when she knocked on my door at 11:00 pm to ask about her black kitten. She told me that she heard someone from my home had taken it into my house. I stifled her worry about my black kitten stealing ways with the words, "I have dogs. One of them is big and chases cats, I don't think this is a place your kitten would chose to hang out." I said it very politely and tried to convey that I wasn't a witch who gathered up black kittens around Halloween to sacrifice to Satan.)

While I have only made eye contact with my new neighbors once, I have been in their house numerous times throughout the building process. I will even admit that Barbie and I climbed in the back door to see how the carpet and tile looked after it was applied and the contractor had the audacity to lock the front door.

The most interesting thing about the juxtaposition of our two homes is that I can see into their dining room from my bathroom window. This is the only window in my house that looks directly into another person's home. I often wonder, as I set on my throne with the window open, if they can see into my house too--and if they know that when they can see just the top/back of my head from their dinner table what exactly it is that I am doing.

And to lead this potty post down to it's final outcome!

I watched a show about germs the other night. Did you know that the two cleanest most germ free spots in a public restroom are the toilet seats and the door handle? The floor is a festering pit of pestilence--so don't put your purse down. But. The seat? Cleaner than the faucet.

I would tell you which stall was the cleanest in the study. However. I intend to use that stall exclusively from this day forward and I would prefer it if no one else ever did.

The End.

~It's Independence Day~

2005-10-13T11:13:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I took the Ikeman to my theatre class with me. Yes, I am one of those annoying women who bring their child to class. I do not intended to make it a habit--it was an emergency situation. Going to school is my 'Deborah time'--where I get to set in class and listen to adults talk. The Ikeman behaved really well in the beginning. When the teacher walked out onto the stage and then acknowledged Ike's presence in the class he was thrilled. He was doing excellent with the coloring and the fact that he whispered everything he had to say to me.

And then the coolest developmental mile stone was passed.

He was tired of coloring, not amazed by the adult discussion and finished pointing at the guy behind me saying, "Look mom! Look at that funny guy! Look!" (I did not look. I didn't want to acknowledge to poor sucker that made the mistake of waving at a three year old child in a mandatory seating situation.)

Because we were forty five minutes into a discussion and the words, "Car" and "dinosaur" had not been mentioned the Ikeman was bored...So he reached into his pre-school arsenal and he pulled out the big attention getting guns.

He whispered, "Mom! Mom...I gotta go potty."

And with out missing a beat I replied, "Hold it."

And he did.

Do you see how huge this is on a motherly developmental stage?

Ike has been potty trained for quite some time, the first day he was in potty pants made me feel thirty years young and ten pounds lighter. The ten pounds can clearly be attributed to the fact that I didn't have to carry a diaper bag any longer. The thirty years young can be attributed to the fact that I started having the "Do you have to go potty? Do you want to go potty? How's about we hit that potty?" conversations again, just like when I was a child.

And YESTERDAY I became free of the potty conversation. When I told my three year old that he had to hold it...And he did...I passed the potty torch. The Ikeman is now in charge of all things potty and he and I don't have to discuss it any longer.

I was going to write a post about my joy in finding out Martin has to take me on a date Saturday night. It is mandatory that I go watch a play for Theatre appreciation. And since it is an hour away me might as well eat out.

It just became dinner and The Theatre.

THEN! I discovered that there is a dress code for going to the Theatre, while you can get in the doors with jeans and hats on--wouldn't it be cooler to put on something flashy? Darling...where else are you going to wear those diamonds?

SO while Ike was holding it I was discovering that I was going to have a real legitimate reason to make Martin put on nice clothing and take me out. And since we will be all dressed up we might as well go someplace super ritzy...Like Red Lobster. (Tell me you haven't eaten an entire basket of the little cheese biscuits.

I thought that learning my teacher assigned me a fabulous date was the best part of yesterday.

But I was wrong.

The best part is the potty independence.

~Spousal Support~

2005-10-11T20:27:00.000-06:00

I am fully aware that a man married to a woman can not win.

I feel a little bit of pity for the ones that aren't married to me when I see that their wife has set them up just a little bit, but when it happens to my own husband I feel no pity what-so-ever.

Wait.

I need to clarify: We aren't actually setting men up to fail, what we are doing is training them like we can train other women. Here's our big mistake. We think that when a man acts like a jackass we can explain to him why his act was the supreme in jackassery and that he will understand what he did that created the jackassness and he will rectify the situation.

But men never quite learn that lesson do they?

When you tell a man that in a given situation he should agree with you he thinks, "Okay. If I agree with her I am doing exactly what she wants and the hot meals will keep flying in front of me." SO the man becomes an agreer who always agrees until they day she says something such as, "Do you think I should work more?" and he says "yes". It is likely that he is saying yes because he has been trained to agree without looking at the question. It is also likely that the man who says yes to that question will only do so once in a life time.

Have you ever been to the voting booth to vote on an issue and when you are done reading the eight page proposal you realize that if you don't want that thing to happen you have to vote yes? For example, "Vote yes if you don't want Indian Gaming in your backyard!"

I am not sure if I ask Martin to vote yes if he means no all month long...But I am always incredibly aware that for eight days every month he answers every question wrong.

For Example!

Last month I was studying for an Econ exam. I had the paper in my hands when I reported to Martin that I had the information down. He suggested we go to bed. I laid the paper down...

...and realized that I hadn't even written the answers on the back of the paper, which means I didn't study the answers NOR did I know the answers.

If I told you that I had to breathe in a paper bag to get my heart rate back to normal you might think I was a little bit crazy...so I won't say I did that.

But.

Martin began to clamly explain the averages to me. There were only three questions on the back and if I missed all three of them I would still get an 85%--which is still a damn good grade so let's go to bed.

I have heard of women who get so angry that they cry. How weird is that? I think Martin knows one of those women and I may have reminded him of her when I berated him for suggesting that I could ever be happy with anything less than an A. Let's just say it was a long conversation and at the end of it Martin agreed that if I needed to stay up til 3:00am to get those three questions then by god that is exactly what I should do.

So! Fast forward to yesterday and I will show you a prime example of a man who has been trained to say what his wife wants him to say and then he suddenly realizes that he said the wrong thing again.

I took the Econ Mid-Term last week and got my grade yesterday. I called Martin to tell him what my score was.

Conversations as follows:

"I got my midterm back."

"How did you do?"

"I got an 88%."

"That's not an A."

The really cool thing about being married is that husbands aren't allowed to hang-up on their wives even though screecher monkeys wouldn't be able to understand what she was saying.

~Just a Little Story~

2005-10-07T16:25:00.000-06:00

Two years ago a dear friend of mine passed away. Her name was Rhea. When I first met her I was a home health care worker and she was my client. I can't tell you the exact day that she became my friend instead of the lady I took care of, but I think it happened the day she laid her hand on my belly to feel my baby girl kick. She was an elderly lady and realisticly I knew she would die, but when the doctor at the hospital told me that she was in the process of dying I began to spontaneously sob so hard that I couldn't catch my breath and I couldn't speak. The doctor gave me kleenez and patted my back. In most instances of public crying I am humiliated. When I stood next to Rhea sobbing--when the snot ran out of my nose and pooled in my collar bones--I felt like I was preforming a public service for every other person that doctor would ever speak with about death. Perhaps in the doctors eyes the tiny frail woman was of no consequence and her passing wasn't a big deal...I empathetically showed him that it was a HUGE deal, and I hope he has never again clinically told another person that there loved one would die.

I was asked to speak at her funeral and my initial reaction was that I could not do that, but I said that I would because I thought I had something relevant to say about the woman who changed my perspective on life. As it usually goes with me, I knew I had something to say but I didn't know exactly what that would be...so first I just set down and wrote.

Last week I was cleaning out all of the files that are in my documents section and I stumbled across a document called, "The last Waltz." I opened it before I deleted it just to see what it was...and it made my cry. I know that it was the thing that I wrote before I was able to write the words I would later say at Rhea's funeral. It has nothing to do with Rhea, apparently I just needed to write it so that I would cry some more and then I could I forgot all about the thing that I had written and concentrate and what I needed to write.

I put it up at my other website because it really isn't anything that should be posted here. It isn't like anything I have ever written before...it may not even be that good BUT! It moved me when I read it again so I thought I would put it out there just because I am that kinda girl.

If you have nothing better to do read that sucker and tell me what you think.

The Last Waltz

~I am Feeling a Little Pissy~

2005-10-06T00:08:00.000-06:00

Have you seen the movie, "What the Bleep do we know anyway?" yet? It's a good movie about how we control our own destiny on a cellular level. It's like a documentary and because I am getting old I like the docu-drama genre. (Now that I am in Theatre I can say 'genre' and not feel like I am pretending to be hoity toity.)

We watched the movie last week with my buddy Mary. It was an excellent movie that caused me to think about how I could control my own destiny using just the power of my mind. It occurred to me that I had actually done it a few times...Controlled an entire event with my mind.

Last year when Martin was in Hawaii and I was freezing my ass off on the Tundra I spent each night just before I went to sleep planning my perfect days in Hawaii. And holy shit--! I had two of them. At one point I was on a ship in the middle of the ocean watching the whales surfacing. I had a Mai Tai in my hand and Martin by my side and the sun was slipping into the ocean. Martin whispered in my ear, "This is the most perfect moment I have ever had." and I said, "Thank-you." He laughed because I said it like I was taking credit for it. The funny thing is, I was taking credit for it...Because it happened exactly as I planned it.

When I started school I planned to be Magna Cum Laude. Now before I go to sleep I picture myself getting perfect papers back from my professors--and so far that is exactly what is happening. (Mid Term...Can I get a whoot whoot?)

After watching the movie I was thinking I had that whole planning my life in advance thing down rather well, but there are a few things I would like to tweak. For example. It is about time I win the lottery. I have been playing since I was sixteen (I gave my father the money to buy my tickets.) and I have always been convinced that I will win. The fact that in eighteen years of playing Powerball I have won less than $75 does not discourage me in the least. In fact, each time I find out I lost (again) I think, "Excellent! I am not interested in a $3 winner...I want the Jackpot!" I am sure many people think they will win the lottery eventually...I am planning on it. Other than the lottery I have that other thing I want to acoomplish...But I am saving it for a surprise.

The reason I am feeling pissy with all this positive thinking bullshit going on in my life is that Martin is planning to go to Hawaii again this year.

I can't take days off from school to go to Hawaii.

He is giving me this song and dance, "I am sure He* will be calling soon because his house is almost ready...I said I would do it..."

And I hear the translation: "Babe, I hate to go. Leaving in January is miserable...I will have to go to Paradise where it never falls below seventy. He* will feed and house me and his bikini model wife (She really is a bikini model) will allow me to drive her Lexus. It's miserable I tell ya!"

The reason I am pissy is because I think Martin will actually be in Hawaii in January while I am here acting like I am smart and cooking tuna casserole. Is it possible that Martin can control his reality on a cellular level and his reality involves sand and sunshine in January?

Okay. That's just it. It is time for me to kick in the lotto winning cells so that I can move to Hawaii with my little children and those dogs. They have schools in Hawaii, I can pretend to be smart there too.

* name changed to protect His identity.

~It's because he is Half Black Isn't It?~

2005-10-03T23:25:00.000-06:00

Lou showed up Friday night. The fella that brought Lou stayed long enough to toss out his bed then jump back in his truck. I am pretty sure his wife high fived him when they pulled out of the driveway.

Martin showed up earlier pleading with me to let him have a dog...And when I heard that the dog in question was a Dalmation I admit that I was extremely prejudice...And YES it is because he is half black. I recall when the 101 Dalmation movie was popular and everyone had the puppies and word on the television was that Dalmations are Satan's choice of dogs: If you want a dog that jumps on you, sheds like a maniac, digs holes and barks all night long...Get yerself a Dalmation and live large.

I really wanted to send Lou packing. So I did some Dalmation research. I found out some very comforting facts. For example, Dalmations only shed twice a year. (Six months in the Fall and six months in the Spring.) They are fear aggression biters so yanking on collars and slapping with rolled up newspapers are incredibly bad idea's. They put the H in hyper and their tails never stop wagging.

I told Martin the facts then told Lou to Sit! Come! Stay! Lay Down! He pranced around ignoring me and I gave Martin a "See? Bad idea look." Then I got a piece of jerky and Holy shit...Lou actually minds better than any dog I have ever known. I get the impression that if I cooked him a Sirloin he would do my Economics homework.

Speaking of Sirloins-! As the night wore on I decided to set Lou up big time. I cooked steaks for dinner and made Lou sit in the laundry room--with the door open--while we ate. I set the steaks on the butcher block not ten feet away from his black and white face. Then we set down to eat and I expected Lou to make a break for the steak. But he did not. He stayed in the laundry room until I told him to come out.

At this point I realized I was in trouble. A dog that minds and sits and stays? Zorra, our Pomeranian knows one basic command: "Yap!" and man..She can do it for hours.

which lead me to two more tests:

1. If that dog pees in the house he is a goner, and just to make it interesting...Let's make him sleep in the house.

2. Go for a walk with me. On a Leash.

Unfortunately Lou passed both of those tests with flying colors--he doesn't even bark. When he needs to go outside he whistles and it appears he can hold it for twelve hours straight. The leash thing is going to take some additional work but! If I continue walking that dog on a leash I will be turning into a jogger with a great ass in no time.

By day two I could tell me and Lou were going to have some problems with him being so adorable...So I told Martin to give him a bath. Dogs hate baths, and I was willing to sacrifice Martin to a fear aggression biting dog.

Lou likes baths.

Day three, when Lou was smelling great I decided to really put him to the test and take him for a road trip to the cabin. I assumed he would be a problem in the back of the Durango...He was a problem.

He was just so cute the way he would poke his head over the seat and lay it next to each child in turn for some petting. His eye rolling happiness was picture worthy.

Sunday night while Lou lay at my feet looking up at me like I was the most precious beloved thing ever I asked Martin what Lou had done to be banished from his last home. Martin informed me that Lou had opened a box that was delivered by the UPS man. Inside the box were many expensive beads that he promptly chewed.

I looked at sweet Lou that minds and doesn't shit in my house or bark and loves to go for rides and I thought, "Let him among us who has not chewed a bead cast the first stone."

And as for the final reason Lou stays--man there are some great jokes about Dalmations that really crack the under ten crowd up. For example, "Why won't we ever lose Lou? He's already been spotted."

~Television viewing~

2005-09-30T17:33:00.000-06:00

So I was lying on the couch the other night after my entire family had gone to bed. It was the one time all week that I had complete control over the remote. When the kids are awake I let them watch what they want to watch because I am a shitty mother that let's the television babysit her children.

When Martin is home I let him control the remote. I do this because a man needs someplace where he can lay on the couch in his underwear scratching his balls, drinking a beer and channel surfing. I think everybody knows that who ever controls the remote in the house is the Ruler of the house. So! When Martin is home I let the television babysat him so that I can do things like find the stashed fifty in his wallet and take it shopping with me.

I like to think that relinquishing the remote gives me the ultimate power because I am using the television to control my family.

When I finally get the remote I find that I watch the most interesting things. If I stay up late enough I can catch sight of a naked native almost any night of the week. There is something non-sexual about a dirty man carrying a spear and so I don't feel guilty when I check out the size of the schlong cover. There is quite the variety of things that can be tied to the schlong to make it look bigger. I would probably believe it if I heard that a Missionary woman invented the dildo after a mission in the jungle. While the naked jungle man himself isn't exactly sexy...Some of those schlong covers offer up some possibilities.

Thursday night there wasn't a single naked jungle guy in sight so I surfed the channels and found two very interesting shows to watch at the same time.

One the the shows was Sex in the City. Who doesn't love this show? What woman doesn't know which of the characters she is most like? What man doesn't like to watch it for the gratutitous nakedness? I don't think men really like the plot of the show, but much like me...If there are naked people plot doesn't really matter.

The other show was the BYU Women's convention. The woman speaker had the sibilant sounding voice of the proper Mormon woman and she looked very prim. Not so much like a cookie baking Mormon mommy...more like the Mormon mommy that drives her children to piano lessons and serves cut vegetables for snacks. The theme of her talk was "Modest Dress." She told a story about the time her daughter snuck out of the house wearing a skort. When the daughter came home she had been whistled at which made her feel cheap and dirty. After apologizing to her mother she vowed to throw the skort away because it made her feel all ooky inside. It was a good story with a happy ending...

But I couldn't help but compare the Mormon mommy who talked about proper skirt length and garmets with the girls on Sex in the City. I thought both of them had some valid dress codes--Carrie only showing half her nipple seems to be in very good taste to me. I thought about how constricting it would be to wear Temple garments all the time, and I wondered if the mormon man got turned on when he caught sight of the bottom of his wife's garments peeking underneath her capri pants. I assume the Mormon man does respond just like Pavlov's Dogs because Mormons do have quite a few children....and I also wondered if a little flash of thong would cause the Mormon male to feel all ooky inside. (Who am I kidding. I live in Mormon country...I know what a flash of the thong does to a Mormon male...They are remarkably just like regular men.)

It was a great night of television. I learned a little something about two different types of women and I could see both of their points. Obviously open toed shoes with high heels sends the wrong message to toe licking males everywhere--they are designed to entice and arouse and cause ooky feelings. If I didn't have gorilla feet I would wear shoes like that on the day that Martin discovers the fifty is missing from his wallet.

Even the Mormon lady should be willing to see the logic of that move. You can't tell me that little pistol hasn't bent over in front of her husband hoping he would catch the sight of her garments before he caught sight of the coca cola can on the counter.

~Does This mean I am a Whore?~

2005-09-28T14:19:00.000-06:00

So! Sunday afternoon I was sitting in the garage looking at my TransAm. It is a 1981, red--she used to be a beauty, but then she got old and gravity took over and things starting falling off and holes appeared in engine blocks. She had been banished to a field since 1999 then lst week Martin decided to bring her home so we could fix her.

And Lo, I thought it was good. But really, it is going to take months maybe even years to get her back up and running in fine shape...Unless...I was fortunate enough to get on a Reality TV Show that does things like Pimp rides.

So I went to the MTV website and applied for Pimp My Ride.

And I got an e-mail today that said, "Congratulations Deborah! You have been selected for Pimp My Ride!"

And because I am all about being cool I nudged the complete stranger next to me and said to him, "Ever seen that show Pimp My Ride? They just picked me."

And then I whipped out my cellphone and called everyone I know to tell them things such as, "Guess who is going to be on Pimp my ride...I will give you a hint...ME ME ME!!!"

Then I talked to other complete strangers in the Hallway, "Hi, I am going to be on Pimp My Ride, ever seen that Show? Yeah, I know..Way cool. She's an 81 TransAm, real hot ride. Yeah. I am a lucky girl."

This is one of those situations where I am glad that I have a shy and reluctant nature and I keep things to myself so well.

Because!

When I got home to fill out the form necessary to get past the second stage--oh! I did have to take a break from filling out that form because I had to call a couple more people and also I needed to point out to my motor head neighbor that I got picked for pimp my ride. (He asked me if I was going to jump on Xhibit when he arrived. I replied, "Hell, I am going to tongue kiss him!" So here is another area where I am super cool--I admitted in front of my husband that I would be tongue kissing a big black guy the second he knocked on my door.)

Where was I? Oh yeah! The good part.

So, there I am filling out the second part of the form, hap hap happy is MY name. When I get to the bottom of the page it asks for my credit card number.

WTF?

I read the fine print and...It is a pimp YOUR ride sponsorship and for the small fee of $89 they will see what they can do for me.

This reminds me of the time I called everyone I know to tell them I won a Bahama's Vacation, then I found out I only had to pay $3000 for it. It was sooo much fun calling everyone back to tell them I didn't so much Win as I Could Buy a Bahama's vacation.

And THAT incident reminded me of the time I saved dog food labels to get to "My dog is an Alpo Dog" to win the million. And when I got all the labels I jumped and screeched and announced...to guess who...that's right...Everyone I know that I won a million bucks...only to find out I had won the chance to be in the drawing.

Now this would be the segment of my day where I bang my head on the wall and say 'stupid...stupid...stupid" over and over again before I start making calls to tell people that I didn't so much win as I got conned.

But!

I have a blogspot now and this is a great place to make fun of myself for all the stupid things I do...see...Isn't this funny?

Do you think I should tell Martin I didn't really win...or should I get him to clean the garage first?