So I was shopping the other day at what used to be my favorite second-hand store until they decided to close an hour early and kicked me out! Something about a wind storm. People, people, people... just because the weather man says it's going to arrive at 6pm does not mean it will ACTUALLY arrive at 6 freaking pm. Try more like midnight.
Anyway, while I was there I stumbled upon a book called "Christmas Conversation", which is full of questions about Christmas. I figured for fun I would answer some of them here so I started flipping through the book until I found one that struck me as a question I wanted to think about and therefore, respond to.
Today's question is...
"If you were a photographer who was given the chance to go back in history to capture a Christmas photograph, where would you go and what year would it be?"
My first though, obviously, is to go back to the Nativity. The birth of Christ. To have a photo of that moment... Wow. But then I started thinking about flashes and weird digital sounds and changed my mind. It would be cool to get a photo of that moment for a lot of reasons-- many of which I'm sure you can think of-- but why ruin it? I shutter to think about what would happen if I showed up and looked like paparazzi. I'd either be struck by lightening from God, or ruin the magic of that night.
So, my final answer is...
Whether it is truth or rumor, I don't know. There is a story of a Christmas during WWII where the German and Allied soldiers camped only feet from each other called truce and shared stories and cigarettes for one night. They celebrated Christmas. I'd like to go back to that moment in time and take a picture. There's just something about making peace to celebrate the birth of Jesus.
What's your choice?
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Two Heart Attacks and a Christ-ma-aaa-sss Treeee!!!
According to my husband, it is part of the Christmas Tree shopping experience to load all members of the tree hunting party into the car and drive around aimlessly for hours until said car happens upon a Christmas Tree lot. Such was the case on Saturday when the three of us loaded into the car and headed out.
And in case you missed it... I said car. A perfectly good truck in the driveway.
So we head out, and drive to the furthest country road and head up the hill into what my husband apparently thinks is going to be Christmas tree territory. He may have been right, as there were signs everywhere pointing to this lot or that lot or the other lot down there. Do we go to any of those? No. I don't know why other than to say that perhaps the mood just didn't strike him. We instead drive... and drive... and drive... and drive... in circles. The short person in the back seat is piping up about needing to go to snowy mountain to get a Christmas tree and I'm trying to convince her that the view of Mt. Hood is the closest we're going to get.
But she just keeps on and after about 45 minutes of driving in circles I'm figuring she's maybe right- after all, had we simply headed in that direction we'd darn near be there by now!
Finally, my husband sees a sign that piques his interest. "Any tree $10.00." Okay, I can go for that. After all, I don't like the ones that say "Any tree $30.00" when I'm looking to buy a tree that's maybe 3-feet tall. So, we follow the $10 tree signs to...
A private drive.
That goes on for a mile.
I'm starting to think that this is going to be one of those times where we're going to be the victims in some horrific movie scene where there's a mad man with an axe waiting for us at the end of this long road because we were the only idiots willing to drive 30 miles to get a $10 tree!
Finally, we get to the end of the drive, and instead of a man with an axe, there is A MAN WITH A CHAIN SAW!!! and a big, friendly grin... as well as a bunch of other cars and happy families, so I guess all was well. LOL
All the trees were nobles that were about 10-12 feet tall, but the man with the saw said that they were going to salvage them all and replant, so we could take any tree we wanted for the price I mentioned above-- even if that meant chopping the tree right in half and taking only the top.
We set off in search of the perfect tree, me carrying the short person up a big hill on top of a not so snowy mountain, but definitely a very cold one. Our heads were craned back looking at tree tops.
Now, here's the truly funny part...
We've not been able to have a floor tree since we got Sam. His tendency to pee on everything has prevented us, or rather killed, our like of greenage on the ground. So after an hour, my husband finally found a tree top that he thought was perfect and chopped the tree right in half. It wound up being as tall as him! It's a noble, so if you shorten it, you take off the fullest branches, and you can't take off from the top because then it looks funny.
Now, in my defense, I really believed we would be getting a 3-foot tree. It would have fit in the trunk. Which is why our little Honda drove home with a 6-foot tree strapped to the hood even though there was a perfectly good truck at home in which to haul it.
Later that same day...
So, we get home from Christmas tree shopping, eat dinner, and start cleaning up. At the risk of making it sound as though I don't bathe my daughter, I tell her in an excited voice, "Guess what?! We're going to go take a bath!"
The short person, who has somehow figured out incredible timing and delivery, grabs her heart and lets out a gasp comparable to that of 100 people that have just been told they've won the lottery.
I died laughing. Her first heart attack-- I'm so proud.
Still later this same day, we decide to decorate the Christmas tree. It's a nice evening, Christmas Vacation is on the television and I am pulling out 35 years of collected ornaments to hang on the tree.
Now, I expected my daughter to help. I even figured that I'd give her the non-breakable, squishy, stuffed ornaments so she could do it all by herself. However, if you've ever had a two-year old you know that nothing ever works according to planned.
The short person picked up and dropped ornament after ornament, while I had mini heart-attack after mini heart-attack. Which will explain why, if you come to my house, most of the ornaments are still in a box and the tree has ornaments on the very bottom... and the very top.
The end. LOL...
And in case you missed it... I said car. A perfectly good truck in the driveway.
So we head out, and drive to the furthest country road and head up the hill into what my husband apparently thinks is going to be Christmas tree territory. He may have been right, as there were signs everywhere pointing to this lot or that lot or the other lot down there. Do we go to any of those? No. I don't know why other than to say that perhaps the mood just didn't strike him. We instead drive... and drive... and drive... and drive... in circles. The short person in the back seat is piping up about needing to go to snowy mountain to get a Christmas tree and I'm trying to convince her that the view of Mt. Hood is the closest we're going to get.
But she just keeps on and after about 45 minutes of driving in circles I'm figuring she's maybe right- after all, had we simply headed in that direction we'd darn near be there by now!
Finally, my husband sees a sign that piques his interest. "Any tree $10.00." Okay, I can go for that. After all, I don't like the ones that say "Any tree $30.00" when I'm looking to buy a tree that's maybe 3-feet tall. So, we follow the $10 tree signs to...
A private drive.
That goes on for a mile.
I'm starting to think that this is going to be one of those times where we're going to be the victims in some horrific movie scene where there's a mad man with an axe waiting for us at the end of this long road because we were the only idiots willing to drive 30 miles to get a $10 tree!
Finally, we get to the end of the drive, and instead of a man with an axe, there is A MAN WITH A CHAIN SAW!!! and a big, friendly grin... as well as a bunch of other cars and happy families, so I guess all was well. LOL
All the trees were nobles that were about 10-12 feet tall, but the man with the saw said that they were going to salvage them all and replant, so we could take any tree we wanted for the price I mentioned above-- even if that meant chopping the tree right in half and taking only the top.
We set off in search of the perfect tree, me carrying the short person up a big hill on top of a not so snowy mountain, but definitely a very cold one. Our heads were craned back looking at tree tops.
Now, here's the truly funny part...
We've not been able to have a floor tree since we got Sam. His tendency to pee on everything has prevented us, or rather killed, our like of greenage on the ground. So after an hour, my husband finally found a tree top that he thought was perfect and chopped the tree right in half. It wound up being as tall as him! It's a noble, so if you shorten it, you take off the fullest branches, and you can't take off from the top because then it looks funny.
Now, in my defense, I really believed we would be getting a 3-foot tree. It would have fit in the trunk. Which is why our little Honda drove home with a 6-foot tree strapped to the hood even though there was a perfectly good truck at home in which to haul it.
Later that same day...
So, we get home from Christmas tree shopping, eat dinner, and start cleaning up. At the risk of making it sound as though I don't bathe my daughter, I tell her in an excited voice, "Guess what?! We're going to go take a bath!"
The short person, who has somehow figured out incredible timing and delivery, grabs her heart and lets out a gasp comparable to that of 100 people that have just been told they've won the lottery.
I died laughing. Her first heart attack-- I'm so proud.
Still later this same day, we decide to decorate the Christmas tree. It's a nice evening, Christmas Vacation is on the television and I am pulling out 35 years of collected ornaments to hang on the tree.
Now, I expected my daughter to help. I even figured that I'd give her the non-breakable, squishy, stuffed ornaments so she could do it all by herself. However, if you've ever had a two-year old you know that nothing ever works according to planned.
The short person picked up and dropped ornament after ornament, while I had mini heart-attack after mini heart-attack. Which will explain why, if you come to my house, most of the ornaments are still in a box and the tree has ornaments on the very bottom... and the very top.
The end. LOL...
Friday, December 15, 2006
I Think I'm Wanted for Bank Robbery
Yesterday afternoon, I needed to take a small check to the bank. I ran through the downpour of rain, inside, to what I felt was a very friendly branch. Everything was open and there was a hustle and bustle of happy people-- mostly tellers, which is unusual, but they really seemed to enjoy working there and I thought that was nice. I was immediately ready to switch branches, but that's neither here nor there.
I make it up to the counter and give the money to the teller and tell him I need to make a deposit. Usual standard procedure stuff. I notice that he's young. Cute. Friendly. And he writes my name better (prettier) than I do. I pause to think that's maybe something to do with his being left-handed.
He finishes writing everything down and asks me to slide my debit card through the reader, which I do, and then enter my pin number. Check! All completed.
He looks at the computer screen and I get ready to leave... I just need my receipt and the final "Have a nice day" so that I know the transaction is complete. But nothing is happening-- or rather what's happening, is that he's just standing at the computer STARING at it.
Umm...okay, that's weird. I know my balance is low, but... Wait! How low is it? I calculate in my head. No, I should still have money in there.
But the look on his face is getting more and more serious-- and he's stopped looking at me.
I'm thinking... okay, what's going on? when he calls over to the teller beside him. "I think you probably want to look at this..." A blond girl goes over and looks at the screen. "Huh..."
This little conference brings over two more employees who are looking at this computer screen their faces all going from curious to dire and I'm starting to do a little freak dance in my head.
Identity theft?! Did they finally find out about that bank robbery in Tennessee? Am I wanted by the FBI? Is there a mug shot of someone that looks like me on the screen? Oh wait, maybe that bank robbery was in Ohio. Am I wanted for murder? Have they frozen my account?
WHAT'S GOING ON?!?!?!
Finally, he looks back at me and smiles and I resist the temptation to look behind me to see if there's a security guard standing there. The other tellers walk away. He hands me my receipt and as he opens his mouth to say "Have a nice night" I have to ask... what the heck was that about?
"They've grounded all planes in the Northwest due to the severe weather warning."
I laughed and told him that for a second there I was worried that maybe I was wanted for something-- to which he chuckles-- and I leave.
Sheesh!
I make it up to the counter and give the money to the teller and tell him I need to make a deposit. Usual standard procedure stuff. I notice that he's young. Cute. Friendly. And he writes my name better (prettier) than I do. I pause to think that's maybe something to do with his being left-handed.
He finishes writing everything down and asks me to slide my debit card through the reader, which I do, and then enter my pin number. Check! All completed.
He looks at the computer screen and I get ready to leave... I just need my receipt and the final "Have a nice day" so that I know the transaction is complete. But nothing is happening-- or rather what's happening, is that he's just standing at the computer STARING at it.
Umm...okay, that's weird. I know my balance is low, but... Wait! How low is it? I calculate in my head. No, I should still have money in there.
But the look on his face is getting more and more serious-- and he's stopped looking at me.
I'm thinking... okay, what's going on? when he calls over to the teller beside him. "I think you probably want to look at this..." A blond girl goes over and looks at the screen. "Huh..."
This little conference brings over two more employees who are looking at this computer screen their faces all going from curious to dire and I'm starting to do a little freak dance in my head.
Identity theft?! Did they finally find out about that bank robbery in Tennessee? Am I wanted by the FBI? Is there a mug shot of someone that looks like me on the screen? Oh wait, maybe that bank robbery was in Ohio. Am I wanted for murder? Have they frozen my account?
WHAT'S GOING ON?!?!?!
Finally, he looks back at me and smiles and I resist the temptation to look behind me to see if there's a security guard standing there. The other tellers walk away. He hands me my receipt and as he opens his mouth to say "Have a nice night" I have to ask... what the heck was that about?
"They've grounded all planes in the Northwest due to the severe weather warning."
I laughed and told him that for a second there I was worried that maybe I was wanted for something-- to which he chuckles-- and I leave.
Sheesh!
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The Weight Loss Calculator
Wouldn't it be wonderful if there was a weight-loss calculator similar to the ones that they have for mortgages and loans? You could type in how much you currently weigh, your goal weight, what you ate the day before, and hit a button. It would calculate the number of calories you eat in a typical day and then tell you that if you worked out x amount a day for x days a week, it would take you THIS long to reach your goal weight.
Add to that the benefit that you could change some of the parameters to get a length of time that looks good. For instance, you could put in a "goal menu day" and mess with calories, or change the length of work out time, etc.
If such a thing existed, I believe it would motivate many, many people to get off their butt-- including me.
As for me, I always go to bed with big dreams of walking the next day. I have a treadmill right there in my office ready for use. Then, as in last night, the baby is keyed up until midnight, I finally get her down and asleep, my husband gets up and wakes the entire household up with him, then after getting the baby back down, the dogs settled... he starts snoring. So, in frustration and to keep myself from bonking him in his sleep with the pillow, I grab my pillow and blanket and head for the couch only to hear a voice ask "Hey, where are you going?"
"You're snoring! I'm going in the living room."
"No, I'll roll over."
And he does. Then, he starts snoring in my ear. VERY helpful. NOT! I grab my pillow and go to the couch where it takes me another 15-30 minutes to go back to sleep. So, total, I've gotten maybe four hours of sleep. Exercise... is the furthest thing from my mind and sleep takes center stage.
Until I get dressed and it starts all over again.
Add to that the benefit that you could change some of the parameters to get a length of time that looks good. For instance, you could put in a "goal menu day" and mess with calories, or change the length of work out time, etc.
If such a thing existed, I believe it would motivate many, many people to get off their butt-- including me.
As for me, I always go to bed with big dreams of walking the next day. I have a treadmill right there in my office ready for use. Then, as in last night, the baby is keyed up until midnight, I finally get her down and asleep, my husband gets up and wakes the entire household up with him, then after getting the baby back down, the dogs settled... he starts snoring. So, in frustration and to keep myself from bonking him in his sleep with the pillow, I grab my pillow and blanket and head for the couch only to hear a voice ask "Hey, where are you going?"
"You're snoring! I'm going in the living room."
"No, I'll roll over."
And he does. Then, he starts snoring in my ear. VERY helpful. NOT! I grab my pillow and go to the couch where it takes me another 15-30 minutes to go back to sleep. So, total, I've gotten maybe four hours of sleep. Exercise... is the furthest thing from my mind and sleep takes center stage.
Until I get dressed and it starts all over again.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The Fire Place
Last night brought the annual Fire Department Holiday Light Parade. The fire trucks get decked out with Christmas lights and they drive around the town for an hour and a half. You'd think it wouldn't be a huge deal, but people line the route, leaving the warmth of their home even on rainy days, to watch the parade. Afterward, they serve cookies and cocoa at the Fire Station where kids can look at the fire trucks, see Santa, and people can meet and greet eachother.
The short person apparently had a blast. I say this because as I was writing last night, I can hear her in our bedroom with her daddy telling him all about "The Fire Place" and the loud trucks and that there was a Santa on one of them. Her daddy asked "Really? A Santa" and she replied. "Yeah! A real Santa! On the truck!"
The short person apparently had a blast. I say this because as I was writing last night, I can hear her in our bedroom with her daddy telling him all about "The Fire Place" and the loud trucks and that there was a Santa on one of them. Her daddy asked "Really? A Santa" and she replied. "Yeah! A real Santa! On the truck!"
Thursday, December 7, 2006
The Heathen House
We've lived in our house for 10 years now, and for the last five of those years every time that the Church of Latter Day Saints puts out a new little magazine thing I get a visit from a little old lady.
I don't know why. I don't know who she is. But it's like clockwork. She'll show up with pamphlets in hand, proceed to ring the doorbell-- which makes the dogs bark, which in turn makes the baby scream-- and then start a five minute, one-sided conversation with me about these new pamphlets seemingly oblivious of the noise in the background and my impatient sighs.
I've never been rude to her, however. I have always been nice. Even though I am irked for more reasons that one.
Seriously, WHY does she come to our house? As long as I can remember, she has never gone to any of our neighbors. Is there a sign on our house that says "People that don't go to church live here" or "Two year old daughter learning to swear like sailor"?
The thing I find interesting as well is, if I were not brought up the way I was (in a Christian home) I would probably be rude and tell her to get lost. But I'm nice... and she keeps coming. Like clockwork. To her apparently chosen "Heathen House" on the block.
*sigh*
I don't know why. I don't know who she is. But it's like clockwork. She'll show up with pamphlets in hand, proceed to ring the doorbell-- which makes the dogs bark, which in turn makes the baby scream-- and then start a five minute, one-sided conversation with me about these new pamphlets seemingly oblivious of the noise in the background and my impatient sighs.
I've never been rude to her, however. I have always been nice. Even though I am irked for more reasons that one.
Seriously, WHY does she come to our house? As long as I can remember, she has never gone to any of our neighbors. Is there a sign on our house that says "People that don't go to church live here" or "Two year old daughter learning to swear like sailor"?
The thing I find interesting as well is, if I were not brought up the way I was (in a Christian home) I would probably be rude and tell her to get lost. But I'm nice... and she keeps coming. Like clockwork. To her apparently chosen "Heathen House" on the block.
*sigh*
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
I Could Have Been Great
I used to sing. Well, really, I still do. In the car mostly, or after hours at work, when no one can hear me. I used to sing to the short person too, but lately not so much.
I used to have a really good voice too. I remember getting picked a lot at youth group to teach new songs. My shining moment was in Idaho at a youth camp. I remember setting all the kids abuzz with how good my voice sounded. (I also remember it was a great lesson for what clean air and altitude will do for acoustics and voice.) My dad wanted me to try for a scholarship in voice and attend college with it, but I didn't. Not sure why.
But all that's over now. Now, I must suck because I've gotten the "hand" from my daughter.
We'll be in the car and she'll ask me to sing along with a particular song, so I will, only to have her lift her little hand about three seconds into it and say, "No, no, Mom... don't sing."
Sad, but true.
*******************
It occurred to me last night in one of those blinding flashes of pure genius (haha) that the birthday system is totally screwed up because your first birthday is not really your first birthday-- it's your second birthday. Your first birthday was the day you were born.
Now, if you wanted to say first birthday anniversary, that would make sense. I could go with that one.
So, what that means is that I just celebrated my 36th birthday.
Man, that sucks.
I used to have a really good voice too. I remember getting picked a lot at youth group to teach new songs. My shining moment was in Idaho at a youth camp. I remember setting all the kids abuzz with how good my voice sounded. (I also remember it was a great lesson for what clean air and altitude will do for acoustics and voice.) My dad wanted me to try for a scholarship in voice and attend college with it, but I didn't. Not sure why.
But all that's over now. Now, I must suck because I've gotten the "hand" from my daughter.
We'll be in the car and she'll ask me to sing along with a particular song, so I will, only to have her lift her little hand about three seconds into it and say, "No, no, Mom... don't sing."
Sad, but true.
*******************
It occurred to me last night in one of those blinding flashes of pure genius (haha) that the birthday system is totally screwed up because your first birthday is not really your first birthday-- it's your second birthday. Your first birthday was the day you were born.
Now, if you wanted to say first birthday anniversary, that would make sense. I could go with that one.
So, what that means is that I just celebrated my 36th birthday.
Man, that sucks.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Dear Santa, I Need Condoms for Christmas
So, I'm making it my New Year's resolution to have sex with my husband at least once a day for the upcoming year. I've really been slacking in this department, not because I want to, but having a child takes work and I'm just a little more tired than I was say, three years ago.
So this morning I was calculating out the number of condoms that I need to purchase in order to fulfill my goal and how much money it would cost. It went something like this...
365 days - (7 days for female "issues" x 12 months) - the 16 days he's fishing in October = 265 days
265 days / 12 condoms = 23 boxes
23 boxes x $30.00 per box (I'm allergic to latex, so we get the horribly expensive Naturalamb) = $690.00
*gasp, choke, gasp*
HOLY CRAP!!!
It's too expensive to have sex! I need a loan, or at best I need Santa to bring me condoms!!
So this morning I was calculating out the number of condoms that I need to purchase in order to fulfill my goal and how much money it would cost. It went something like this...
365 days - (7 days for female "issues" x 12 months) - the 16 days he's fishing in October = 265 days
265 days / 12 condoms = 23 boxes
23 boxes x $30.00 per box (I'm allergic to latex, so we get the horribly expensive Naturalamb) = $690.00
*gasp, choke, gasp*
HOLY CRAP!!!
It's too expensive to have sex! I need a loan, or at best I need Santa to bring me condoms!!
Monday, December 4, 2006
Chucky Reborn! and I’m Raising a Hypochondriac
I don't watch the news and I don't read the newspaper. It's a self-preservation action that I implemented years ago when I found that much of what I read and saw stuck with me for far too long. I have found, however, that I really enjoy Yahoo's news writers. Not really sure why-- it may just be sheer volume of information to choose from-- but they also do not piss me off or depress me with their added view injections.
All that might have to change though. I have found a new site that is right up my alley. It's called Comcast WEIRD and they grabbed me from the first story I read.
It was about a teenager who had been involved in an auto accident when the doll that she had in the car started to cry. The sound so startled her that she smashed into the concrete barricade on the highway and then into a Ford pickup truck.
Apparently, there is a new doll out on the market that is meant to be used in health classes to teach parenting and family... whatevers they think that class teaches. Instead of the five pound bag of flour that you had to lug around as a student they now have a baby doll that cries and wets. Inside this doll is a computer chip that records how long it took the student to attend to the "child's" needs.
Sheesh! You'd think they'd at least warn the kids first. Any kid that's ever seen the movie Child's Play is going to be scarred for life after this experience!
*****************
Sadly, it has come to my attention that I am raising a hypochondriac. The short person in our house is totally addicted to taking medicine.
I have always appreciated the fact that my daughter is so darn good about taking medicine. When she was a baby, all I ever had to tell her was that it would make her feel better. Now, she tells me when she needs medicine-- and even which medicine she needs.
But this weekend, somewhere right after she'd asked for some Dimetapp because her nose was running and she became obsessed with walking around the house with the Little Noses Saline Nose Spray bottle up her nose, it hit me that she's an addict. Every booboo, every hurt, needs some sort of medication.
I don't want to over-react because I LIKE that she takes medicine. We might get to some point where she really needs it and I don't want to say something to her that will ingrain in her brain as a reason she shouldn't take it the next time she needs it.
So for now, the Vitamin C will double as "owie" relief. The gas drops will double as "tummy hurts" relief, and pretty soon, Flinstones Vitamins will double as something else.
And I will watch as she walks around the house squirting air from the Little Noses bottle up her nose because "her nose hurts".
I'm creating a monster, you know.
*****************
My husband and I went down to the park so that the little person could play and we could toss the football around. I do this more because it cracks me up that I can throw better than he can, but it really gets to me that his crappy throws make it look like I can't catch the thing!
Yesterday was no exception, but to add to his throwing was a pulled muscle in my shoulder. It was one of several injuries I have gotten from weird positions I force myself into in some strange sexual act. (Okay, maybe not strange. Pretty normal actually. I'm just a klutz.)
It reminded me of this one time that I had hurt either my ankle or my knee. Pretty badly too if I recall. I think I had a brace and crutches and everything. Anyway, I had gotten my foot caught under the recliner in our living room and twisted it.
For weeks, I had been successful as passing it off as an injury from playing soccer (which I was doing at the time). Until this one day that I was at my grandparent's house when my uncle was visiting.
I had gone through the round of "How'd you get hurt questions" and was enjoying the day when my uncle came up to me and pulled me aside.
"Okay, so... how did you really get hurt."
I looked at him, I'm sure with surprise written all over my face. He was looking into my eyes and I remember thinking "this can't be good".
"I hurt myself playing soccer."
"Yeah, umm... okay. So, how did you really get hurt."
I'm turning red at this point and looking back into his eyes. There was a look of "I know this is all bullshit" totally written there.
"I uh... got my foot caught in the recliner... umm... having sex..." the last part came out meekly, and I sighed in relief as he gave a little chuckle and walked away. I remember thinking that I was glad I hadn't grown up with him because I'd have never gotten away with anything!
Thank goodness he wasn't there yesterday. I'd have had a hard time telling the truth!
All that might have to change though. I have found a new site that is right up my alley. It's called Comcast WEIRD and they grabbed me from the first story I read.
It was about a teenager who had been involved in an auto accident when the doll that she had in the car started to cry. The sound so startled her that she smashed into the concrete barricade on the highway and then into a Ford pickup truck.
Apparently, there is a new doll out on the market that is meant to be used in health classes to teach parenting and family... whatevers they think that class teaches. Instead of the five pound bag of flour that you had to lug around as a student they now have a baby doll that cries and wets. Inside this doll is a computer chip that records how long it took the student to attend to the "child's" needs.
Sheesh! You'd think they'd at least warn the kids first. Any kid that's ever seen the movie Child's Play is going to be scarred for life after this experience!
*****************
Sadly, it has come to my attention that I am raising a hypochondriac. The short person in our house is totally addicted to taking medicine.
I have always appreciated the fact that my daughter is so darn good about taking medicine. When she was a baby, all I ever had to tell her was that it would make her feel better. Now, she tells me when she needs medicine-- and even which medicine she needs.
But this weekend, somewhere right after she'd asked for some Dimetapp because her nose was running and she became obsessed with walking around the house with the Little Noses Saline Nose Spray bottle up her nose, it hit me that she's an addict. Every booboo, every hurt, needs some sort of medication.
I don't want to over-react because I LIKE that she takes medicine. We might get to some point where she really needs it and I don't want to say something to her that will ingrain in her brain as a reason she shouldn't take it the next time she needs it.
So for now, the Vitamin C will double as "owie" relief. The gas drops will double as "tummy hurts" relief, and pretty soon, Flinstones Vitamins will double as something else.
And I will watch as she walks around the house squirting air from the Little Noses bottle up her nose because "her nose hurts".
I'm creating a monster, you know.
*****************
My husband and I went down to the park so that the little person could play and we could toss the football around. I do this more because it cracks me up that I can throw better than he can, but it really gets to me that his crappy throws make it look like I can't catch the thing!
Yesterday was no exception, but to add to his throwing was a pulled muscle in my shoulder. It was one of several injuries I have gotten from weird positions I force myself into in some strange sexual act. (Okay, maybe not strange. Pretty normal actually. I'm just a klutz.)
It reminded me of this one time that I had hurt either my ankle or my knee. Pretty badly too if I recall. I think I had a brace and crutches and everything. Anyway, I had gotten my foot caught under the recliner in our living room and twisted it.
For weeks, I had been successful as passing it off as an injury from playing soccer (which I was doing at the time). Until this one day that I was at my grandparent's house when my uncle was visiting.
I had gone through the round of "How'd you get hurt questions" and was enjoying the day when my uncle came up to me and pulled me aside.
"Okay, so... how did you really get hurt."
I looked at him, I'm sure with surprise written all over my face. He was looking into my eyes and I remember thinking "this can't be good".
"I hurt myself playing soccer."
"Yeah, umm... okay. So, how did you really get hurt."
I'm turning red at this point and looking back into his eyes. There was a look of "I know this is all bullshit" totally written there.
"I uh... got my foot caught in the recliner... umm... having sex..." the last part came out meekly, and I sighed in relief as he gave a little chuckle and walked away. I remember thinking that I was glad I hadn't grown up with him because I'd have never gotten away with anything!
Thank goodness he wasn't there yesterday. I'd have had a hard time telling the truth!
Friday, December 1, 2006
A Sudden, Potential Crisis
As I was getting the short person's bag ready this morning to go to the babysitter, my husband came in and poked his head through her bedroom door.
"I don't want to alarm you, but we have a potential crisis on our hands."
I looked up worried. He never uses that tone or those choice of words. "What? What's the crisis?" I'm prepared to charge forward and battle whatever it might be. Did one of the water pipes break? Is one of our dogs sick? I had just rolled out of bed, my eyes not fully open yet, but I was ready.
"Well, I don't want to alarm you, but... we're almost out of..."
In the space of that word and the next, I could feel my heartbeat increase. No, don't say coffee! Don't say it! I need it. Wait, maybe it's toilet paper. Okay... I can deal with that. Or maybe it's...
"... hairspray."
What?!
I cracked up laughing. Never have I understood why my husband, who is sadly losing his hair faster... well, faster than the pussy mentioned above does... uses hairspray. We go through a bottle about once a month-- and I don't use the stuff! At all. It's all him. Every hair perfectly in place and then about two seconds of spraying his hair with schellack.
It's one of those funny things that totally endears you to a person.
He is so going to kill me if he reads this. Rule 1 for writing-- don't write about him. LOL... I can usually sneak it in behind the short person, but this is blatant.
"I don't want to alarm you, but we have a potential crisis on our hands."
I looked up worried. He never uses that tone or those choice of words. "What? What's the crisis?" I'm prepared to charge forward and battle whatever it might be. Did one of the water pipes break? Is one of our dogs sick? I had just rolled out of bed, my eyes not fully open yet, but I was ready.
"Well, I don't want to alarm you, but... we're almost out of..."
In the space of that word and the next, I could feel my heartbeat increase. No, don't say coffee! Don't say it! I need it. Wait, maybe it's toilet paper. Okay... I can deal with that. Or maybe it's...
"... hairspray."
What?!
I cracked up laughing. Never have I understood why my husband, who is sadly losing his hair faster... well, faster than the pussy mentioned above does... uses hairspray. We go through a bottle about once a month-- and I don't use the stuff! At all. It's all him. Every hair perfectly in place and then about two seconds of spraying his hair with schellack.
It's one of those funny things that totally endears you to a person.
He is so going to kill me if he reads this. Rule 1 for writing-- don't write about him. LOL... I can usually sneak it in behind the short person, but this is blatant.
Other People's Blogs
You know, it amazes me how insanely easy it is for people to make other people angry with what they write. Right now, I specifically mean me.
I don't pretend to be good at this blogging thing-- and to be quite frank I usually write thinking no one's going to read it (no offense it just let's me be me a little better than I usually would be if self-consciousness came into play). But if being good at blogging means that you have to tear people down and insult them for their choices, I'd just as soon leave this to the "pros".
I decided, still not sure why, to go and look at some blogs. There's a little doo-hicky button thing that let's you access them easily off of your home page and go look by category (on MySpace). I chose the top one for no particular reason... and can't tell you how sorry I am for doing it because now, it will eat at me for the day.
It's a blog written by a single mother who is (if memory serves) 27-years old. In it she writes about a news report she heard about a couple that bought a baby from Mexico only to discover that it wasn't legal-- the baby was returned. Now, if the blog were solely about that story, it'd be one thing, but it isn't. Instead, it's an insulting piece on how selfish people are that "choose" to have children with the aid of medical procedures or adoption. Her view is that if God did not give you the ability to create children on your own, you are selfish for seeking out help. Immediately, I'm angry. It is such a narrow-minded opinion.
It took me seven years to get pregnant. Seven years of wondering why my body did not work the way it was supposed to work. Seven years of wondering it the doctor that told me at 21 that if I didn't have a child by 24 I would never be able to, was right.
Seven years of getting more and more hopeless, years of getting more desperate. Years of looking at adoption papers and trying to figure out how I would find upwards of $15,000 to adopt a child. Of asking myself if I was strong enough to adopt a child rather than a baby that had mental or physical issues. Until finally, I had rearranged my life to accept that I would never have a child.
Seven years, only to be surprised by the Short Person.
Was I selfish for wanting a child? I don't think so. Can I explain the insane need to have one? No. But I don't feel selfish for doing it. I don't feel selfish for wanting another one.
And I don't view people as selfish for seeking out what they feel is necessary to do what they need to do to have one. Invitro, Adoption, Shark plugs up your nose and in your ears... whatever. I understand that desperation. I wouldn't criticize for it.
Is that really what blogging is? I don't get it. Because if that's the case, I would write pages on how selfish it is of some one like her to have had a child. Of how sad it makes me that her views will be passed on to a child.
But then, hey, I don't know her. Maybe I just misread the damn thing. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe the world would be better off if no one had children that wasn't physically able. Maybe we should just let all those kids that were born but not wanted by their parents go without loving arms to hold them. Maybe they will grow up to be heartless and unable to love, or be drug dealers, or murderers.
What kind of a fucked up view do you have to have where that's the least selfish alternative?
I don't pretend to be good at this blogging thing-- and to be quite frank I usually write thinking no one's going to read it (no offense it just let's me be me a little better than I usually would be if self-consciousness came into play). But if being good at blogging means that you have to tear people down and insult them for their choices, I'd just as soon leave this to the "pros".
I decided, still not sure why, to go and look at some blogs. There's a little doo-hicky button thing that let's you access them easily off of your home page and go look by category (on MySpace). I chose the top one for no particular reason... and can't tell you how sorry I am for doing it because now, it will eat at me for the day.
It's a blog written by a single mother who is (if memory serves) 27-years old. In it she writes about a news report she heard about a couple that bought a baby from Mexico only to discover that it wasn't legal-- the baby was returned. Now, if the blog were solely about that story, it'd be one thing, but it isn't. Instead, it's an insulting piece on how selfish people are that "choose" to have children with the aid of medical procedures or adoption. Her view is that if God did not give you the ability to create children on your own, you are selfish for seeking out help. Immediately, I'm angry. It is such a narrow-minded opinion.
It took me seven years to get pregnant. Seven years of wondering why my body did not work the way it was supposed to work. Seven years of wondering it the doctor that told me at 21 that if I didn't have a child by 24 I would never be able to, was right.
Seven years of getting more and more hopeless, years of getting more desperate. Years of looking at adoption papers and trying to figure out how I would find upwards of $15,000 to adopt a child. Of asking myself if I was strong enough to adopt a child rather than a baby that had mental or physical issues. Until finally, I had rearranged my life to accept that I would never have a child.
Seven years, only to be surprised by the Short Person.
Was I selfish for wanting a child? I don't think so. Can I explain the insane need to have one? No. But I don't feel selfish for doing it. I don't feel selfish for wanting another one.
And I don't view people as selfish for seeking out what they feel is necessary to do what they need to do to have one. Invitro, Adoption, Shark plugs up your nose and in your ears... whatever. I understand that desperation. I wouldn't criticize for it.
Is that really what blogging is? I don't get it. Because if that's the case, I would write pages on how selfish it is of some one like her to have had a child. Of how sad it makes me that her views will be passed on to a child.
But then, hey, I don't know her. Maybe I just misread the damn thing. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe the world would be better off if no one had children that wasn't physically able. Maybe we should just let all those kids that were born but not wanted by their parents go without loving arms to hold them. Maybe they will grow up to be heartless and unable to love, or be drug dealers, or murderers.
What kind of a fucked up view do you have to have where that's the least selfish alternative?
Thursday, November 30, 2006
A Tired Life
I am so tired that my eyes are not yet fully open. The days of the week are running together in a timeless expanse of work and sleep. I hate that. When my life is so routine that nothing extraordinary takes place. Nothing noteworthy happens to mark the day. To create a memory.
Sometimes I can do that to myself accidentally on purpose. Or, perhaps, on purpose accidentally. It happened when I started reading Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. When I picked up the books (which must have been three or four years ago), I sat down to read them. Each book in the series is about 1000 pages. I sat down with the first book and became so enraptured by the characters, so transported by the imagery, that for four months I lived in Scotland. Putting the last book down was like letting two good friends go-- and at that time I was facing about a year before the next book came out. But I had managed to lose four months of my life.
I suppose you could argue that I didn't really lose anything. Anyone who's read these books can tell you that they are so descriptive and well-written that the reader is literally transported into a different time and reality. When you read them like I did, I believe you are transported even more so. I went to work, but any time I was not there, I was in Scotland. So, I could argue that I didn't lose anything of my life-- looking back there's nothing I miss. Plus, I gained a different memory. One of a lovely vacation while love, war, and time travel happened around me. While I was watching.
That's not the case right now. Right now, there is no magical story to transport me to another time. There's just work and tired and work.
*****************
So, I figured out yesterday that I have a secret rebellion. I was writing out receipt after receipt after receipt for $45.00. It's time for the annual business license renewals so I figure I'll be doing it more. Anyway, I've decided that I do not have to pay for someone else's mistakes!
Mistakes, you ask? Yes, mistake. The word is FOURTY, not FORTY. There is no number that deviates from it's predestined spelling. You do not write Sevanty, or Saxty, or Atey! So, you should not write Forty.
See, here is what I believe happened. Some Monk, back in the day of handwriting copies of books, was writing out the dictionary and he got to the word/translation Fourty. But, due to a horrible error, he wrote Forty instead. Upon realizing that he had left out the "U" he decided to make his mark and forever change history! He kept the word misspelled!
They had all the power, I tell ya.
It's like the word masturbate. This word is spelled wrong too. They so totally screwed up! It should be mastERbate. Master makes much more sense. I am the MastER of my domain. What the heck is MastUR? A misspelling, that's what!
So, I have my rebellions. Let everyone else think I misspell words on their receipts. I know the truth. So hmmph!
Sometimes I can do that to myself accidentally on purpose. Or, perhaps, on purpose accidentally. It happened when I started reading Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. When I picked up the books (which must have been three or four years ago), I sat down to read them. Each book in the series is about 1000 pages. I sat down with the first book and became so enraptured by the characters, so transported by the imagery, that for four months I lived in Scotland. Putting the last book down was like letting two good friends go-- and at that time I was facing about a year before the next book came out. But I had managed to lose four months of my life.
I suppose you could argue that I didn't really lose anything. Anyone who's read these books can tell you that they are so descriptive and well-written that the reader is literally transported into a different time and reality. When you read them like I did, I believe you are transported even more so. I went to work, but any time I was not there, I was in Scotland. So, I could argue that I didn't lose anything of my life-- looking back there's nothing I miss. Plus, I gained a different memory. One of a lovely vacation while love, war, and time travel happened around me. While I was watching.
That's not the case right now. Right now, there is no magical story to transport me to another time. There's just work and tired and work.
*****************
So, I figured out yesterday that I have a secret rebellion. I was writing out receipt after receipt after receipt for $45.00. It's time for the annual business license renewals so I figure I'll be doing it more. Anyway, I've decided that I do not have to pay for someone else's mistakes!
Mistakes, you ask? Yes, mistake. The word is FOURTY, not FORTY. There is no number that deviates from it's predestined spelling. You do not write Sevanty, or Saxty, or Atey! So, you should not write Forty.
See, here is what I believe happened. Some Monk, back in the day of handwriting copies of books, was writing out the dictionary and he got to the word/translation Fourty. But, due to a horrible error, he wrote Forty instead. Upon realizing that he had left out the "U" he decided to make his mark and forever change history! He kept the word misspelled!
They had all the power, I tell ya.
It's like the word masturbate. This word is spelled wrong too. They so totally screwed up! It should be mastERbate. Master makes much more sense. I am the MastER of my domain. What the heck is MastUR? A misspelling, that's what!
So, I have my rebellions. Let everyone else think I misspell words on their receipts. I know the truth. So hmmph!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
"Call Me Meekah"
It snowed last night in my little neck of the woods. Blanketed the ground so that everything looks like a black and white picture. Ansel Adams gone crazy or perhaps living on and giving us another beautiful photograph of our surroundings as we greet the day.My daughter has changed her name. She has decided that her name should be "Micah" (pronounced "Meekah"). I don't know why. She even corrects us whenever we use her real name, or an endearment, or she just thinks we have not enough respect to call her a name.
"Hey, get your feet off the tv!"
"No, say 'get your feet off the tv, Micah."
Monday, November 27, 2006
"Damn It!"
A few months ago, my daughter picked up a new phrase. A phrase she loved to use. Any time she would hurt herself, drop a toy, just get mad, or need Cheerios, the words "Damn it" would erupt from her mouth as though she were enthusiastically happy.
Somewhere, there is even video evidence of this fact.
The short person was playing outside at our family reunion. As her little cousin prepared to go down the slide, my daughter had the bright idea to go and sit at the bottom of it. She got tagged in the leg by two feet. Not hard, but hard enough to propel her out of her seat and proceed to grab her leg and hop around the ground saying, "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
For two months, I followed her around correcting her "Damn it!'s" with "Darn it's" and it worked. Until last Thursday when we had dinner with my in laws. Now, she's back to saying it... but this time, she's smarter. Now, she's correcting me. The other day, I said "Darn it" and my daughter walked over to me, grabbed my cheeks (I was kneeling at the time), pulled my face up to look directly at her, and said "No Mom... it's DAMN it."
LOL
This same day, we were trying to get her to eat something other than crackers. She was resisting, so I joked with her, "What are you going to do when Mommy and Daddy say you have to eat all your vegetables and go to bed on time?"
I watched as her face went through a few emotions, her eyes looking towards the heavens for a divine answer. Me, I wasn't really expecting one, she's two after all, but she surprised us. After short contemplation, she looked at me and said, "I would cry, Mom. I would cry."
Somewhere, there is even video evidence of this fact.
The short person was playing outside at our family reunion. As her little cousin prepared to go down the slide, my daughter had the bright idea to go and sit at the bottom of it. She got tagged in the leg by two feet. Not hard, but hard enough to propel her out of her seat and proceed to grab her leg and hop around the ground saying, "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
For two months, I followed her around correcting her "Damn it!'s" with "Darn it's" and it worked. Until last Thursday when we had dinner with my in laws. Now, she's back to saying it... but this time, she's smarter. Now, she's correcting me. The other day, I said "Darn it" and my daughter walked over to me, grabbed my cheeks (I was kneeling at the time), pulled my face up to look directly at her, and said "No Mom... it's DAMN it."
LOL
This same day, we were trying to get her to eat something other than crackers. She was resisting, so I joked with her, "What are you going to do when Mommy and Daddy say you have to eat all your vegetables and go to bed on time?"
I watched as her face went through a few emotions, her eyes looking towards the heavens for a divine answer. Me, I wasn't really expecting one, she's two after all, but she surprised us. After short contemplation, she looked at me and said, "I would cry, Mom. I would cry."
Sunday, November 26, 2006
FEAST - A Movie Review
I went over to a friend's house last night and we watched a movie I've been looking forward to seeing for a year and a half now. The title is "Feast".
It is the third Project Greenlight movie to be made, and per news reports, the last. None of the three ever made it to a full screen premiere, and sadly this last one never made it to the big screen at all. Sad, because it's the best of the three. It is about a group of people, each one so comically different it does nothing but add to the movie, that get stranded in a bar in the middle of NOwhere with horrible monster beasts outside. Monster beasts that are really fast, and really hungry. And, for some odd reason have sex... more than usual in this movie!
The movie... was not that bad. Really, it is something I would watch again-- which for me is saying a lot. While I am a huge fan of Project Greenlight, the first two movies were not enough to lure me back to watching them a second time; but also, I am not a fan of the gory movie genre... and this was GORY. Capitol G, underline. I've never seen a group of actors get so bloody and slimy in my life.
But it was funny! Lots of tongue-in-cheek humor. And, gory though it was, it was not in your face gore. It was not "Dr. Giggles" where you get to see exactly what is happening to the person to make all his blood and guts spill out. You have a general idea and that is enough.
The acting was probably a 2. There were some really well acted moments, but for the first part of the movie you can really, really tell that the people hired were novice actors just getting familiar with their roles.
Overall... I really liked it. If you choose to take a chance with this movie like I did, go into it thinking "Dumb and Dumber" meets "Dr. Giggles" and I think you will like it too.
It is the third Project Greenlight movie to be made, and per news reports, the last. None of the three ever made it to a full screen premiere, and sadly this last one never made it to the big screen at all. Sad, because it's the best of the three. It is about a group of people, each one so comically different it does nothing but add to the movie, that get stranded in a bar in the middle of NOwhere with horrible monster beasts outside. Monster beasts that are really fast, and really hungry. And, for some odd reason have sex... more than usual in this movie!
The movie... was not that bad. Really, it is something I would watch again-- which for me is saying a lot. While I am a huge fan of Project Greenlight, the first two movies were not enough to lure me back to watching them a second time; but also, I am not a fan of the gory movie genre... and this was GORY. Capitol G, underline. I've never seen a group of actors get so bloody and slimy in my life.
But it was funny! Lots of tongue-in-cheek humor. And, gory though it was, it was not in your face gore. It was not "Dr. Giggles" where you get to see exactly what is happening to the person to make all his blood and guts spill out. You have a general idea and that is enough.
The acting was probably a 2. There were some really well acted moments, but for the first part of the movie you can really, really tell that the people hired were novice actors just getting familiar with their roles.
Overall... I really liked it. If you choose to take a chance with this movie like I did, go into it thinking "Dumb and Dumber" meets "Dr. Giggles" and I think you will like it too.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Toy Shopping Is Not Meant For People Like Me
My mind was gutter trained. I don't know how, I don't know why, and I don't know who trained it to be thus. It is just so.
Walking down the toy aisles today, looking for the "pop out and grab me" item that I just knew my daughter would not be able to live without, I had to constantly ask myself who would name a product with a certain name or style it in a certain way. I mean, what were they thinking?!
Perhaps in a wonderful world, they just are not as dirty minded as myself, but I can tell you that there is a certain sucker ring that my daughter will not be wearing because the sucker part is shaped like a penis and there is a certain computer toy that she will not get because the name is... They named it V-Smile. My husband and I both agree that... that's just wrong. A V-Smile is something totally different than a computer toy, and WHY would you name a toy that?!?!
Unless of course it was meant for a V-Smile. A completely different matter altogether.
There were other things, and I'd point them out to you if we shopped together, but my brain is so fried from 12 hours of shopping that the rest escape me now.
I wound up taking the short person with me and leaving the lollipops at home. My daughter was a champ! We shopped for nearly 12 hours, and with the exception of a three hour nap at Grandma and Grandpa's she was with me through it all. She didn't throw a temper tantrum once. Course, in the first store I bribed her with a piece of paper and package of stickers, in the second store she peeled off the stickers and put them on the paper. In the third store, it was donuts and chocolate milk, and 40 pairs of socks that somehow wound up in the back of the cart when I wasn't looking. Then, in the last store, we were shopping for material for an outfit I'm having made for her. (I regret not learning to sew.) Through it all she was an angel.
Ahhh... proud parent moment. Tear.
Ironically it was the various store employees that seemed to be getting on eachother's nerves, rather than the stressed out parents and children. They were arguing in the middle of the store about which way to move something, or about who needed who in which department. In three different stores this happened! LOL... I'm still laughing. It was comical.
Twelve hours... and my Christmas shopping is no where near done. It could have been, but none of my relatives have any idea what they want for Christmas. Next year, I'm thinking about making a rule that if you don't have your list to me by Thanksgiving, I'm buying you whatever catches my eye and looks pretty. There was a great butterfly fabric I really wanted to buy for someone today. LOL... That's funny. I wonder what my brother-in-law would do with butterfly fabric. Seems like a pretty good threat, don't you think?
You know, as I get ready to leave this day for my pillow, there's only one question I have left... Why the hell would you name anything "Turkey Trot". Turkey Trot is the thing you do the night of Thanksgiving after having eaten an undercooked bird. They call it that because you trot to the bathroom all night long.
In this life, I have more questions than answers.
Walking down the toy aisles today, looking for the "pop out and grab me" item that I just knew my daughter would not be able to live without, I had to constantly ask myself who would name a product with a certain name or style it in a certain way. I mean, what were they thinking?!
Perhaps in a wonderful world, they just are not as dirty minded as myself, but I can tell you that there is a certain sucker ring that my daughter will not be wearing because the sucker part is shaped like a penis and there is a certain computer toy that she will not get because the name is... They named it V-Smile. My husband and I both agree that... that's just wrong. A V-Smile is something totally different than a computer toy, and WHY would you name a toy that?!?!
Unless of course it was meant for a V-Smile. A completely different matter altogether.
There were other things, and I'd point them out to you if we shopped together, but my brain is so fried from 12 hours of shopping that the rest escape me now.
I wound up taking the short person with me and leaving the lollipops at home. My daughter was a champ! We shopped for nearly 12 hours, and with the exception of a three hour nap at Grandma and Grandpa's she was with me through it all. She didn't throw a temper tantrum once. Course, in the first store I bribed her with a piece of paper and package of stickers, in the second store she peeled off the stickers and put them on the paper. In the third store, it was donuts and chocolate milk, and 40 pairs of socks that somehow wound up in the back of the cart when I wasn't looking. Then, in the last store, we were shopping for material for an outfit I'm having made for her. (I regret not learning to sew.) Through it all she was an angel.
Ahhh... proud parent moment. Tear.
Ironically it was the various store employees that seemed to be getting on eachother's nerves, rather than the stressed out parents and children. They were arguing in the middle of the store about which way to move something, or about who needed who in which department. In three different stores this happened! LOL... I'm still laughing. It was comical.
Twelve hours... and my Christmas shopping is no where near done. It could have been, but none of my relatives have any idea what they want for Christmas. Next year, I'm thinking about making a rule that if you don't have your list to me by Thanksgiving, I'm buying you whatever catches my eye and looks pretty. There was a great butterfly fabric I really wanted to buy for someone today. LOL... That's funny. I wonder what my brother-in-law would do with butterfly fabric. Seems like a pretty good threat, don't you think?
You know, as I get ready to leave this day for my pillow, there's only one question I have left... Why the hell would you name anything "Turkey Trot". Turkey Trot is the thing you do the night of Thanksgiving after having eaten an undercooked bird. They call it that because you trot to the bathroom all night long.
In this life, I have more questions than answers.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
A Thanksgiving Story
My daughter is currently in the living room screaming at her dad "I NEED PUPCAKES, DAD!" Wearing nothing but a diaper because she's claiming to be hot, but I know that it's in rebellion to the fact that I won't let her put on her fancy Thanksgiving dress yet. It's the whole "cut off your nose to spite your face" thing. From a 2 year old.
My husband, who has already made breakfast once, is standing in front of her, laughing. "You need a what?" Closer now, with yelling unnecessary, he finally understands she wants a pancake.
The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is on the television in my office, while Mickey Saves Santa plays in the living room, and football is on the little tv in the kitchen. I'm still in my pajamas, the ads from the newspaper are strewn across the floor, though I have not taken the time to study everything on sale. It's very sad how much I truly look forward to doing that.
Sadder still how I force myself out of bed at the unreal hour of 4:30am in order to take advantage of the deals and feel the atmosphere of a bunch of equally crazy people the day after Thanksgiving. This year, armed with a Santa hat and an arsenal of lollipops to give to the kids whose parents are dumb enough to take them along. I hate that. One year, I watched as a mother and father yelled at their baby of one year for not sitting still and being quiet. Yeah... like it's the kid's fault that he's bored and tired. So, this year I plan to battle my instincts to beat the holy crap out of the parents with lollipops. Futile, yet hopeful.
I will, later today, inevitably regret not going to my Grandmother's-- even though the choice to stay at home with my little family is not a bad one. While I will miss my larger family, it is more my Grandmother's veggie casserole. The only dish at the table that my family cares anything about. One day, my grandmother will realize that we'd much rather have a turkey carved out of her vegetable casserole than actually have the turkey itself.
In a few hours, I will leave for my in-laws house for Thanksgiving dinner, all the while thinking about the first Turkey my sister and I cooked ten years ago.
She was a week shy from her first wedding anniversary, and I had been married for nearly two years. She had a big house and we both had a rag tag fugitive fleet of relatives that we were going to cobble together for Thanksgiving Dinner.
We got together and planned the menu which included a turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing (from a box-- which ironically turned out to be a "big" deal. We had parents panicking because it wasn't the real thing! LOL... crazy.), gravy, and cranberry sauce. (Obviously, this was pre-invention of Grandma's veggie dish or we would have found a way to include that too.) For beverage, we were going to get sparkling cider. I was all about "presentation", my sister was all about research. We needed to know how to cook a turkey.
My sister spent the week before calling all of our relatives, including my Grandmother, to obtain information on how to cook a turkey. But the only advice that she could get was to make sure to remove the giblets. I remember her telling me in serious tone that it must be a really big deal to remove them because every single person she talked to mentioned it. So, okay, get turkey, remove giblets, put it in the oven. We could do that. We were even confident that if we seasoned it a bit and smeared butter on it, it would taste great. There was something about basting too.
I got to my sister's house at 6:30 in the morning to get the turkey in the oven. It was about 12 pounds, so we figured it would probably take about 12 hours to cook. When I went inside, she already had the turkey out of the fridge and had finished rinsing it off. She put it in the roasting pan and we set to work getting the giblets out. I reached inside and pulled out... something. After examining it, we determined it must have been the neck. We were off to a fine start!
I reached in again, and... nothing. I couldn't find anything. I bent down and peered into the turkey, the smell of raw meat tickling my nose, but it was too dark in the cavity to see anything. It was still frozen inside, so sticking my hand into the bird once again didn't tell me anything. What I thought was a frozen rib, could easily have been the bag of giblets frozen to the side.
"Get a flashlight. Maybe we can use that to look for the giblets." I told my sister, watching as she walked down the hall to the laundry room to grab one. She came back and together we upended the bird and proceeded to examine it more closely than a forensics scientist.
No giblets.
I looked at my sister, at the look of uncertainty on her face as she nibbled on her lower lip, and commented about how weird it was that we would get a fluke turkey after all the warnings about the giblets. This seemed to appease her concern and we buttered, seasoned, and stuck the turkey in the oven to cook.
About six hours later, after the stuffing panic, my Grandmother called to check up on us. My sister was on the phone relating the story about looking into the bird and being unable to find the dreaded giblets. I watched her face go from lively, to curious, to indescribable as she exclaimed, "What other opening?!"
It turns out that turkeys have a butt and a neck opening. Who knew?
Thanks to television shows like "Good Eats", I've gotten a lot better at cooking turkey, but I always remember that day as one of my favorite Thanksgivings.
My husband, who has already made breakfast once, is standing in front of her, laughing. "You need a what?" Closer now, with yelling unnecessary, he finally understands she wants a pancake.
The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is on the television in my office, while Mickey Saves Santa plays in the living room, and football is on the little tv in the kitchen. I'm still in my pajamas, the ads from the newspaper are strewn across the floor, though I have not taken the time to study everything on sale. It's very sad how much I truly look forward to doing that.
Sadder still how I force myself out of bed at the unreal hour of 4:30am in order to take advantage of the deals and feel the atmosphere of a bunch of equally crazy people the day after Thanksgiving. This year, armed with a Santa hat and an arsenal of lollipops to give to the kids whose parents are dumb enough to take them along. I hate that. One year, I watched as a mother and father yelled at their baby of one year for not sitting still and being quiet. Yeah... like it's the kid's fault that he's bored and tired. So, this year I plan to battle my instincts to beat the holy crap out of the parents with lollipops. Futile, yet hopeful.
I will, later today, inevitably regret not going to my Grandmother's-- even though the choice to stay at home with my little family is not a bad one. While I will miss my larger family, it is more my Grandmother's veggie casserole. The only dish at the table that my family cares anything about. One day, my grandmother will realize that we'd much rather have a turkey carved out of her vegetable casserole than actually have the turkey itself.
In a few hours, I will leave for my in-laws house for Thanksgiving dinner, all the while thinking about the first Turkey my sister and I cooked ten years ago.
She was a week shy from her first wedding anniversary, and I had been married for nearly two years. She had a big house and we both had a rag tag fugitive fleet of relatives that we were going to cobble together for Thanksgiving Dinner.
We got together and planned the menu which included a turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing (from a box-- which ironically turned out to be a "big" deal. We had parents panicking because it wasn't the real thing! LOL... crazy.), gravy, and cranberry sauce. (Obviously, this was pre-invention of Grandma's veggie dish or we would have found a way to include that too.) For beverage, we were going to get sparkling cider. I was all about "presentation", my sister was all about research. We needed to know how to cook a turkey.
My sister spent the week before calling all of our relatives, including my Grandmother, to obtain information on how to cook a turkey. But the only advice that she could get was to make sure to remove the giblets. I remember her telling me in serious tone that it must be a really big deal to remove them because every single person she talked to mentioned it. So, okay, get turkey, remove giblets, put it in the oven. We could do that. We were even confident that if we seasoned it a bit and smeared butter on it, it would taste great. There was something about basting too.
I got to my sister's house at 6:30 in the morning to get the turkey in the oven. It was about 12 pounds, so we figured it would probably take about 12 hours to cook. When I went inside, she already had the turkey out of the fridge and had finished rinsing it off. She put it in the roasting pan and we set to work getting the giblets out. I reached inside and pulled out... something. After examining it, we determined it must have been the neck. We were off to a fine start!
I reached in again, and... nothing. I couldn't find anything. I bent down and peered into the turkey, the smell of raw meat tickling my nose, but it was too dark in the cavity to see anything. It was still frozen inside, so sticking my hand into the bird once again didn't tell me anything. What I thought was a frozen rib, could easily have been the bag of giblets frozen to the side.
"Get a flashlight. Maybe we can use that to look for the giblets." I told my sister, watching as she walked down the hall to the laundry room to grab one. She came back and together we upended the bird and proceeded to examine it more closely than a forensics scientist.
No giblets.
I looked at my sister, at the look of uncertainty on her face as she nibbled on her lower lip, and commented about how weird it was that we would get a fluke turkey after all the warnings about the giblets. This seemed to appease her concern and we buttered, seasoned, and stuck the turkey in the oven to cook.
About six hours later, after the stuffing panic, my Grandmother called to check up on us. My sister was on the phone relating the story about looking into the bird and being unable to find the dreaded giblets. I watched her face go from lively, to curious, to indescribable as she exclaimed, "What other opening?!"
It turns out that turkeys have a butt and a neck opening. Who knew?
Thanks to television shows like "Good Eats", I've gotten a lot better at cooking turkey, but I always remember that day as one of my favorite Thanksgivings.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I've Found a Way to Get Rich
A few days ago, one of the people I work with complained of chest pain and was taken to the hospital. Transported, I mean. The ingredient of a medical vehicle being the difference there.
Anyway, he was taken to the hospital where they decided to keep him overnight and run a bunch of tests. The next day, they tried to send him home. Great, right? Not in this case. Twenty-four hours later he still had not been able to see a Doctor and they had not figured out what was wrong with him. They were sending him home because they were full.
This is something that you'd expect in Chicago, in a State hospital that maybe takes patients that don't have insurance, etc. It's not supposed to happen in a hospital that is brand new and has had it's doors open for less than six months. It actually gets worse. The hospital apparently has a policy that your Doctor cannot come and see you. They want private doctors to see a patient every five minutes (I'm sorry, that's impossible, don't you think?) so they employ their doctors to come and see you. I guess, if they are too busy, you are SOL. So in the end they wound up prescribing him about 10 different drugs and home he went-- without knowing the cause of his pain.
Now, I was about to swear off our local hospital when a conversation with one of our elected officials made me come up short. We were joking about all the stuff you could potentially be sent home for, "Oh, sorry, you cut off a leg. Well, we're really busy right now. You'll have to come back tomorrow." Then, out of the blue he said, "Oh, you need to get out of doing something with the wife?"
LMAO... where the heck did that come from?! Then I realized-- it's entirely possible the hospital has an "in" on how to make more money.
Let's say you have something that you want to get out of doing like work, or helping the wife/husband, or getting chicken blood for bird flu study in Indonesia. You fake serious illness and get transported to the hospital. When there, they present you with the regular admittance forms, but at the bottom there is a little check box that read "Check here if you are simply faking it."
They charge, say, $1000, put you in a room for the night, give you a bunch of tic-tacs in prescription bottles, and send you home with instructions not to work, not to drive, not to lift anything, stating that the hospital is too full to keep you. Of course, they don't want your Doctor- or any Doctor- to see you because then they would realize you are not really sick!
Freakin' Genius.
I need to open up my own hospital. If I could just get around the "seeing actual sick people" and whole "insurance fraud" things, I'd be set.
Anyway, he was taken to the hospital where they decided to keep him overnight and run a bunch of tests. The next day, they tried to send him home. Great, right? Not in this case. Twenty-four hours later he still had not been able to see a Doctor and they had not figured out what was wrong with him. They were sending him home because they were full.
This is something that you'd expect in Chicago, in a State hospital that maybe takes patients that don't have insurance, etc. It's not supposed to happen in a hospital that is brand new and has had it's doors open for less than six months. It actually gets worse. The hospital apparently has a policy that your Doctor cannot come and see you. They want private doctors to see a patient every five minutes (I'm sorry, that's impossible, don't you think?) so they employ their doctors to come and see you. I guess, if they are too busy, you are SOL. So in the end they wound up prescribing him about 10 different drugs and home he went-- without knowing the cause of his pain.
Now, I was about to swear off our local hospital when a conversation with one of our elected officials made me come up short. We were joking about all the stuff you could potentially be sent home for, "Oh, sorry, you cut off a leg. Well, we're really busy right now. You'll have to come back tomorrow." Then, out of the blue he said, "Oh, you need to get out of doing something with the wife?"
LMAO... where the heck did that come from?! Then I realized-- it's entirely possible the hospital has an "in" on how to make more money.
Let's say you have something that you want to get out of doing like work, or helping the wife/husband, or getting chicken blood for bird flu study in Indonesia. You fake serious illness and get transported to the hospital. When there, they present you with the regular admittance forms, but at the bottom there is a little check box that read "Check here if you are simply faking it."
They charge, say, $1000, put you in a room for the night, give you a bunch of tic-tacs in prescription bottles, and send you home with instructions not to work, not to drive, not to lift anything, stating that the hospital is too full to keep you. Of course, they don't want your Doctor- or any Doctor- to see you because then they would realize you are not really sick!
Freakin' Genius.
I need to open up my own hospital. If I could just get around the "seeing actual sick people" and whole "insurance fraud" things, I'd be set.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
A Very Personal Post About... Nipples
Nipples. Everybody in the world has a pair. Some people are even lucky enough to have three! Umm, three nipples, not three pairs. In our family, everybody has two. My husband, my daughter, myself.
Mine are pretty okay. I mean they seem to do everything that they are supposed to do and my husband likes them, so I guess I have no complaints there. They are round with the perfect mix of pink and brown.
Nipples do some great things. They provide playtime while in bed with your significant other, they nourish your child from birth to age teeth, and they act as a temperature gauge on extremely cold days. Like you need it. Hey, it's butt ass freezing cold out here and to prove it we're going to turn into marble statues and rub against your clothing so that instead of getting all horny with the stimulation because it's actually too friggin' cold outside to think about sex we will cause you great pain and embarrassment from any male that walks by and happens to point them out! But I digress.
When the short person was born, it was murder trying to get her to eat from those things. Here is a free morning snack, breakfast, mid-morning snack, lunch, afternoon snack, dinner, evening snack, and midnight snack-- but did she want it. No! She preferred the bottle and formula. So, given that, can someone PLEASE explain to me why now, at at 2 1/2, she can't seem to leave the darn things alone?!
Kids are quick... and sneaky. I've been sneak attacked during a hug, I've been sneak attacked while on the floor (she crawls onto the couch and attacks from above), I've been attacked just about any way you can imagine. OMG! And heaven forbid you should be caught wearing a towel. "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger"
Her little arm will sneak faster than a salamander on speed up into my shirt to find those little bumps. I'll scream and fight her off, all the while she's grabbing for them, giggling hysterically. Keep in mind those things get all perky when played with, so I'm dealing with nipples that just perk right up while utterly horrified that my daughter is causing this little effect, while she is laughing even harder because for some strange reason she thinks that mommies nipples getting bigger and harder is "the game".
Her goal.
Finally, I will succeed in removing said arm and little hands from my shirt. I will hold my arms over the bottom of my shirt, pinning it to my body, and stand up to prevent further attacks. I will go into my room in an attempt to talk to my nipples and tell then that no, it is not happy time right now. I will recover.
But hey, at least I'm not Daddy in the morning or after a shower. Or Sam, our dog. They have a little tougher time mentally with the wandering hands.
And no, if you can't figure that one out, I ain't going to explain it.
Mine are pretty okay. I mean they seem to do everything that they are supposed to do and my husband likes them, so I guess I have no complaints there. They are round with the perfect mix of pink and brown.
Nipples do some great things. They provide playtime while in bed with your significant other, they nourish your child from birth to age teeth, and they act as a temperature gauge on extremely cold days. Like you need it. Hey, it's butt ass freezing cold out here and to prove it we're going to turn into marble statues and rub against your clothing so that instead of getting all horny with the stimulation because it's actually too friggin' cold outside to think about sex we will cause you great pain and embarrassment from any male that walks by and happens to point them out! But I digress.
When the short person was born, it was murder trying to get her to eat from those things. Here is a free morning snack, breakfast, mid-morning snack, lunch, afternoon snack, dinner, evening snack, and midnight snack-- but did she want it. No! She preferred the bottle and formula. So, given that, can someone PLEASE explain to me why now, at at 2 1/2, she can't seem to leave the darn things alone?!
Kids are quick... and sneaky. I've been sneak attacked during a hug, I've been sneak attacked while on the floor (she crawls onto the couch and attacks from above), I've been attacked just about any way you can imagine. OMG! And heaven forbid you should be caught wearing a towel. "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger"
Her little arm will sneak faster than a salamander on speed up into my shirt to find those little bumps. I'll scream and fight her off, all the while she's grabbing for them, giggling hysterically. Keep in mind those things get all perky when played with, so I'm dealing with nipples that just perk right up while utterly horrified that my daughter is causing this little effect, while she is laughing even harder because for some strange reason she thinks that mommies nipples getting bigger and harder is "the game".
Her goal.
Finally, I will succeed in removing said arm and little hands from my shirt. I will hold my arms over the bottom of my shirt, pinning it to my body, and stand up to prevent further attacks. I will go into my room in an attempt to talk to my nipples and tell then that no, it is not happy time right now. I will recover.
But hey, at least I'm not Daddy in the morning or after a shower. Or Sam, our dog. They have a little tougher time mentally with the wandering hands.
And no, if you can't figure that one out, I ain't going to explain it.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Bad Habits That Affect Other People
I'm talking specifically about drinking from the milk carton. Where exactly does one pick up this bad habit?
I'd think that if you were single and lived alone, perhaps it would be easy to do. I mean, who wants to dirty another dish, right? But I can't use that excuse. I've never lived alone. I've always had a roommate and eventually a husband.
So, as I was putting back the big gallon container, after upending it in order to swallow two Dayquil, it occurred to me that my bad habit has most likely just caused my husband and daughter to get the same cold I currently have.
Now, in my defense, my husband also shares this same bad habit. It affects the milk, the juice, the soda, and anything else that can be upended from the refrigerator. He has a ton of bad habits that affect other people. (Especially, the one where he insists upon clipping his toenails in the kitchen. Yuck! Yuck! Yuck! You know, those little things are sharp too! You can walk through the kitchen with bare feet only to discover that there's a nail shard that didn't get vacuumed or picked up and it plants itself in the bottom of your foot while you sit there in hysterical panic wondering if you need a rabies shot or something trying to get someone else's dna out of your foot and hoping they don't turn up dead and CSI doesn't come breaking down your door! It's really an earth shaking bad habit that causes me pain!)
So, this morning's milk carton event caused me to consider the rest of my bad habits and see if I have any others that affect other people. I've gone through the list and I think I'm good. Watching porn could be considered a bad habit, but it only affects other people if there's someone watching it with me-- and then you have to consider whether or not it affects them negatively. I go with no, considering that everyone was born with hands and the ability to use them. Now, if somehow they've tragically lost a hand in some fishing accident, well there's an incredible market of electronic devices and real live usable body parts I could direct them too.
Biting my toe nails only affects another person if they plan to kiss me-- and I use Listerine and brush my teeth daily, so really I think we're good.
If you happen to be reading this, have a wonderful day. I need to go shopping for another gallon of milk. You know, the one I keep in the back of the fridge in case company comes over and actually wants milk! LOL...
I'd think that if you were single and lived alone, perhaps it would be easy to do. I mean, who wants to dirty another dish, right? But I can't use that excuse. I've never lived alone. I've always had a roommate and eventually a husband.
So, as I was putting back the big gallon container, after upending it in order to swallow two Dayquil, it occurred to me that my bad habit has most likely just caused my husband and daughter to get the same cold I currently have.
Now, in my defense, my husband also shares this same bad habit. It affects the milk, the juice, the soda, and anything else that can be upended from the refrigerator. He has a ton of bad habits that affect other people. (Especially, the one where he insists upon clipping his toenails in the kitchen. Yuck! Yuck! Yuck! You know, those little things are sharp too! You can walk through the kitchen with bare feet only to discover that there's a nail shard that didn't get vacuumed or picked up and it plants itself in the bottom of your foot while you sit there in hysterical panic wondering if you need a rabies shot or something trying to get someone else's dna out of your foot and hoping they don't turn up dead and CSI doesn't come breaking down your door! It's really an earth shaking bad habit that causes me pain!)
So, this morning's milk carton event caused me to consider the rest of my bad habits and see if I have any others that affect other people. I've gone through the list and I think I'm good. Watching porn could be considered a bad habit, but it only affects other people if there's someone watching it with me-- and then you have to consider whether or not it affects them negatively. I go with no, considering that everyone was born with hands and the ability to use them. Now, if somehow they've tragically lost a hand in some fishing accident, well there's an incredible market of electronic devices and real live usable body parts I could direct them too.
Biting my toe nails only affects another person if they plan to kiss me-- and I use Listerine and brush my teeth daily, so really I think we're good.
If you happen to be reading this, have a wonderful day. I need to go shopping for another gallon of milk. You know, the one I keep in the back of the fridge in case company comes over and actually wants milk! LOL...
Friday, November 17, 2006
Sometimes It Sucks to be a Parent
Next August, my husband and I will celebrate 20 years together. Not married, but together. It took us a little while to get to the alter.
To celebrate I am planning a huge trip. One of those all out, gee I think I just broke my bank account, kind of things complete with limo rides and beautiful accommodations. If it works right, it will be to Washington DC, one of only about four places in the world where I don't think he will kill me for doing it. (The other places being Colorado, Alaska, or Canada.)
Planning a vacation like this is not the difficult part. No, what's difficult is having to think about what might happen. Plane crashes, freak limo accidents, random shooters in DC, terrorist attacks-- stuff on a normal day you wouldn't think about. But when you have a child-- it's hard not to think about those things.
We've been putting off a conversation that we've needed to have for about two years now. It's the "If we die, who inherits our child" conversation. Trust me, it isn't a fun one to have, which is probably why we've put it off. Seriously folks, I don't want anyone to have her. I want her. So having to force myself to think about who gets her in the event is somewhat heartbreaking.
But you have to do it, because even from the grave, you want what will be best for them. So this means that you get to study your family and friends. Which one of them will raise her closest to the style in which you yourself would. Who has the energy for a 3-year old. Who would make sure that she still saw grandparents, cousins, and would make sure to carry out any additional wishes you have. Then, in addition to that, you have to figure out how much of the money should go to the child and how much to the people that you've chosen. Should they split it 50/50? Should they get all of it because technically they will now be raising her with all that added expense? And, exactly how much does it cost to raise a child from age 3 to 18?
That is, after you've subtracted how much it would cost to finish paying off the house (because we really want her to have that timeless reminder of us for a little while - not to mention that it's an investment). The property taxes for the next 20 years, and any other bills we've left outstanding.
It is a tough choice to make. But we did it. We narrowed it down to two potential entities, and yet... part of me wants her on that plane just because I don't want to give her up. Which is just so incredibly selfish of me.
So then I think, well maybe I should take us somewhere that I can travel by train. Somewhere where the possibility of falling from the sky lessens a great deal. But dang... it's Washington DC. It's a once in a lifetime thing.
I have a feeling I'm going to be choking back fear for the rest of my life. Either with things that she will do that scare the crap out of me, or with things that I will do that scare the crap out of me. Sometimes it really sucks to be a parent-- especially when considering one's own demise.
To celebrate I am planning a huge trip. One of those all out, gee I think I just broke my bank account, kind of things complete with limo rides and beautiful accommodations. If it works right, it will be to Washington DC, one of only about four places in the world where I don't think he will kill me for doing it. (The other places being Colorado, Alaska, or Canada.)
Planning a vacation like this is not the difficult part. No, what's difficult is having to think about what might happen. Plane crashes, freak limo accidents, random shooters in DC, terrorist attacks-- stuff on a normal day you wouldn't think about. But when you have a child-- it's hard not to think about those things.
We've been putting off a conversation that we've needed to have for about two years now. It's the "If we die, who inherits our child" conversation. Trust me, it isn't a fun one to have, which is probably why we've put it off. Seriously folks, I don't want anyone to have her. I want her. So having to force myself to think about who gets her in the event is somewhat heartbreaking.
But you have to do it, because even from the grave, you want what will be best for them. So this means that you get to study your family and friends. Which one of them will raise her closest to the style in which you yourself would. Who has the energy for a 3-year old. Who would make sure that she still saw grandparents, cousins, and would make sure to carry out any additional wishes you have. Then, in addition to that, you have to figure out how much of the money should go to the child and how much to the people that you've chosen. Should they split it 50/50? Should they get all of it because technically they will now be raising her with all that added expense? And, exactly how much does it cost to raise a child from age 3 to 18?
That is, after you've subtracted how much it would cost to finish paying off the house (because we really want her to have that timeless reminder of us for a little while - not to mention that it's an investment). The property taxes for the next 20 years, and any other bills we've left outstanding.
It is a tough choice to make. But we did it. We narrowed it down to two potential entities, and yet... part of me wants her on that plane just because I don't want to give her up. Which is just so incredibly selfish of me.
So then I think, well maybe I should take us somewhere that I can travel by train. Somewhere where the possibility of falling from the sky lessens a great deal. But dang... it's Washington DC. It's a once in a lifetime thing.
I have a feeling I'm going to be choking back fear for the rest of my life. Either with things that she will do that scare the crap out of me, or with things that I will do that scare the crap out of me. Sometimes it really sucks to be a parent-- especially when considering one's own demise.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
An Evening at the Grocery Store
This always happens to me. The short person and I will go shopping and she will beg me for the big cart that looks like a race car. I will get this monstrosity for her to ride in, this thing that drives worse than a gurney and then... her daddy will pick her up and take her home while I finish the shopping. Driving every child's favorite cart. So, in the end, I just look to every child like the mean grown up that took their favorite ride away, and to every parent like the crazy lady that never grew up.
Man, I suck.
Also, I am at a total loss of an explanation of how you can have fat-free whipping cream. I mean, HELLO! What in the heck do you think gets whipped? I've tried whipping water... trust me, it doesn't work. So, how do you take the fat out? And when you do, and you've lost all that flavor, what's the point?
This is almost as bad as going into the meat section. There you see it, that wonderfully discounted piece of prime sausage. You go to check the expiration date. Do you have one day, or two, before it needs to be eaten? No expiration date.
You're thinking Woo-Hoo, I just saved 50 cents on sausage. You put it in your refrigerator with wild dreams about eating this wonderful cuisine when the mood strikes. Finally, the day arrives and you know just what you're going to make.
With mouth watering intent you put it in the pan and smell the delicious odor that only sausage can provide. Then finally, it's done. You bite into it, your mouth watering, until you are completely satisfied. And then...
YOU DIE!!!
Because the bone heads at the supermarket put the discount price tag over the expiration date... which just happened to be two weeks before you ate it! For a 50 cent savings, you just ate your last meal babe.
People are idiots.
Man, I suck.
Also, I am at a total loss of an explanation of how you can have fat-free whipping cream. I mean, HELLO! What in the heck do you think gets whipped? I've tried whipping water... trust me, it doesn't work. So, how do you take the fat out? And when you do, and you've lost all that flavor, what's the point?
This is almost as bad as going into the meat section. There you see it, that wonderfully discounted piece of prime sausage. You go to check the expiration date. Do you have one day, or two, before it needs to be eaten? No expiration date.
You're thinking Woo-Hoo, I just saved 50 cents on sausage. You put it in your refrigerator with wild dreams about eating this wonderful cuisine when the mood strikes. Finally, the day arrives and you know just what you're going to make.
With mouth watering intent you put it in the pan and smell the delicious odor that only sausage can provide. Then finally, it's done. You bite into it, your mouth watering, until you are completely satisfied. And then...
YOU DIE!!!
Because the bone heads at the supermarket put the discount price tag over the expiration date... which just happened to be two weeks before you ate it! For a 50 cent savings, you just ate your last meal babe.
People are idiots.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Creepy Crawly Spiders / It's Only the Wind
I really don't like spiders. Creepy, crawly hairy things with 12 legs that like to sneak up on you. Faster than a speeding bullet so you never know where they've gone.
Years ago, I used to make my little sister-- who wasn't afraid of bugs at all-- kill all of my spiders. No matter what time of day or night, I'd come find her. I think at one point she must have hit that age where she really didn't like them either, but she didn't complain very much about doing it for me.
I'd like to say that I've gotten better, but I haven't. I'll con just about anyone into killing them for me. The people I work with, customers, my husband (he's really good at it), they've all done it from time to time. But rarely can I work up the courage to do it myself.
Which is why you might understand that the worst possible thing in the world for me when it comes to spiders is wandering into the bathroom and looking at the floor and realizing that somewhere between crawling out of bed and getting out of the shower I've stepped on one of the little, or in this case humongous, buggers.
In bare feet.
Ew! Ew! Ew!
***********************
Last night, we had a wind storm. Gusts in some areas were supposed to hit over 100mph. Watching the news last night, I learned that what the winds are caused by a nearby low pressure system that draws the atmosphere to it. I never knew that.
Whatever the reason, I still love wind storms. I'm not an extremist. I don't think that I could sit through a hurricane or tornado and still claim to love the bend and sway of the trees and the rioting of the clouds. But there is something magical about watching the leaves dance and the earth shake with the force.
Neither my husband or my daughter are fond of the wind. It scares them. The noises, the howling, none of it makes them friends of the force of nature, but see, I have a theory about that too. The howling and screaming of the wind is God's way of sweeping up the evil spirits and clearing them out. Of making the air around us breathable again. His way, or the earth's way-- whichever you believe-- of shifting our lives.
So, I don't mind the wind.
Just umm... don't ask me to explain tornadoes or hurricanes with that one, okay? I'm sure I could produce a reasonable theory but I haven't had to yet, so... yeah. Don't have one. Nope. Sorry.
And, oh yeah, if God's reading this journal, please send a really, really, really good thunder and lightening show. Maybe one that lasts about three, four, or twelve hours. Once a year.
I'd love that!
Years ago, I used to make my little sister-- who wasn't afraid of bugs at all-- kill all of my spiders. No matter what time of day or night, I'd come find her. I think at one point she must have hit that age where she really didn't like them either, but she didn't complain very much about doing it for me.
I'd like to say that I've gotten better, but I haven't. I'll con just about anyone into killing them for me. The people I work with, customers, my husband (he's really good at it), they've all done it from time to time. But rarely can I work up the courage to do it myself.
Which is why you might understand that the worst possible thing in the world for me when it comes to spiders is wandering into the bathroom and looking at the floor and realizing that somewhere between crawling out of bed and getting out of the shower I've stepped on one of the little, or in this case humongous, buggers.
In bare feet.
Ew! Ew! Ew!
***********************
Last night, we had a wind storm. Gusts in some areas were supposed to hit over 100mph. Watching the news last night, I learned that what the winds are caused by a nearby low pressure system that draws the atmosphere to it. I never knew that.
Whatever the reason, I still love wind storms. I'm not an extremist. I don't think that I could sit through a hurricane or tornado and still claim to love the bend and sway of the trees and the rioting of the clouds. But there is something magical about watching the leaves dance and the earth shake with the force.
Neither my husband or my daughter are fond of the wind. It scares them. The noises, the howling, none of it makes them friends of the force of nature, but see, I have a theory about that too. The howling and screaming of the wind is God's way of sweeping up the evil spirits and clearing them out. Of making the air around us breathable again. His way, or the earth's way-- whichever you believe-- of shifting our lives.
So, I don't mind the wind.
Just umm... don't ask me to explain tornadoes or hurricanes with that one, okay? I'm sure I could produce a reasonable theory but I haven't had to yet, so... yeah. Don't have one. Nope. Sorry.
And, oh yeah, if God's reading this journal, please send a really, really, really good thunder and lightening show. Maybe one that lasts about three, four, or twelve hours. Once a year.
I'd love that!
Sunday, November 12, 2006
I Had to Get a Shot!
I am hugely terrified of needles, so how I let my Doctor talk me into getting my pneumonia vaccination, I have no idea. But, she says I'm now good for 10 years. So, okay.
My arm now hurts worse than having had to get a tetanus shot. It is so sore I feel as though it was used in someone's boxing practice. So, you no longer need to fear the tetanus shot. If someone talks you into a pneumonia shot, make sure you have plenty of pain killer on hand.
My Doctor is easily the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. She has honey-blond hair, perfect skin, and a kick ass smile. She reminds me of one of the women in an Andrew Blake movie. So incredibly beautiful you can't take your eyes off her.
I remember that for the first few times I went to see her I had to force myself to stop looking at her. So, the first time my husband had to go with me to my appointment I tried to warn him about how pretty she was. As we walked into the building I made sure to tell him that he could not, under any circumstances, look at her constantly. I really liked her and wanted to come back.
LOL... poor guy. We went through all the nurses moves and waited for the door to open. When that happened, all I heard from my husband was a quick intake of breath before he let it out slowly. For the rest of the appointment, my husband looked everywhere but directly at her. He has never been able to go and see her for any type of affliction-- not even a cold. He says he'd be way too intimidated.
But, the best thing about my Doctor is that I genuinely like her. She's sweet and kind and understanding. She cried the day she diagnosed me with Diabetes. Every success or failure she feels with you. So yesterday, when she came out to the waiting room to get me and had a huge grin on her face, I knew we'd done good. My A1C had gone way down.
I think she was happier that I finally consented to the shot I mentioned above, however. She was so darn happy that she waved the nurse away and gave me the shot herself... and then drew a big smiley face in my file.
Oh bother!
_____________________________________________
While writing the above, the short person struck again. She came to get me so that we could go into the bedroom and get my necklace. But she had an evil alternate plan-- to wake up daddy.
We go into the bedroom and all the way across the room she's saying "Shhhh, Shhhhh, Shhhh". I'm thinking, "Okay, she wants to be quiet for daddy" and holding back giggles that her loud shhhing is probably waking him up.
She shhhed all the way over to his side of the bed and then when she was two inches from his ear screamed "Boooooahhhhhhh! Get up daddy, I want pancakes!"
My arm now hurts worse than having had to get a tetanus shot. It is so sore I feel as though it was used in someone's boxing practice. So, you no longer need to fear the tetanus shot. If someone talks you into a pneumonia shot, make sure you have plenty of pain killer on hand.
My Doctor is easily the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. She has honey-blond hair, perfect skin, and a kick ass smile. She reminds me of one of the women in an Andrew Blake movie. So incredibly beautiful you can't take your eyes off her.
I remember that for the first few times I went to see her I had to force myself to stop looking at her. So, the first time my husband had to go with me to my appointment I tried to warn him about how pretty she was. As we walked into the building I made sure to tell him that he could not, under any circumstances, look at her constantly. I really liked her and wanted to come back.
LOL... poor guy. We went through all the nurses moves and waited for the door to open. When that happened, all I heard from my husband was a quick intake of breath before he let it out slowly. For the rest of the appointment, my husband looked everywhere but directly at her. He has never been able to go and see her for any type of affliction-- not even a cold. He says he'd be way too intimidated.
But, the best thing about my Doctor is that I genuinely like her. She's sweet and kind and understanding. She cried the day she diagnosed me with Diabetes. Every success or failure she feels with you. So yesterday, when she came out to the waiting room to get me and had a huge grin on her face, I knew we'd done good. My A1C had gone way down.
I think she was happier that I finally consented to the shot I mentioned above, however. She was so darn happy that she waved the nurse away and gave me the shot herself... and then drew a big smiley face in my file.
Oh bother!
_____________________________________________
While writing the above, the short person struck again. She came to get me so that we could go into the bedroom and get my necklace. But she had an evil alternate plan-- to wake up daddy.
We go into the bedroom and all the way across the room she's saying "Shhhh, Shhhhh, Shhhh". I'm thinking, "Okay, she wants to be quiet for daddy" and holding back giggles that her loud shhhing is probably waking him up.
She shhhed all the way over to his side of the bed and then when she was two inches from his ear screamed "Boooooahhhhhhh! Get up daddy, I want pancakes!"
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
Early Morning Memory
It was 15 years ago. We were at a movie theatre getting ready to watch I don't know what. Knowing the two of us, however, it was probably the latest horror flick. It was evening and a spur of the moment decision just to go somewhere.
We walked into the theatre early, only about 30 people were in the lobby, and decided to get popcorn. I forget what the reason was, but he didn't want to approach the counter so I did the ordering by shouting back at him and asking what he wanted. The girl that helped us was friendly and smiling at the banter we were dishing out.
I don't know that I remember a lot of what she looks like. I know she had brown hair and a nice smile but in my quick assessment I wasn't going to drool over her.
Shawn and I took our stuff and went to find the perfect spot to sit. We had the entire room to ourselves so it wasn't difficult to get the center of the screen, 3/4 of the way up. That's when it began-- the argument. It had something to do with him wanting me to go and "feel the girl up" to see if she'd be a perfect match for him.
Now this person was generally the most arrogant person on earth when it came to women. His answer to most declarations of love was to respond to the girl "Yeah... so does every body else." So I dismissed the idea and told him that he could go feel up his own women, noting that she wasn't that good looking. At least, not good looking enough for me to swing that way for him!
This discussion between us played on a loop over and over again. The same thing said 100 different ways until we were both giggling and throwing popcorn at each other to make our point. The theatre was filling up with people who couldn't help but over hear our conversation and were doing their best to conceal the fact that they were laughing. It lasted until the lights went out and the movie came on. Both of us smiling and content. Cuddled against each other for the night.
Sometime later, he planted a kiss on the top of my head and nuzzled my hair.
There are mornings when I will wake up, the smell of popcorn lingering in my senses. I'll stretch slowly not wanting to break that magic spell that memory can weave. But it always happens. Morning will creep in and my heart will start to ache because as I get up to go to the shower I can still feel the impression of his lips as they kissed my head.
I think every good friendship has that one perfect moment in it that you are bound to remember forever. This was ours. We were so comfortable with each other. Time stood still and my memory took a snapshot. Years went by and we drifted apart as most people do, but there are some days when missing him can break me down for the day.
We walked into the theatre early, only about 30 people were in the lobby, and decided to get popcorn. I forget what the reason was, but he didn't want to approach the counter so I did the ordering by shouting back at him and asking what he wanted. The girl that helped us was friendly and smiling at the banter we were dishing out.
I don't know that I remember a lot of what she looks like. I know she had brown hair and a nice smile but in my quick assessment I wasn't going to drool over her.
Shawn and I took our stuff and went to find the perfect spot to sit. We had the entire room to ourselves so it wasn't difficult to get the center of the screen, 3/4 of the way up. That's when it began-- the argument. It had something to do with him wanting me to go and "feel the girl up" to see if she'd be a perfect match for him.
Now this person was generally the most arrogant person on earth when it came to women. His answer to most declarations of love was to respond to the girl "Yeah... so does every body else." So I dismissed the idea and told him that he could go feel up his own women, noting that she wasn't that good looking. At least, not good looking enough for me to swing that way for him!
This discussion between us played on a loop over and over again. The same thing said 100 different ways until we were both giggling and throwing popcorn at each other to make our point. The theatre was filling up with people who couldn't help but over hear our conversation and were doing their best to conceal the fact that they were laughing. It lasted until the lights went out and the movie came on. Both of us smiling and content. Cuddled against each other for the night.
Sometime later, he planted a kiss on the top of my head and nuzzled my hair.
There are mornings when I will wake up, the smell of popcorn lingering in my senses. I'll stretch slowly not wanting to break that magic spell that memory can weave. But it always happens. Morning will creep in and my heart will start to ache because as I get up to go to the shower I can still feel the impression of his lips as they kissed my head.
I think every good friendship has that one perfect moment in it that you are bound to remember forever. This was ours. We were so comfortable with each other. Time stood still and my memory took a snapshot. Years went by and we drifted apart as most people do, but there are some days when missing him can break me down for the day.
Sunday, November 5, 2006
Short Person's Christmas List
This story is about a month old, but it's hilarious, so I'm going to share it.
I was in the grocery store marveling at the idea that Christmas items were coming in just as school supplies were being pulled off of the shelf. Disgusted because I thought that it was just a tad early. I mean, crud, they didn't even have the Halloween stuff out. But then, I reconsidered and thought about how nice it would be to have my Christmas shopping done in early November.
Armed with this idea, I went home believing that I could get my husband involved in the "what do you want to get the child" conversation.
It was after dinner and the short person was watching her favorite Teletubbies on television, but her father would not leave her alone. He kept pulling her hair, or tickling her, or doing some other annoying thing to distract her-- even though she kept looking at him and waving him away with a "Daddy! I'm watching tubbytubbies." or "Daddy, stop it! I'm watching my show."
Attempting to rescue my daughter, I asked my husband "Okay, so what do you want to get her for Christmas?"
"I don't know. What do you get a 2-year old?"
Trying to get him to think about this, I ask "Well... what kinds of things does she like?" thinking that he will answer with Dora the Explorer, a baby, crayons, etc.
No, my husband decides as that moment to turn to our daughter and ask "Hey, what do you want Santa to bring you?"
My daughter, apparently annoyed beyond belief, turns to my husband and with a little smirk on her face, answers him.
"A new daddy."
I was in the grocery store marveling at the idea that Christmas items were coming in just as school supplies were being pulled off of the shelf. Disgusted because I thought that it was just a tad early. I mean, crud, they didn't even have the Halloween stuff out. But then, I reconsidered and thought about how nice it would be to have my Christmas shopping done in early November.
Armed with this idea, I went home believing that I could get my husband involved in the "what do you want to get the child" conversation.
It was after dinner and the short person was watching her favorite Teletubbies on television, but her father would not leave her alone. He kept pulling her hair, or tickling her, or doing some other annoying thing to distract her-- even though she kept looking at him and waving him away with a "Daddy! I'm watching tubbytubbies." or "Daddy, stop it! I'm watching my show."
Attempting to rescue my daughter, I asked my husband "Okay, so what do you want to get her for Christmas?"
"I don't know. What do you get a 2-year old?"
Trying to get him to think about this, I ask "Well... what kinds of things does she like?" thinking that he will answer with Dora the Explorer, a baby, crayons, etc.
No, my husband decides as that moment to turn to our daughter and ask "Hey, what do you want Santa to bring you?"
My daughter, apparently annoyed beyond belief, turns to my husband and with a little smirk on her face, answers him.
"A new daddy."
Saturday, November 4, 2006
A Sunday Morning Rant
I was really going to try to stay away from too many serious subjects in this blog. I believe that you read something like this to escape your own worries and to laugh at someone else's take on life, but there's something that's been bugging me for years and I'm going to rant on it right now.
I'll post something funny next. That way, you can skip this one if you want.
I am really aggrivated with the show "Higglytown Heros". It is shown on the Disney channel line up for toddlers and is about "Heros in our/your/their town". It's on at the moment, although we are not watching it, which is why the subject came to mind.
Now, I don't know about you, but a hero to me is someone that's done something heroic. A Firefighter, for instance, can have this title everyday. A Police Officer, A Doctor, or in the common text of the word, a person that puts themselves on the line to save another person. Maybe also someone that's fought a great white shark and lived to tell about it.
Not in Higglytown, however.
No, in Higglytown, you can be a hero for taking out the garbage, for delivering the pizza, or for being a Spanish interpretor.
I will relent enough to say that yes, in some contexts, those things can be heroic. Maybe the Spanish interpetor is there to help rescue someone from an "if you don't pay for this, I'm going to kill you" "No habla english" situation. Maybe the pizza delivery person stumbled upon a person dying of starvation and roused them with an extra cheese, canadian bacon. And maybe the garbage person rescued someone that had been felled and was being crushed by his overflowing garbage can "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!"
But mostly, I just think that the show downplays true heroism by making it a common word in our child's lives. "Oh, a hero, I know what that is from the tv show. Like the girl who gave me ice cream yesterday. She's a hero too! I want to grow up and be a hero just like that!"
The show started a few years ago, not too long after 9/11. True heroism was shown that day, and I can't help thinking that the show's purpose is to downplay those events.
True heroism happens on a daily basis by ordinary people. So tell me, wasn't there some way of taking those events and turning them into a cartoon for toddlers? Why instill a disregard for heroic acts in our children instead of showing a downplayed version of the acts themselves and instilling courage and bravery?
Or why not just change the title and theme song?
Higglytown Workers? Higglytown Helpers? Higglytown Citizens?
I'll post something funny next. That way, you can skip this one if you want.
I am really aggrivated with the show "Higglytown Heros". It is shown on the Disney channel line up for toddlers and is about "Heros in our/your/their town". It's on at the moment, although we are not watching it, which is why the subject came to mind.
Now, I don't know about you, but a hero to me is someone that's done something heroic. A Firefighter, for instance, can have this title everyday. A Police Officer, A Doctor, or in the common text of the word, a person that puts themselves on the line to save another person. Maybe also someone that's fought a great white shark and lived to tell about it.
Not in Higglytown, however.
No, in Higglytown, you can be a hero for taking out the garbage, for delivering the pizza, or for being a Spanish interpretor.
I will relent enough to say that yes, in some contexts, those things can be heroic. Maybe the Spanish interpetor is there to help rescue someone from an "if you don't pay for this, I'm going to kill you" "No habla english" situation. Maybe the pizza delivery person stumbled upon a person dying of starvation and roused them with an extra cheese, canadian bacon. And maybe the garbage person rescued someone that had been felled and was being crushed by his overflowing garbage can "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!"
But mostly, I just think that the show downplays true heroism by making it a common word in our child's lives. "Oh, a hero, I know what that is from the tv show. Like the girl who gave me ice cream yesterday. She's a hero too! I want to grow up and be a hero just like that!"
The show started a few years ago, not too long after 9/11. True heroism was shown that day, and I can't help thinking that the show's purpose is to downplay those events.
True heroism happens on a daily basis by ordinary people. So tell me, wasn't there some way of taking those events and turning them into a cartoon for toddlers? Why instill a disregard for heroic acts in our children instead of showing a downplayed version of the acts themselves and instilling courage and bravery?
Or why not just change the title and theme song?
Higglytown Workers? Higglytown Helpers? Higglytown Citizens?
Friday, November 3, 2006
Short Person and the Man in Our House
Short person was playing in her bedroom last night gathering up toys to bring into the living room. She kept coming to get me saying that she was scared. I didn't think much of it, as this is a new word for her and I am not sure she really knows what it means.
On the final exit of her room, she came scurrying into the living room saying that the man was being really noisy and that she was scared. I asked "What man?"
"The man's scary."
"Where is the man? Is he in your bedroom?"
No answer.
"Is he on the tv?"
"No."
"Is he in the living room?"
"No."
"Is the man daddy?"
"The man's scary."
"Is the man daddy?"
"No. I need to give my daddy a hug. Daddy, I'm scared."
My husband got up and picked her up to comfort her and reassure her that daddy would take care of her and she didn't need to be scared, while at the same time letting the dogs go outside for a potty break. He left the slider open and about 30 seconds go by when they start growling at something.
"Is the man outside?"
"No."
Hubby goes back to the door to investigate, unable to determine what has set the dogs off, and I continue my questioning.
"Is the man in your bedroom?" I ask, really starting to worry that my daughter inherited the sensitivity I seem to have lost when I gave birth to her. She never answered the question, just hid on my lap burying her face in my shoulder for about five minutes before asking to watch a show.
How in the hell do you protect your child from something you cannot see, hear, or feel? I don't want her to be afraid of her bedroom-- it's supposed to be her sanctuary.
*sigh*
On the final exit of her room, she came scurrying into the living room saying that the man was being really noisy and that she was scared. I asked "What man?"
"The man's scary."
"Where is the man? Is he in your bedroom?"
No answer.
"Is he on the tv?"
"No."
"Is he in the living room?"
"No."
"Is the man daddy?"
"The man's scary."
"Is the man daddy?"
"No. I need to give my daddy a hug. Daddy, I'm scared."
My husband got up and picked her up to comfort her and reassure her that daddy would take care of her and she didn't need to be scared, while at the same time letting the dogs go outside for a potty break. He left the slider open and about 30 seconds go by when they start growling at something.
"Is the man outside?"
"No."
Hubby goes back to the door to investigate, unable to determine what has set the dogs off, and I continue my questioning.
"Is the man in your bedroom?" I ask, really starting to worry that my daughter inherited the sensitivity I seem to have lost when I gave birth to her. She never answered the question, just hid on my lap burying her face in my shoulder for about five minutes before asking to watch a show.
How in the hell do you protect your child from something you cannot see, hear, or feel? I don't want her to be afraid of her bedroom-- it's supposed to be her sanctuary.
*sigh*
Wednesday, November 1, 2006
Short Person Strikes Again
So night before last my daughter comes home and goes into the kitchen to talk to her daddy.
"Dad, I need a beer."
"You need a beer?"
(sigh) "Yeah... long day."
"O...kay. Do you want a sip of daddy's?"
"No, I need a bottle."
So, this is how it came about that my two year old daughter was kneeling in the living room, helping me fold laundry, while drinking a bottle of beer.
I should add a little addendum here for all you worrywarts out there that says "Don't worry, we're not crazy. It was about 1/2 an ounce mixed with water."
"Dad, I need a beer."
"You need a beer?"
(sigh) "Yeah... long day."
"O...kay. Do you want a sip of daddy's?"
"No, I need a bottle."
So, this is how it came about that my two year old daughter was kneeling in the living room, helping me fold laundry, while drinking a bottle of beer.
I should add a little addendum here for all you worrywarts out there that says "Don't worry, we're not crazy. It was about 1/2 an ounce mixed with water."
Monday, October 30, 2006
It Lives Here
I have a daughter. A product of my husband and myself. This thing we're supposed to feel quantifyingly attracted too. Don't get me wrong-- we do. We're typical... would die for her, kill myself if she died, yada yada yada. It's just that most of the time I don't relate that she really IS my daughter. Most of the time she just seems like this short funny person that lives in the house with us. Put here to make us laugh.
But tragically, there are times when I can look at her and know she's mine. She'll smile and I'll think "Holy Crap, Kid! That's my smile", or my hair, or my expression. Just such an event occur ed last night as she was flirting with her dad-- something that used to be my domain, but I'm finding out that I'm losing to a two year old. As she lounged on the side of the couch, her body sideways with one foot on top of the other, a little flirty grin on her face while she tried to convince her daddy that if she didn't see the next episode of Teletubbies the world would end, I was taken aback at how much she looks like me.
All I wanted to say was "Don't worry Sweetie, mommy's got the plastic surgeons on speed dial, the eye doctor on pager, and I hear they've come out with a really good pimple cream. It'll be okay."
But tragically, there are times when I can look at her and know she's mine. She'll smile and I'll think "Holy Crap, Kid! That's my smile", or my hair, or my expression. Just such an event occur ed last night as she was flirting with her dad-- something that used to be my domain, but I'm finding out that I'm losing to a two year old. As she lounged on the side of the couch, her body sideways with one foot on top of the other, a little flirty grin on her face while she tried to convince her daddy that if she didn't see the next episode of Teletubbies the world would end, I was taken aback at how much she looks like me.
All I wanted to say was "Don't worry Sweetie, mommy's got the plastic surgeons on speed dial, the eye doctor on pager, and I hear they've come out with a really good pimple cream. It'll be okay."
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