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!

"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."

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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!

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!"

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.

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."

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?

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*

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."