Yep, we're here. Under protest. The sugar-white beaches of Antigua begged me to stay. Why, just yesterday, watching the water, I heard several sand particles saying, Gee, this broad ain't too bad. Maybe we can get her to hang out for a while longer.
OK, maybe not. Maybe that was the alcohol talking. But it would be nice if the sand wanted me to stay. And the ocean. And the fish. And the palm trees.
But, three sweet little kids wanted me to come home, more.
Be back with you peeps tomorrow!
31 May 2008
30 May 2008
100 Things - How I've Earned My Dough
Well, campers. After this we'll be at the half-way mark of the update of my 100 things list. And tonight? I'll be back in Georgia and back to the grind! If you don't see a post tomorrow, then I've dumped it all for a life in Antigua. Come visit if you can!
Back to reality. Today's 10 list is:
10 Things I've Done to Earn Money
(I swear, Fab, no hooker jokes!)
1. I worked as a student-worker at my college's student recruiting office. This was, technically, my first job. I processed applications to the college, pulled transcripts of former students, gave campus tours when needed, and generally had a great time. I held down this job for four years and by the time I graduated, I could process a North Georgia College application like nobody's business.
2. I worked as a sales associate at Express. Oh, I loved this job for the clothes but hated it for the selling. I hate selling. I couldn't even sell space heaters to Eskimos if I needed to. I'm just that bad at it. But, damn. I was one stylish college student!
3. I soldered keypads for my father-in-law. This lasted all of one day. After I soldered the fifth one wrong, I was put on warehouse-sweeping duty.
4. I spent a summer doing undergraduate research. The summer before my senior year in college, I spent ten weeks at the University of Alabama in Huntsville doing undergrad physics research. I got paid $2,500. Excellent, easy cash, baby!
5. I was a data entry clerk for the West Virginia Department of Parks & Recreation. I spent the summer after college graduation entering accounting data into the state's accounting program. Boring, mind-numbing, and dull. They wanted me to stay on. I said bye for greener Georgia pastures.
6. I wrote technical manuals and designed computer circuit boards. This was my first real job out of college and it was with my father's-in-law company. They design proprietary software for the FAA.
7. I was an office manager for a start-up company. Two anesthesiologists started a company with new technology that would make the billing of anesthesia patients more accurate. No one bought into it. I spent four months reading eight hours a day and answering the odd phone call here and there.
8. I was a course developer with ExecuTrain. Here. Write this manual on the newest version of Microsoft Word, using the beta version of the software and no help files. Write the accompanying instructor guide, post-class test, and class slide show. Oh, wait. It's a year later. Do it all over again!
9. I was scuba diving instructor. The pay sucked but while others were shackled to their desks, I was in a pool doing back flips with students. Ahhhh, the life. Until the shop owners expected me to sell the gear. Then? We had problems.
10. I was a dive travel agency Girl Friday. That was a great job until the cold calling began. Run away!
And there you have it, my jobs, all ten of them, right up to motherhood. And that job? Has been the best (albeit somewhat frustrating and frightening) job of all. Tune in, at some point, for the next ten... ten things that make me cry!
Back to reality. Today's 10 list is:
10 Things I've Done to Earn Money
(I swear, Fab, no hooker jokes!)
1. I worked as a student-worker at my college's student recruiting office. This was, technically, my first job. I processed applications to the college, pulled transcripts of former students, gave campus tours when needed, and generally had a great time. I held down this job for four years and by the time I graduated, I could process a North Georgia College application like nobody's business.
2. I worked as a sales associate at Express. Oh, I loved this job for the clothes but hated it for the selling. I hate selling. I couldn't even sell space heaters to Eskimos if I needed to. I'm just that bad at it. But, damn. I was one stylish college student!
3. I soldered keypads for my father-in-law. This lasted all of one day. After I soldered the fifth one wrong, I was put on warehouse-sweeping duty.
4. I spent a summer doing undergraduate research. The summer before my senior year in college, I spent ten weeks at the University of Alabama in Huntsville doing undergrad physics research. I got paid $2,500. Excellent, easy cash, baby!
5. I was a data entry clerk for the West Virginia Department of Parks & Recreation. I spent the summer after college graduation entering accounting data into the state's accounting program. Boring, mind-numbing, and dull. They wanted me to stay on. I said bye for greener Georgia pastures.
6. I wrote technical manuals and designed computer circuit boards. This was my first real job out of college and it was with my father's-in-law company. They design proprietary software for the FAA.
7. I was an office manager for a start-up company. Two anesthesiologists started a company with new technology that would make the billing of anesthesia patients more accurate. No one bought into it. I spent four months reading eight hours a day and answering the odd phone call here and there.
8. I was a course developer with ExecuTrain. Here. Write this manual on the newest version of Microsoft Word, using the beta version of the software and no help files. Write the accompanying instructor guide, post-class test, and class slide show. Oh, wait. It's a year later. Do it all over again!
9. I was scuba diving instructor. The pay sucked but while others were shackled to their desks, I was in a pool doing back flips with students. Ahhhh, the life. Until the shop owners expected me to sell the gear. Then? We had problems.
10. I was a dive travel agency Girl Friday. That was a great job until the cold calling began. Run away!
And there you have it, my jobs, all ten of them, right up to motherhood. And that job? Has been the best (albeit somewhat frustrating and frightening) job of all. Tune in, at some point, for the next ten... ten things that make me cry!
29 May 2008
100 Things - What I Love
So, after those brief commercial breaks, we're back to the updating of my 100 Things list. Today? It's all about:
10 Things I Love!
1. I love my children. I never thought I could love three people as much as I love my children. It's just indescribable, the deep, primal, touch my child and I will rip you into a million pieces love I have for those little guys!
2. I love my Ty-man. Certainly not a touch him, you die type of love that I have for the kids. More of a Lemme rip them clothes off now! sort of primal love. Yep, that's it!
3. I love being underwater. On land, we're limited to two dimensions. We move forward, back, left, right. We never look up or down or even move in those directions. Underwater? I'm weightless. Literally and figuratively. It's the calmest, happiest place for me to be.
4. I love cuddling with my kids. When one or more of them puts their little arms around me, pats me on the back, says I love you Mama, and just stays there. Oh, wow. Indescribable ecstasy.
5. I love rainy days. It doesn't rain often enough in Georgia and on those days that the rain comes, I'm so content. I constantly check the weather and when I see that rainy days are forecast, I get giddy!
6. I love chocolate. All forms. All kinds. Doesn't matter. I don't discriminate.
7. I love my MacBook. It's my escape and my link to the outside world. Apple rules!
8. I love my morning coffee. I will knock over anyone who gets in my way of my morning coffee.
9. I love TV. Oh, god. I'm such a child of the television generation. I TiVo so many friggin' TV shows that it's obscene.
10. I love hanging out with my mom. She knows me better than anyone on this Earth. We have great times together!
Well, that was pretty easy, and quick. Thanks, guys, for hanging in there through all this and hope you're ready for a bunch more! Tomorrow? Ten things I've done to make money.
10 Things I Love!
1. I love my children. I never thought I could love three people as much as I love my children. It's just indescribable, the deep, primal, touch my child and I will rip you into a million pieces love I have for those little guys!
2. I love my Ty-man. Certainly not a touch him, you die type of love that I have for the kids. More of a Lemme rip them clothes off now! sort of primal love. Yep, that's it!
3. I love being underwater. On land, we're limited to two dimensions. We move forward, back, left, right. We never look up or down or even move in those directions. Underwater? I'm weightless. Literally and figuratively. It's the calmest, happiest place for me to be.
4. I love cuddling with my kids. When one or more of them puts their little arms around me, pats me on the back, says I love you Mama, and just stays there. Oh, wow. Indescribable ecstasy.
5. I love rainy days. It doesn't rain often enough in Georgia and on those days that the rain comes, I'm so content. I constantly check the weather and when I see that rainy days are forecast, I get giddy!
6. I love chocolate. All forms. All kinds. Doesn't matter. I don't discriminate.
7. I love my MacBook. It's my escape and my link to the outside world. Apple rules!
8. I love my morning coffee. I will knock over anyone who gets in my way of my morning coffee.
9. I love TV. Oh, god. I'm such a child of the television generation. I TiVo so many friggin' TV shows that it's obscene.
10. I love hanging out with my mom. She knows me better than anyone on this Earth. We have great times together!
Well, that was pretty easy, and quick. Thanks, guys, for hanging in there through all this and hope you're ready for a bunch more! Tomorrow? Ten things I've done to make money.
28 May 2008
Burt Kidnapped Me!
Well, not really. I'm actually in Antigua.I'm sipping a fruity drink, hiding my pot belly in a one-piece, crisping my skin, and checking out the package on that... HELLO!
Whew. Anyhoo. As far as the blog-verse is concerned, I'm getting a little Burt nookie today. Check it out!
27 May 2008
Happy 13th Anniversary!
On May 27, 1995, after seven years of dating, a broken engagement (my bad), a re-engagement, a dress and cake made by my mom, and a hot, humid day, we were married in Suches, Georgia. We had a small wedding in a small, country church, officiated by Ty-man's Baptist-minister uncle. It was a wonderful day full of family, friends, BBQ, and some wonderful cake!
Happy Anniversary, Ty-man, and I love you! It's been 13 wonderful years and I can't wait to see where the next years take us!
(Dang! Don't we look young in that picture? Friggin' young-uns. Thinking they can get married at 23 and that it's all easy-peasy. Sheesh. Stupid kids...)
26 May 2008
100 Things - What I Hate
Dude, you're still here? Still with me? Hanging in there? We're taking a break tomorrow. I promise. It's now time for...
10 Things I Hate!
1. I hate people with no common sense. It really drives me bonkers to see people not using their brains. Seriously. Wear your damned seat belts. Triple-check the presence or lack of your passport. Follow directions. If management says no, they mean no, not no for everyone else but yes for you. Just, everything. Use common fucking sense, people. Please.
2. I hate over-reaction. This 6-year-old hugged a little girl in his kindergarten class. Suspension for sexual harassment! That 13-year-old brought a butter knife in his backpack. Expulsion! And that high school chick? Over there? She's got Tylenol in her purse for her cramps. More suspension! O.M.F.G. Are you shitting me? This is why I'm considering homeschooling my kids.
3. I hate the Jesus talk. My father had just died one week before when my sorority sisters dragged me to a meeting to get me out of the house. It was a scrapbook party. The saleslady took it upon herself to give me "The Jesus Talk." Seriously? Leave me alone. I know "The Jesus Talk" backwards and forwards. I know the pros and cons of accepting Christ as my Savior. I don't need to have it shoved down my throat. Kthnxbi!
4. I hate parents who force their kids to their lifestyles. Those little kids? At Macy's? At 9PM? Screaming their heads off? Yeah, they're sleepy! They should have been in bed for at least an hour. Quit yelling at them! Get your asses out of that store, get them home, and get them to bed. You need to run your errands and live your life around them until they are older and more tolerant of your hours. Dude.
5. I hate parents who take their kids to the movies. This is actually a sub-set of number four, but deserves its own number because of those idiot parents who take their babies/toddlers to rated R movies. They can't afford sitters so instead of staying home, they drag their kids, in their PJs, to the latest horror movie. Those people need to have their parental cards revoked.
6. I hate hate. Hate for hate's sake gets me every time. Notice how the haters are the uneducated who have never traveled far from home? They don't care to pull themselves up by their bootstraps because it's easier to stay at home and stew in their hate of minorities/women/homosexuals/you/me/everybody. This is where Darwinism needs to take over.
7. I hate suffering. I look at the aftermaths of Katrina, Myanmar's cyclone, Thailand's tsunami, China's earthquake, and so many others and I feel so damned helpless and ineffective. All I can do is watch those images, hug my kids and husband, and I hope I never live through such suffering.
8. I hate sick kids. Honestly. They don't understand. They're fussy. They're whiny. They won't eat or take their medicine. Ugh.
9. I hate people who say one thing and do another. I remember leaving my favorite job because a fellow co-worker (female) accused me of flirting with her husband (our vice-president) when she was known as the company's biggest flirt. Yeah. That was the straw that broke the CMG's back with this particular hate. Walk the walk, people. That's all I ask.
10. I hate seeing children hurt, physically or emotionally. Since becoming a parent, I can't stand to see children in the news or on fictional TV shows/movies who have been killed, injured, or taken from their parents. It is physically difficult for me to see that and I typically change the channel or leave the room.
Wow. I'm surprised you stuck with it. Tomorrow we take a break from me and talk about me and the Ty-man. But the next day? We'll go over the ten things I love!
10 Things I Hate!
1. I hate people with no common sense. It really drives me bonkers to see people not using their brains. Seriously. Wear your damned seat belts. Triple-check the presence or lack of your passport. Follow directions. If management says no, they mean no, not no for everyone else but yes for you. Just, everything. Use common fucking sense, people. Please.
2. I hate over-reaction. This 6-year-old hugged a little girl in his kindergarten class. Suspension for sexual harassment! That 13-year-old brought a butter knife in his backpack. Expulsion! And that high school chick? Over there? She's got Tylenol in her purse for her cramps. More suspension! O.M.F.G. Are you shitting me? This is why I'm considering homeschooling my kids.
3. I hate the Jesus talk. My father had just died one week before when my sorority sisters dragged me to a meeting to get me out of the house. It was a scrapbook party. The saleslady took it upon herself to give me "The Jesus Talk." Seriously? Leave me alone. I know "The Jesus Talk" backwards and forwards. I know the pros and cons of accepting Christ as my Savior. I don't need to have it shoved down my throat. Kthnxbi!
4. I hate parents who force their kids to their lifestyles. Those little kids? At Macy's? At 9PM? Screaming their heads off? Yeah, they're sleepy! They should have been in bed for at least an hour. Quit yelling at them! Get your asses out of that store, get them home, and get them to bed. You need to run your errands and live your life around them until they are older and more tolerant of your hours. Dude.
5. I hate parents who take their kids to the movies. This is actually a sub-set of number four, but deserves its own number because of those idiot parents who take their babies/toddlers to rated R movies. They can't afford sitters so instead of staying home, they drag their kids, in their PJs, to the latest horror movie. Those people need to have their parental cards revoked.
6. I hate hate. Hate for hate's sake gets me every time. Notice how the haters are the uneducated who have never traveled far from home? They don't care to pull themselves up by their bootstraps because it's easier to stay at home and stew in their hate of minorities/women/homosexuals/you/me/everybody. This is where Darwinism needs to take over.
7. I hate suffering. I look at the aftermaths of Katrina, Myanmar's cyclone, Thailand's tsunami, China's earthquake, and so many others and I feel so damned helpless and ineffective. All I can do is watch those images, hug my kids and husband, and I hope I never live through such suffering.
8. I hate sick kids. Honestly. They don't understand. They're fussy. They're whiny. They won't eat or take their medicine. Ugh.
9. I hate people who say one thing and do another. I remember leaving my favorite job because a fellow co-worker (female) accused me of flirting with her husband (our vice-president) when she was known as the company's biggest flirt. Yeah. That was the straw that broke the CMG's back with this particular hate. Walk the walk, people. That's all I ask.
10. I hate seeing children hurt, physically or emotionally. Since becoming a parent, I can't stand to see children in the news or on fictional TV shows/movies who have been killed, injured, or taken from their parents. It is physically difficult for me to see that and I typically change the channel or leave the room.
Wow. I'm surprised you stuck with it. Tomorrow we take a break from me and talk about me and the Ty-man. But the next day? We'll go over the ten things I love!
25 May 2008
100 Things - Memorable Moments
Continuing on with my new and improved 100 Things list, I give you (drum roll, please):
10 Most Memorable Moments of My Life!
1. The day my twins were born. This was such a whirlwind day. There I was in the bowels of Northside Hospital, working on day three of living in a tiny, windowless hospital room, resigning myself to the fact that within 24 hours, I would move to a room in the High-Risk Perinatal ward for a month-long stay. Down comes my OB informing me that my blood platelets and liver enzymes were so out-of-whack that the twins had to come that day. Within four hours, Miss-Miss and Bubba entered the world and I? Was a bewildered mom of two!
2. The day J-man was born. This day was so different. It was planned. It was on the calendar. I was induced. I had my epidural. I had no pain or discomfort. He was born within three hours. It was easy-peasy and I wish all women could have that experience of pure joy with no pain and no fuss.
3. The day I found out I was pregnant with the twins. This was my fifth and, I believed final, attempt at artificial insemination. The final injection prior to insemination is such a strong dosage of hormones that any pregnancy test taken within 14 days gives a false positive. You have to wait 15 days. Every other round, I bled on day 14. This time? Day 14 passed uneventfully. The next morning, I peed on that stick and jumped up and down. JOY!
4. The day I found out I was pregnant with J-man. I needed hormone injections. I needed my doctor inserting Ty-man's sperm into my uterus via surgical tubing. Pregnancy? Without those things? Was impossible... or so I thought. There I sat, five days after the twins' first birthday, three positive pregnancy tests in hand, wondering what the heck had happened! JOY and TERROR!
5. The day my father died. Memorable only because every second of that day and the two days to follow are etched in my brain. I can recall the smells, sights, emotions, and helplessness. It was horrible.
6. The day I married the Ty-man. Again, every second is burned in my memory but for better reasons than the previous moment. It was a wonderful day! Perfect even when I ripped the lace trim on the hem of my dress, when the ring bearer lost his shit at the altar, and especially when Ty-man and I were left at the church as everyone took off for the reception, each thinking the other had taken care of us. It was all great!
7. The day I was baptized in the Presbyterian church. I remember being 10 and wondering about God, Christ, and Heaven. The minister placed the blessed water on my head and tears immediately sprang to my eyes. My heart skipped a beat. It was wonderful.
8. The first time an adult betrayed me - spring, 1990. It's a long, drawn out story. I was 18 and nearly a high school graduate. A woman I looked up to stabbed me in the back, but good. I was devastated beyond measure and I remember balling up in the corner of my room in utter anger and betrayal. Looking back, I realize this defining moment made me stronger. But, it also made me rougher which isn't always good.
9. January 28, 1986. I was walking the halls of my junior high, booking it to my next class, when I heard the kid next to me say, "Hey! The Challenger just blew up!" All I wanted to be at that age was an astronaut and that moment kicked me in the gut. That was a bad day.
10. The day I met the Ty-man. April 10, 1988. Oh, yeah. Twenty years ago. I know, I know. I've flipped out already. Go ahead. I'll wait for you to catch up. Good? It was the first day of Space Camp (again, snort your coffee, get it out) and I remember this tall guy standing with my group. He looked like a counselor and I snuck a peek at his name tag. Taylor. My first thought was, "What idiots would name their kid Taylor?" Yeah, it was a typo. And he turned out to be the man of my dreams!
So what do you think so far? Cool? Liking it? Hating it? Too bad because tomorrow it's time for the ten things I hate!
10 Most Memorable Moments of My Life!
1. The day my twins were born. This was such a whirlwind day. There I was in the bowels of Northside Hospital, working on day three of living in a tiny, windowless hospital room, resigning myself to the fact that within 24 hours, I would move to a room in the High-Risk Perinatal ward for a month-long stay. Down comes my OB informing me that my blood platelets and liver enzymes were so out-of-whack that the twins had to come that day. Within four hours, Miss-Miss and Bubba entered the world and I? Was a bewildered mom of two!
2. The day J-man was born. This day was so different. It was planned. It was on the calendar. I was induced. I had my epidural. I had no pain or discomfort. He was born within three hours. It was easy-peasy and I wish all women could have that experience of pure joy with no pain and no fuss.
3. The day I found out I was pregnant with the twins. This was my fifth and, I believed final, attempt at artificial insemination. The final injection prior to insemination is such a strong dosage of hormones that any pregnancy test taken within 14 days gives a false positive. You have to wait 15 days. Every other round, I bled on day 14. This time? Day 14 passed uneventfully. The next morning, I peed on that stick and jumped up and down. JOY!
4. The day I found out I was pregnant with J-man. I needed hormone injections. I needed my doctor inserting Ty-man's sperm into my uterus via surgical tubing. Pregnancy? Without those things? Was impossible... or so I thought. There I sat, five days after the twins' first birthday, three positive pregnancy tests in hand, wondering what the heck had happened! JOY and TERROR!
5. The day my father died. Memorable only because every second of that day and the two days to follow are etched in my brain. I can recall the smells, sights, emotions, and helplessness. It was horrible.
6. The day I married the Ty-man. Again, every second is burned in my memory but for better reasons than the previous moment. It was a wonderful day! Perfect even when I ripped the lace trim on the hem of my dress, when the ring bearer lost his shit at the altar, and especially when Ty-man and I were left at the church as everyone took off for the reception, each thinking the other had taken care of us. It was all great!
7. The day I was baptized in the Presbyterian church. I remember being 10 and wondering about God, Christ, and Heaven. The minister placed the blessed water on my head and tears immediately sprang to my eyes. My heart skipped a beat. It was wonderful.
8. The first time an adult betrayed me - spring, 1990. It's a long, drawn out story. I was 18 and nearly a high school graduate. A woman I looked up to stabbed me in the back, but good. I was devastated beyond measure and I remember balling up in the corner of my room in utter anger and betrayal. Looking back, I realize this defining moment made me stronger. But, it also made me rougher which isn't always good.
9. January 28, 1986. I was walking the halls of my junior high, booking it to my next class, when I heard the kid next to me say, "Hey! The Challenger just blew up!" All I wanted to be at that age was an astronaut and that moment kicked me in the gut. That was a bad day.
10. The day I met the Ty-man. April 10, 1988. Oh, yeah. Twenty years ago. I know, I know. I've flipped out already. Go ahead. I'll wait for you to catch up. Good? It was the first day of Space Camp (again, snort your coffee, get it out) and I remember this tall guy standing with my group. He looked like a counselor and I snuck a peek at his name tag. Taylor. My first thought was, "What idiots would name their kid Taylor?" Yeah, it was a typo. And he turned out to be the man of my dreams!
So what do you think so far? Cool? Liking it? Hating it? Too bad because tomorrow it's time for the ten things I hate!
24 May 2008
100 Things - Family
You all know me. Mother, wife, blogger, geek, and thief of all great blog ideas. Since we're out of town this week, I needed blog ideas, things to write about ahead of time. With much thanks to Miss Britt and her take on 100 Things about her, I've decided to update my 100 Things list and heck, there's no time like the present! I'll break this up into ten different posts for your reading enjoyment, because it is all about me!
10 Things About My Family
1. I am, technically, an only child. I'm the only child of Tom and JoAnne. My mother had, seven years before my birth and four years before her marriage to Dad, an affair. Since she was an unwed mother in 1965-1966, my grandparents did what any loving parents of the 60s with a 25-year-old daughter would do - forced her to go to a home for unwed mothers and give her child up for adoption. My half-brother, born April 6, 1966 (and called Sean by my mom), is out there somewhere. I would love to meet him, but won't actively pursue finding him while Mom's alive. She wants him to love and know only his adopted parents.
2. I only knew one of my grandparents. My father's parents died before I was born, as did my maternal grandmother. My maternal grandfather re-married and I always knew her as my grandmother. Simeon and Thelma were, and are, odd people who never truly knew how to love. Summers on their farm were fun until I grew up and realized the extent of dislike, and just downright hate, between my mom and her parents and siblings. Then? I was just uncomfortable.
3. I never went to my grandfather's funeral. I didn't want to remember him dead. From what I understand, my cousins and step-cousins were pissed with me for not attending. As it is, I saw him five months before, a shell of a man in a morphine haze having battled bone and prostate cancers and slowly losing. That was bad enough. I didn't need to see him embalmed.
4. My mother's family is descended from the Berkeley family of England. Just about every Caucasian-American can trace their roots back to royalty, a president, or some other notable figure in American or European history. My family claim to fame? The Berkeley family of England. Yep. We killed King Edward II. Fear us.
5. I'm closer to Ty-man's family than I am to my own. Ty-man's family is the perfect, sweet, loving family of 1950s-60s TV. They are all well-adjusted, loving people who welcome any and all into the fold. I can't get enough of them. No twisted, freakish abuse (Mom's family). No nitpicking, wasteful "I deserve this. I get that. Give me or else." (Dad's family). They're awesome. There are no other words.
6. In order to have my own family, I had to go through fertility treatments. I was diagnosed with PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome) in June, 2002. One month later I had surgery to remove endometriosis and ovarian cysts. I then began taking metformin to control my out-of-control insulin levels (the cause of PCOS). In January, 2004, I started four rounds of fertility drugs and artificial insemination with no success. After six months off from the endless and tiring rounds of needles and planned sexual intercourse (blame my doctor for the technical babble), I had given up and was filling out the adoption paperwork. Finally, in January, 2005, at the insistence of Ty-man and my doctor, I agreed to one more round of artificial insemination and, whaddaya know, it took! Eight months later we became the parents of our twins, Bubba and Miss-Miss. A week after their first birthday, I took a pregnancy test and was shocked to learn it was positive! No fertility treatments, no doctor intervention, just me and the Ty-man and some old-fashioned nookie. Nine months later, the J-man arrived and that's my little family!
7. I consider my close girl friends and their significant others to be my sisters and brothers. I think it's a side-effect of being an only child that my life-long friends have become my siblings.
8. My father was a veteran of the Korean War. Obviously, my parents waited until their 30s and 40s to have their one and only child. My father was drafted into the Marines during the Korean War. He was a telephone line repairman. He never saw action, but always told stories of the Korean women leaving the squid, at the bottom of the telephone poles, to dry in the sun. The stench? Special.
9. My father-in-law almost has a Ph.D. in physics. My mother-in-law was upset, early in their marriage, that he was spending more time on his thesis than with her. So, he threw it into the fireplace and that was that. Yeah. Makes my stomach lurch, too.
10. My mother-in-law was a nurse and my mom nearly found fame as a ballet dancer. Yep, you read it right. Betty was a nurse and my mom danced with the Charleston, WV Ballet Company. Such talent in this family!
So there you have the first 10! Tomorrow? Get ready for the next round - the ten most memorable moments in my life!
10 Things About My Family
1. I am, technically, an only child. I'm the only child of Tom and JoAnne. My mother had, seven years before my birth and four years before her marriage to Dad, an affair. Since she was an unwed mother in 1965-1966, my grandparents did what any loving parents of the 60s with a 25-year-old daughter would do - forced her to go to a home for unwed mothers and give her child up for adoption. My half-brother, born April 6, 1966 (and called Sean by my mom), is out there somewhere. I would love to meet him, but won't actively pursue finding him while Mom's alive. She wants him to love and know only his adopted parents.
2. I only knew one of my grandparents. My father's parents died before I was born, as did my maternal grandmother. My maternal grandfather re-married and I always knew her as my grandmother. Simeon and Thelma were, and are, odd people who never truly knew how to love. Summers on their farm were fun until I grew up and realized the extent of dislike, and just downright hate, between my mom and her parents and siblings. Then? I was just uncomfortable.
3. I never went to my grandfather's funeral. I didn't want to remember him dead. From what I understand, my cousins and step-cousins were pissed with me for not attending. As it is, I saw him five months before, a shell of a man in a morphine haze having battled bone and prostate cancers and slowly losing. That was bad enough. I didn't need to see him embalmed.
4. My mother's family is descended from the Berkeley family of England. Just about every Caucasian-American can trace their roots back to royalty, a president, or some other notable figure in American or European history. My family claim to fame? The Berkeley family of England. Yep. We killed King Edward II. Fear us.
5. I'm closer to Ty-man's family than I am to my own. Ty-man's family is the perfect, sweet, loving family of 1950s-60s TV. They are all well-adjusted, loving people who welcome any and all into the fold. I can't get enough of them. No twisted, freakish abuse (Mom's family). No nitpicking, wasteful "I deserve this. I get that. Give me or else." (Dad's family). They're awesome. There are no other words.
6. In order to have my own family, I had to go through fertility treatments. I was diagnosed with PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome) in June, 2002. One month later I had surgery to remove endometriosis and ovarian cysts. I then began taking metformin to control my out-of-control insulin levels (the cause of PCOS). In January, 2004, I started four rounds of fertility drugs and artificial insemination with no success. After six months off from the endless and tiring rounds of needles and planned sexual intercourse (blame my doctor for the technical babble), I had given up and was filling out the adoption paperwork. Finally, in January, 2005, at the insistence of Ty-man and my doctor, I agreed to one more round of artificial insemination and, whaddaya know, it took! Eight months later we became the parents of our twins, Bubba and Miss-Miss. A week after their first birthday, I took a pregnancy test and was shocked to learn it was positive! No fertility treatments, no doctor intervention, just me and the Ty-man and some old-fashioned nookie. Nine months later, the J-man arrived and that's my little family!
7. I consider my close girl friends and their significant others to be my sisters and brothers. I think it's a side-effect of being an only child that my life-long friends have become my siblings.
8. My father was a veteran of the Korean War. Obviously, my parents waited until their 30s and 40s to have their one and only child. My father was drafted into the Marines during the Korean War. He was a telephone line repairman. He never saw action, but always told stories of the Korean women leaving the squid, at the bottom of the telephone poles, to dry in the sun. The stench? Special.
9. My father-in-law almost has a Ph.D. in physics. My mother-in-law was upset, early in their marriage, that he was spending more time on his thesis than with her. So, he threw it into the fireplace and that was that. Yeah. Makes my stomach lurch, too.
10. My mother-in-law was a nurse and my mom nearly found fame as a ballet dancer. Yep, you read it right. Betty was a nurse and my mom danced with the Charleston, WV Ballet Company. Such talent in this family!
So there you have the first 10! Tomorrow? Get ready for the next round - the ten most memorable moments in my life!
23 May 2008
Gettin' the Heck Outta Dodge!
So, we're out of here. Mom-in-law is on kid duty with frequent assists from my mom and the Ty-man's brother and sister-in-law. God bless you all. I must apologize for my absence from reading and commenting the last couple of days. Turns out the twins have a nasty viral throat crud. So, when I'm not hand feeding three children or dosing them with alternating Tylenol and Motrin, I've been slowly losing my shit over the fact that I'm leaving. My sick children. Here. Without me. Ugh. When I get back, all will be well (literally) and I'll be back at your places. Promise.
Anyhoo, we're off to brave Atlanta traffic, airport security, body cavity searches, airplane peanuts, strangers sleeping and slobbering on my shoulder, one lay-over, and amorous honeymooners (a.k.a. mile-high clubbers). I'll be back in the blogverse next Friday. Until then, I've pre-written seven bright, sparkling posts for your reading enjoyment. Or pain.
Until then, enjoy this gem. It was the same dance I did this morning before leaving the house!
Anyhoo, we're off to brave Atlanta traffic, airport security, body cavity searches, airplane peanuts, strangers sleeping and slobbering on my shoulder, one lay-over, and amorous honeymooners (a.k.a. mile-high clubbers). I'll be back in the blogverse next Friday. Until then, I've pre-written seven bright, sparkling posts for your reading enjoyment. Or pain.
Until then, enjoy this gem. It was the same dance I did this morning before leaving the house!
21 May 2008
Preparations
As of next Tuesday, the Ty-man and I will have been married for 13 years.
Wow.
Thirteen years of bliss, joy, heartache, stress, insanity, happiness, joy, laughs, and tears. In those 13 years we've gained beautiful children, understanding, patience, and weight. It's been a strange and wonderful trip, this marriage thing, and we're lucky to be on it together.
For the first time in 10 years, we're taking an honest-to-God vacation on our anniversary. For our third anniversary, we hit all the Florida high spots. We had vowed, at one time, to return to our honeymoon destination (Seattle) for our 10th. Alas, I was large with children. This year is different because we're headed to Antigua from which we felt the pull of the Caribbean, remembered the lure of the sand, and heard the siren song of an all-inclusive resort with endless alcoholic beverages.
You guessed it. Drunken anniversary sex with no kids to interrupt us. Woo hoo!
So, I found out that Sandals is like a cruise on land. "Cruise on land" literally translates to "dress your ass up for dinners." Um, yeah hi. I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Heather, a mom of three, and my wardrobe consists of jeans, shorts, skorts (Mother of Christ), and 20 Old Navy t-shirts in varying colors, Crocs, and mommy-hair that is never styled. And you want me to dress up every night? For dinner? With make-up, decent hair, and a dress?
Mother. Puss. Bucket.
You all know I bought a dress on Sunday. That's one dress. I still have six more outfits to go and a limited budget 'cause this trip has broken the CMG bank. So, off I went, digging into the disaster that is my closet, looking for something that will pass for Sure, I'm a stylish and reasonably fashionable woman who does this everyday and isn't at all concerned with her ever-widening ass or her flabby upper arms. Definitely.
Allow me to share with you my inner closet-searching monologue.
OK, bought this dress two years ago. It's a size four. Will it fit. YES! If I don't wear a bra and if I suck in my gut. With a bra, it's not going to zip. OK, no bra means nipples. Remember to pack band-aids for that. Now. How about these pants with that top. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Why is that top in here?!? It's a size 2. Only if I shave the boobs off and wear a corset. These crop pants? Yeah, they scream, "Somebody! Please! Spit-up on me!" What about these heels with those trousers. Oh, God. It looks like I'm trying too hard. Wait, I am trying too hard. I suppose it's decent.
As you can guess, this went on for 90 minutes and I can tell you that my pale, flabby butt and arms managed to find seven, count 'em, seven proper dress-up-for-dinner clothes for this trip.
I'm spent. Where's the chocolate?
Wow.
Thirteen years of bliss, joy, heartache, stress, insanity, happiness, joy, laughs, and tears. In those 13 years we've gained beautiful children, understanding, patience, and weight. It's been a strange and wonderful trip, this marriage thing, and we're lucky to be on it together.
For the first time in 10 years, we're taking an honest-to-God vacation on our anniversary. For our third anniversary, we hit all the Florida high spots. We had vowed, at one time, to return to our honeymoon destination (Seattle) for our 10th. Alas, I was large with children. This year is different because we're headed to Antigua from which we felt the pull of the Caribbean, remembered the lure of the sand, and heard the siren song of an all-inclusive resort with endless alcoholic beverages.
You guessed it. Drunken anniversary sex with no kids to interrupt us. Woo hoo!
So, I found out that Sandals is like a cruise on land. "Cruise on land" literally translates to "dress your ass up for dinners." Um, yeah hi. I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Heather, a mom of three, and my wardrobe consists of jeans, shorts, skorts (Mother of Christ), and 20 Old Navy t-shirts in varying colors, Crocs, and mommy-hair that is never styled. And you want me to dress up every night? For dinner? With make-up, decent hair, and a dress?
Mother. Puss. Bucket.
You all know I bought a dress on Sunday. That's one dress. I still have six more outfits to go and a limited budget 'cause this trip has broken the CMG bank. So, off I went, digging into the disaster that is my closet, looking for something that will pass for Sure, I'm a stylish and reasonably fashionable woman who does this everyday and isn't at all concerned with her ever-widening ass or her flabby upper arms. Definitely.
Allow me to share with you my inner closet-searching monologue.
OK, bought this dress two years ago. It's a size four. Will it fit. YES! If I don't wear a bra and if I suck in my gut. With a bra, it's not going to zip. OK, no bra means nipples. Remember to pack band-aids for that. Now. How about these pants with that top. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Why is that top in here?!? It's a size 2. Only if I shave the boobs off and wear a corset. These crop pants? Yeah, they scream, "Somebody! Please! Spit-up on me!" What about these heels with those trousers. Oh, God. It looks like I'm trying too hard. Wait, I am trying too hard. I suppose it's decent.
As you can guess, this went on for 90 minutes and I can tell you that my pale, flabby butt and arms managed to find seven, count 'em, seven proper dress-up-for-dinner clothes for this trip.
I'm spent. Where's the chocolate?
20 May 2008
Comfort Levels
You know me. I'm all about the blog theft. If someone else's blog can give me a writing idea, I'm all for it. Inspire me, fellow bloggers!
Gypsy is an amazing writer. Each day she astounds me and I think If ever I become famous, this woman will write my biography. Seriously. So, I tuned into her blog last week and found this gem. I will attempt to do the same here.
As we get older we figure out our likes and dislikes, our places of comfort and happiness. Whenever we take Bubba and Miss-Miss somewhere new, to the aquarium, the playground, a new restaurant, they are excited at the prospect of an adventure, but they ultimately ask, "Can we go home?" Their sense of self and of comfort is at home, within our four walls with eight-year-old carpeting and purple walls. That is where they are happy.
Where do I feel happy and at peace?
At home
On my in-law's property, sitting on the rocks at the first waterfall of Canada Creek.
In my Tempur-Pedic bed, on my right side, reading a book
Anywhere in the town of Lewisburg, West Virginia (my grandparents' home)
On the beach
Under water
In a scuba diving shop
Amongst the Appalachian Mountains.
Deep inside a cave
At a cool, crisp, autumn high school football game
In a book store
At DragonCon
Whenever I take the kids to the pediatrician, much crying ensues. They know that coming soon is an uncomfortable examination, followed by a vaccination. It's enough to stress anyone. These are the places that make me uncomfortable and wish I was elsewhere:
Inside dressing rooms, trying on clothes
In church, during a service - any church
Eating at fancy restaurants
In a courthouse
At any social situation with many strangers
Being a part of heated political/religious discussions
Driving over tall bridges
Being beside or inside cruise ships (too big)
At the Humane society/pound (all those animals that I can't take home)
Inside hospitals, specifically the oncology section
So tell me, dear readers, what places or situations make you comfortable and/or uncomfortable? Where is your place of peace?
Gypsy is an amazing writer. Each day she astounds me and I think If ever I become famous, this woman will write my biography. Seriously. So, I tuned into her blog last week and found this gem. I will attempt to do the same here.
As we get older we figure out our likes and dislikes, our places of comfort and happiness. Whenever we take Bubba and Miss-Miss somewhere new, to the aquarium, the playground, a new restaurant, they are excited at the prospect of an adventure, but they ultimately ask, "Can we go home?" Their sense of self and of comfort is at home, within our four walls with eight-year-old carpeting and purple walls. That is where they are happy.
Where do I feel happy and at peace?
At home
On my in-law's property, sitting on the rocks at the first waterfall of Canada Creek.
In my Tempur-Pedic bed, on my right side, reading a book
Anywhere in the town of Lewisburg, West Virginia (my grandparents' home)
On the beach
Under water
In a scuba diving shop
Amongst the Appalachian Mountains.
Deep inside a cave
At a cool, crisp, autumn high school football game
In a book store
At DragonCon
Whenever I take the kids to the pediatrician, much crying ensues. They know that coming soon is an uncomfortable examination, followed by a vaccination. It's enough to stress anyone. These are the places that make me uncomfortable and wish I was elsewhere:
Inside dressing rooms, trying on clothes
In church, during a service - any church
Eating at fancy restaurants
In a courthouse
At any social situation with many strangers
Being a part of heated political/religious discussions
Driving over tall bridges
Being beside or inside cruise ships (too big)
At the Humane society/pound (all those animals that I can't take home)
Inside hospitals, specifically the oncology section
So tell me, dear readers, what places or situations make you comfortable and/or uncomfortable? Where is your place of peace?
19 May 2008
Sunday Worship
Sundays are my day of rest, my day to get away from the kids, the house, the Ty-man, the dishes, and so on. You get the picture. My Sundays typically begin with sleeping in for two blessed hours. Unless, of course, I'm at the WellStar emergency clinic with Miss-Miss who, it turns out, has a wicked case of strep throat. I can't figure out how she got it. It's not like she's been licking door handles or - oh wait, maybe she was. Whoops!
After joking with the pharmacist about needing five prescription bottles of amoxicillin instead of just one since every one of us will probably have this crap by the end of the week, I dropped a fussy Miss-Miss off at the house (have fun, Ty-man!) and I was off!
First, it was the Marietta Greek Festival and some damned good food:
Oh, yeah. I gorged. "Yes, I'd like Sampler #1 with a Greek salad." But, ma'am, Sampler #1 already comes with a salad. "I know. Give me another one." Hee hee!
Then, it was over to the Church of the Holy Transfiguration:
I took the church tour and discovered this beautiful example of iconographic art:
This gorgeous oak carving:
And this area behind the altar:
It's the "holy of holies" where only the priests and altar boys can go. Hmmmm, gotta figure out how to get back there next year. I then made a small donation for a candle. Me, a deist, lit a candle for my atheist cousin-in-law and brand-new mommy. Holy Transfiguration? Expect a lightning storm later tonight.
Then? It was down to the pastry tent for some loukoumades:
These are also known as "Krispy Kreme doughnut holes on crack." Well, that's what I call deep-fried pastry balls dipped in honey and served by plump, happy Greek women. I chowed down, listened to some Greek music, and left my pancreas panting in the chair beside me. Poor thing was worn out after that sugar rush.
Now that I had stuffed myself silly, it was time to shop for a new dress. Seriously. Isn't that the best time to go shopping? When you're belly is poking out from the loukoumades, rice, chicken, lamb, spanikopita, and - well you get the picture.
I finally found the dress. But? It's a surprise for the Ty-man. So, Ty-man, don't click here. Everyone else? Feel free to take a peek. Finding this dress was a torturous affair. I no longer have a size 0/2, pre-kid body that can wear cute, kicky clothes. I have more of a size 8 (which is actually a size 12 since manufacturers adjusted the numbers to make our 21st century obese society feel better about themselves) post kids, no hips, flabby belly, dimpled thighs type of body that only looks good in denim skorts and Old Navy t-shirts of various colors. Ish. Was that too much information? Bad mental picture? Me, too.
But, I have decided that I shall now buy all my clothes at Coldwater Creek because their sizing? Makes me a size 4. Yeah. That's what I said. I figure if I keep eating Greek-festival-style I can be a size 0 again by 2012! Woo hoo!
Finally, I took a drive over to the local cinema to watch the 135-minute long epileptic seizure known as Speed Racer. Whew. Um... yeah. I got nothin'.
And that's enough randomness for today. I'm off to shoot up some insulin and re-think what I'm going to eat for the next week or two.
After joking with the pharmacist about needing five prescription bottles of amoxicillin instead of just one since every one of us will probably have this crap by the end of the week, I dropped a fussy Miss-Miss off at the house (have fun, Ty-man!) and I was off!
First, it was the Marietta Greek Festival and some damned good food:
Oh, yeah. I gorged. "Yes, I'd like Sampler #1 with a Greek salad." But, ma'am, Sampler #1 already comes with a salad. "I know. Give me another one." Hee hee!
Then, it was over to the Church of the Holy Transfiguration:
I took the church tour and discovered this beautiful example of iconographic art:
This gorgeous oak carving:
And this area behind the altar:
It's the "holy of holies" where only the priests and altar boys can go. Hmmmm, gotta figure out how to get back there next year. I then made a small donation for a candle. Me, a deist, lit a candle for my atheist cousin-in-law and brand-new mommy. Holy Transfiguration? Expect a lightning storm later tonight.
Then? It was down to the pastry tent for some loukoumades:
These are also known as "Krispy Kreme doughnut holes on crack." Well, that's what I call deep-fried pastry balls dipped in honey and served by plump, happy Greek women. I chowed down, listened to some Greek music, and left my pancreas panting in the chair beside me. Poor thing was worn out after that sugar rush.
Now that I had stuffed myself silly, it was time to shop for a new dress. Seriously. Isn't that the best time to go shopping? When you're belly is poking out from the loukoumades, rice, chicken, lamb, spanikopita, and - well you get the picture.
I finally found the dress. But? It's a surprise for the Ty-man. So, Ty-man, don't click here. Everyone else? Feel free to take a peek. Finding this dress was a torturous affair. I no longer have a size 0/2, pre-kid body that can wear cute, kicky clothes. I have more of a size 8 (which is actually a size 12 since manufacturers adjusted the numbers to make our 21st century obese society feel better about themselves) post kids, no hips, flabby belly, dimpled thighs type of body that only looks good in denim skorts and Old Navy t-shirts of various colors. Ish. Was that too much information? Bad mental picture? Me, too.
But, I have decided that I shall now buy all my clothes at Coldwater Creek because their sizing? Makes me a size 4. Yeah. That's what I said. I figure if I keep eating Greek-festival-style I can be a size 0 again by 2012! Woo hoo!
Finally, I took a drive over to the local cinema to watch the 135-minute long epileptic seizure known as Speed Racer. Whew. Um... yeah. I got nothin'.
And that's enough randomness for today. I'm off to shoot up some insulin and re-think what I'm going to eat for the next week or two.
17 May 2008
Dangerous Criminal On the Loose!
All Citizens! Alert!
Be on the look-out for this dangerous criminal! He may be young, but he's crafty. His name is J-man, but he answers to Bubba Bear, Booger, Goober, and 25 Cent. He is addicted to Cheerios and he will stop at nothing to feed said addiction! He will steal from his brother, sister, parents, and even you! He is also known to free-base whole, organic milk which typically causes a dribble of white on his chin and a blank stare on his face.
Be warned! Lock your refrigerators! Booby-trap your cereal boxes! Protect your breakfast foods at all costs! If you see this criminal in your area, please call your local police!
Or, just lead him back to our house with a trail of O's. He'll meekly follow, eating as he goes.
Still, though. Hide your milk. And your women.
16 May 2008
Michigan and Florida Are Insignificant?
OK, I never blog about politics or elections. I mean, I did joke about Mike Huckabee looking like Evita Peron. That was warranted. But, I have a question and a beef that I must ask and get off my chest.
Ready?
Any Floridians or Michigan-ites who happen to read this and who happen to be Democrats, please comment and let me know what you think. Or if you're neither? Comment anyway. I want the opinion of my fellow Americans (no Tricky Dick jokes, please).
Where the hell does the Democratic National Committee (DNC) get off telling Michigan and Florida Democrats that their primary votes don’t count because their state governments decided to have primaries contrary to when the DNC wanted them? What. The. Fuck?! (Yes, this time I typed out fuck. This? Warrants it.)
The last time I checked, this is America (getting my General Patton face on – proselytizing in front of an American flag up on a large stage, thank you very much). If I’m registered, then my vote should count on whatever day elections are held in my state. Presidential election? Counted. School bond election? Counted. Voting for dog catcher? Counted. Republican? Democrat? Libertarian? Independent? Counted. Counted. Counted. And counted. There should be no question regarding the counting of votes in this country. This should hold true for your vote, Ty-man’s vote, my mom’s vote, and the vote of every Michigan-ite and Floridian – every flipping American. What I need to know is where is the outcry? Where are the mass protests? Why have those two states been quiet? If I had woken up one morning and found out that either party was stating that Georgia votes wouldn’t count in our February primary, I would have been knocking down some doors and telling said party to go fuck themselves and I wouldn’t have relented until my vote counted, because I’m an American and my vote will count, dammit, as is my right. It’s not up to my party to decide if my vote will count, it’s up to me and my presence or lack thereof at the polling place.
Gad, every damned time I hear the news and the lack of inaction regarding the counting of votes in the Michigan and Florida primaries toward the Democratic nominee I just want to scream. I would like to take the DNC and Howard Dean and shove them down a toilet drain. Seriously. It inflames me. Can’t you tell?
So, that’s what I want to know. What do you guys think? I know there are Floridians and Michigan-ites who read my little blog. I want to know how you guys feel. Cause I’m severely pissed about it and I don’t live in either state and don’t even count myself as Democrat.
Ready?
Any Floridians or Michigan-ites who happen to read this and who happen to be Democrats, please comment and let me know what you think. Or if you're neither? Comment anyway. I want the opinion of my fellow Americans (no Tricky Dick jokes, please).
Where the hell does the Democratic National Committee (DNC) get off telling Michigan and Florida Democrats that their primary votes don’t count because their state governments decided to have primaries contrary to when the DNC wanted them? What. The. Fuck?! (Yes, this time I typed out fuck. This? Warrants it.)
The last time I checked, this is America (getting my General Patton face on – proselytizing in front of an American flag up on a large stage, thank you very much). If I’m registered, then my vote should count on whatever day elections are held in my state. Presidential election? Counted. School bond election? Counted. Voting for dog catcher? Counted. Republican? Democrat? Libertarian? Independent? Counted. Counted. Counted. And counted. There should be no question regarding the counting of votes in this country. This should hold true for your vote, Ty-man’s vote, my mom’s vote, and the vote of every Michigan-ite and Floridian – every flipping American. What I need to know is where is the outcry? Where are the mass protests? Why have those two states been quiet? If I had woken up one morning and found out that either party was stating that Georgia votes wouldn’t count in our February primary, I would have been knocking down some doors and telling said party to go fuck themselves and I wouldn’t have relented until my vote counted, because I’m an American and my vote will count, dammit, as is my right. It’s not up to my party to decide if my vote will count, it’s up to me and my presence or lack thereof at the polling place.
Gad, every damned time I hear the news and the lack of inaction regarding the counting of votes in the Michigan and Florida primaries toward the Democratic nominee I just want to scream. I would like to take the DNC and Howard Dean and shove them down a toilet drain. Seriously. It inflames me. Can’t you tell?
So, that’s what I want to know. What do you guys think? I know there are Floridians and Michigan-ites who read my little blog. I want to know how you guys feel. Cause I’m severely pissed about it and I don’t live in either state and don’t even count myself as Democrat.
15 May 2008
Dialog, Part 8
Bubba: Tome here, Mama.
Me: OK sweetie. Where are we going? Bubba leads me across the yard to the wall behind the magnolia tree.
Bubba: Sit here. He points to the top of the ledge.
Me: OK, I’m going to sit right here.
Bubba: Leans down and puts his arms around my neck. I got you, Mama. I got you.
Me: Awwwwww, thank you sweetie.
I then tear up and try not to bawl over how sweet my little boy has become.
I guess I just need to shut up.
14 May 2008
Could We Make a Deal?
Whew. Sorry about yesterday's post. I needed that. Sometimes, I just need to purge all those fears and insecurities that I know I'm having because I'm convinced that I'm the only woman/mother on the planet who has them. Then, I hear from all of you, my wonderful blog friends and family, the people who keep me connected to the world outside my four walls and who let me know there's more to life than grilled cheese sandwiches and dirty diapers and that I'm not the only woman/mother thinking these thoughts and having these doubts and worries. And I thank you for that and for your love and support. You give me much strength.
OK, getting too sappy around here. How about a snicker or two?
My in-laws (parents and brother) are all building wine cellars in their homes. I think it's awesome but it's not for me or the Ty-man. We just aren't wine drinkers. I wish we were. It seems so grown-up to be a wine drinker. I envy all those people who sit in Italian restaurants and order the house red to complement their dinner and then actually savor the taste! What a concept. My wine drinking likes include... well, none. I just don't like the flavor. Now, margaritas? That's a different story altogether.
I am, at least, a coffee drinker. Coffee I like. Coffee I savor. I buy the coffee in whole bean form, keep the bag in the fridge, grind the beans just before brewing, and take a big whiff of the so-thick-you-can-stand-your-spoon-up brew just before sipping. Ah. That's the life.
To keep coffee fresh, it should be kept in a cool place. I keep mine in the fridge but I'm wondering about a coffee humidor. Ever been to a cigar store? They typically have big walk-in humidor, set to the perfect temperature and humidity, to keep the cigars fresh. So, I think I need a walk-in fridge, in my basement, with large wooden bins of coffee beans, ready to be scooped, ground, and brewed to my satisfaction. And where will I get such large quantities of coffee beans? (Not to worry NATUI, you're off the hook.)
Columbian cocaine smugglers.
Seriously.
Don't those guys use coffee beans to throw off the drug-sniffing dog's scent so they don't get caught with a butt-load of cocaine? So, here's my thought. Any of you cocaine smugglers want to get rid of your coffee beans after you've handed off the drugs, just shoot me an e-mail. I'll be glad to take the coffee beans off your hands for a decent price and that's one less thing for you to worry about. Cool?
I'll be waiting to hear from you!
OK, getting too sappy around here. How about a snicker or two?
My in-laws (parents and brother) are all building wine cellars in their homes. I think it's awesome but it's not for me or the Ty-man. We just aren't wine drinkers. I wish we were. It seems so grown-up to be a wine drinker. I envy all those people who sit in Italian restaurants and order the house red to complement their dinner and then actually savor the taste! What a concept. My wine drinking likes include... well, none. I just don't like the flavor. Now, margaritas? That's a different story altogether.
I am, at least, a coffee drinker. Coffee I like. Coffee I savor. I buy the coffee in whole bean form, keep the bag in the fridge, grind the beans just before brewing, and take a big whiff of the so-thick-you-can-stand-your-spoon-up brew just before sipping. Ah. That's the life.
To keep coffee fresh, it should be kept in a cool place. I keep mine in the fridge but I'm wondering about a coffee humidor. Ever been to a cigar store? They typically have big walk-in humidor, set to the perfect temperature and humidity, to keep the cigars fresh. So, I think I need a walk-in fridge, in my basement, with large wooden bins of coffee beans, ready to be scooped, ground, and brewed to my satisfaction. And where will I get such large quantities of coffee beans? (Not to worry NATUI, you're off the hook.)
Columbian cocaine smugglers.
Seriously.
Don't those guys use coffee beans to throw off the drug-sniffing dog's scent so they don't get caught with a butt-load of cocaine? So, here's my thought. Any of you cocaine smugglers want to get rid of your coffee beans after you've handed off the drugs, just shoot me an e-mail. I'll be glad to take the coffee beans off your hands for a decent price and that's one less thing for you to worry about. Cool?
I'll be waiting to hear from you!
13 May 2008
Overwhelmed
There are days I just can't breathe, can't function. My head aches, my heart and brain both ache, and I just can't seem to dig myself out of the muck of my own despair. It's like a separate person consuming the happiest part of me and replacing it with feelings of worthlessness.
My house is an utter wreck. This bothers me. Like gets under my skin bothers me. I can't function when the house is trashed. After J-man's party and the inaction of Mothers' Day, I'm looking at it and I don't know where to start. Dishes are piled up, toys are strewn everywhere. clothes are in the washer and have been for 24 hours, the beds all need to be stripped and re-made, and the kids are all still in their pajamas. And what am I doing? Blogging. Yeah, like that's going to help my house, my kids, or me.
Most days I don't feel like I spend enough time with the kids because I'm doing laundry or dusting or putting away toys or cleaning bathrooms or... anything. On the days I spend with the kids and not the house, I go to bed with a dirty, nasty house that just drives me nuts. My super-mom friend Kristi has an almost-five-year-old, a three-year-old, and a little girl one month younger than J-man. She cleans. She mothers. She home-schools. She cooks. She runs errands. And? Her three-year-old? Just a few months older than the twins? Can name dinosaurs, alphabet letters, and bird species. Mine? Not even close. They know Disney characters.
Then there's transitioning J-man from Gerber pureed foods to actual, real finger foods. Plus? There's the large, looming shadow of potty-training for the twins in the next couple of months before school starts in August. How in the hell do you potty train twins? At the same time? Last time I checked, bathrooms aren't constructed with side-by-side toilets. Doing all that plus taking care of J-man and my sanity at the same time just freaks me out. I know Ty-man's mom has volunteered her services and will help, but my mind still boggles.
I just don't think I'm any good at this. I'm responsible for their well-being, for making sure they have happy childhood memories, for feeding, bathing, clothing, entertaining, nurturing, and teaching them. I can barely do all that for myself. Most of the time I feel I can't relate to my kids. Ty-man is so good with them and I just don't have the patience, which in turn frustrates me even more. I have such high expectations for myself as a mother and I'm falling flat on my face, which makes me withdraw even further. Better for them to have no memories of me than bad memories.
I feel like such a friggin' failure and I can feel motherhood slipping away. I can't keep my head on straight. I can't keep my house straight. I can't even educate my children past Beauty and the Beast or the latest episode of Little Bear and I. Just. Can't. Breathe. Today.
(I wrote this yesterday at 10AM. Am I feeling better? Somewhat. But I still feel like I've taken a turn on Failure Road and that I'm staring at three future teenagers who will hate their mother.)
My house is an utter wreck. This bothers me. Like gets under my skin bothers me. I can't function when the house is trashed. After J-man's party and the inaction of Mothers' Day, I'm looking at it and I don't know where to start. Dishes are piled up, toys are strewn everywhere. clothes are in the washer and have been for 24 hours, the beds all need to be stripped and re-made, and the kids are all still in their pajamas. And what am I doing? Blogging. Yeah, like that's going to help my house, my kids, or me.
Most days I don't feel like I spend enough time with the kids because I'm doing laundry or dusting or putting away toys or cleaning bathrooms or... anything. On the days I spend with the kids and not the house, I go to bed with a dirty, nasty house that just drives me nuts. My super-mom friend Kristi has an almost-five-year-old, a three-year-old, and a little girl one month younger than J-man. She cleans. She mothers. She home-schools. She cooks. She runs errands. And? Her three-year-old? Just a few months older than the twins? Can name dinosaurs, alphabet letters, and bird species. Mine? Not even close. They know Disney characters.
Then there's transitioning J-man from Gerber pureed foods to actual, real finger foods. Plus? There's the large, looming shadow of potty-training for the twins in the next couple of months before school starts in August. How in the hell do you potty train twins? At the same time? Last time I checked, bathrooms aren't constructed with side-by-side toilets. Doing all that plus taking care of J-man and my sanity at the same time just freaks me out. I know Ty-man's mom has volunteered her services and will help, but my mind still boggles.
I just don't think I'm any good at this. I'm responsible for their well-being, for making sure they have happy childhood memories, for feeding, bathing, clothing, entertaining, nurturing, and teaching them. I can barely do all that for myself. Most of the time I feel I can't relate to my kids. Ty-man is so good with them and I just don't have the patience, which in turn frustrates me even more. I have such high expectations for myself as a mother and I'm falling flat on my face, which makes me withdraw even further. Better for them to have no memories of me than bad memories.
I feel like such a friggin' failure and I can feel motherhood slipping away. I can't keep my head on straight. I can't keep my house straight. I can't even educate my children past Beauty and the Beast or the latest episode of Little Bear and I. Just. Can't. Breathe. Today.
(I wrote this yesterday at 10AM. Am I feeling better? Somewhat. But I still feel like I've taken a turn on Failure Road and that I'm staring at three future teenagers who will hate their mother.)
12 May 2008
Monday Shmonday
OK, Mothers' Day was... good. I got oodles (a German word, I think) of Godiva dark chocolate goodness from the kiddles. I got a sweet card from the Ty-man, and I took my mom out for Italian and Iron Man (Yes, I realize I've seen it three times. I have an addiction and it's name is Robert Downey, Jr.).
All of this? Led to a late night and a headache of massive proportions. So, before my skull explodes and spews forth brain matter onto my computer screen (ah, the visuals I give you), I leave you with this beautiful nugget.
Damn. Wasn't I just the cutest kid alive?
All of this? Led to a late night and a headache of massive proportions. So, before my skull explodes and spews forth brain matter onto my computer screen (ah, the visuals I give you), I leave you with this beautiful nugget.
Damn. Wasn't I just the cutest kid alive?
11 May 2008
Happy Birthday Sweet J-Man!
Today my littlest man turns one.
I can remember taking a pregnancy test five days after the twins' first birthday, thinking Nah. I'm just paranoid about being late. I've been late my entire life. This? Is the usual lateness. It took five rounds of hormones and insemination to have the twins. It's not possible for me to be pregnant after some old-fashioned sex.
Actually? Possible it was.
First, he was a surprise. Then? A miracle. And now?
He's the sweetest little boy in the world whose face lights up at the slightest excuse. He walked at 11 months and I think he might talk at 13 months because everything is fodder for "Da-da-da-da-da-da-da" in a little boy voice with a slight Southern twang. He's a miniature of his father with my eyes and he is just the busiest little man I've ever seen.
It's a privilege to be his mother and I can't think of a better way to spend Mothers' Day than to celebrate his entrance to the world one year ago.
Happy Birthday, J-man! I love you!
09 May 2008
My Own Personal War
I'm on a mission. A mission from God, as Elwood and Jake would say. My mission? To kill every damned carpenter bee this side of the Mississippi.
Well, maybe not that many. Maybe just the little f-ers who are unlucky enough to wander onto my property.
Observe the enemy:
I know! I know! I hate close-up pictures of bugs, too! Freak me out! *Shiver*
So, up until late last summer, we had no exposed wood on the outside of our property. With the re-design of our back yard, which included a new fence, and building a porch/stoop cover this spring, we have exposed/lightly stained wood. And these little bitches ('cause it's the females who bore the holes)? Think they've just found a beautiful buffet.
Observe the ho digging her hole in the underside of the porch:
This was before I attempted to take her out with a large broom. I was unsuccessful yet the neighbors, I think, got a good laugh.
The hole count thus far? Two on the underside of my stoop cover. Three on three separate fence posts. And one in a dowel that holds up my Sky Chair. Yes. The little wench decided to drill her way through my chair support. My white ash, hand-stained Sky Chair dowel. But I'm not bitter.
So far the body count is two. I've managed to crush one with a sand bag (it was a bad day - something had to bear the brunt of my frustration) and the other? Miss-Miss's toy broom. Oh, yeah. That was a funny sight. Me pounding the hell out of some poor, unsuspecting bee, squealing with bloodlust, while Miss-Miss and Bubba watched quietly from their toy house. Within minutes, there she was, my stalwart daughter doing battle against imaginary bees with her broom. How do I feel about my innocent 2-year-old wanting to follow in Mama's footsteps as the next generation of "bee-killer extraordinaire?"
Damned proud.
Well, maybe not that many. Maybe just the little f-ers who are unlucky enough to wander onto my property.
Observe the enemy:
I know! I know! I hate close-up pictures of bugs, too! Freak me out! *Shiver*
So, up until late last summer, we had no exposed wood on the outside of our property. With the re-design of our back yard, which included a new fence, and building a porch/stoop cover this spring, we have exposed/lightly stained wood. And these little bitches ('cause it's the females who bore the holes)? Think they've just found a beautiful buffet.
Observe the ho digging her hole in the underside of the porch:
This was before I attempted to take her out with a large broom. I was unsuccessful yet the neighbors, I think, got a good laugh.
The hole count thus far? Two on the underside of my stoop cover. Three on three separate fence posts. And one in a dowel that holds up my Sky Chair. Yes. The little wench decided to drill her way through my chair support. My white ash, hand-stained Sky Chair dowel. But I'm not bitter.
So far the body count is two. I've managed to crush one with a sand bag (it was a bad day - something had to bear the brunt of my frustration) and the other? Miss-Miss's toy broom. Oh, yeah. That was a funny sight. Me pounding the hell out of some poor, unsuspecting bee, squealing with bloodlust, while Miss-Miss and Bubba watched quietly from their toy house. Within minutes, there she was, my stalwart daughter doing battle against imaginary bees with her broom. How do I feel about my innocent 2-year-old wanting to follow in Mama's footsteps as the next generation of "bee-killer extraordinaire?"
Damned proud.
08 May 2008
The 10 Commandments of Movie-Watching
OK, ladies and gentlebloggers. I, Coal Miner's Granddaughter, am here to deliver to you, straight from the stone tablets given unto me in the Hollywood Hills by George Lucas himself...
The 10 Commandments of Movie-Watching!
(Think a booming James Earl Jones-type of voice. Echoing from on high. Because, as we all know, God sounds like James Earl Jones. Seriously. The burning bush in my front yard told me so!)
1. Thou shalt not use your cell phone in any form or fashion during a movie or its previews. No texting, no receiving calls, no making of calls. - Seriously, people. Can you not live for two f-ing hours, in the moment of the movie, and let your peeps just hang? Come on. You've probably already texted/twittered them that you're at said movie. They can deal! Because if you don't put the phone down? I just might have to throw it at your face.
2. Thou shalt leave your baby/toddler/young child at home with a babysitter. - Honest to God, I am so friggin' tired of going to these really loud and scary horror/sci-fi/action flicks and seeing a young couple in the row in front of me with a baby. A MOTHER F-ING BABY! Put down the large popcorn, Diet Coke, and box of Goobers and use the money you would have spent on said concessions on a damned babysitter. Can't afford it? STAY AT HOME!
3. Thou shalt not talk during the movie. - Duh.
4. Thou shalt not talk during the official movie previews. - Some people in the audience are there to see a specific preview and couldn't care less about the movie. At times, really important upcoming sci-fi movie previews can be attached to the lamest movies and those of us who are die-hard sci-fi geeks are there for the two-minute preview. So, SHUT THE F UP!
5. Thou shalt keep thy feet to thyself. - Yes, if the seat in front of you is empty, feel free to prop up those clodhoppers at will. But? If someone is sitting in front of you? Like me? I'm not your personal ottoman, asshat! GET YOUR FEET DOWN!
6. Thou shalt not "nervous laugh" during pivotal movie moments. - Little air-headed teenage girl? In the back? With your male posse? Trying to be cool? Yeah, um, how do I say this. Those boys aren't at that movie for you. They're at that movie for the movie. What a concept, I know. I'm there for the movie, too. Not for your air-head commentary and certainly not for your ill-timed nervous "how do I respond to this important part of the plot" laughter. Just be quiet. Please? I'm sure you can manage that for two hours. If not? I have duct tape in the car. The silver tape will complement your earrings. Honest.
7. Thou shalt sit next to total strangers on opening night. - That guy? That seriously geeky guy sitting in the center of the theater? He's not going to bite. He's focused on watching this movie on it's opening night. And since it's opening night? It's going to be crowded. Sit next to him - don't leave an empty seat between you. You're going to have to scoot over, anyway. The movie theater goobs will make you move over because the theater will fill to capacity and that family of four over there? They would like to sit together. So... MOVE!
8. Thou shalt watch the credits in their entirety. - Firstly, all those names in the credits? Those are real-ass people who worked on this movie. Worked hard. From the actors to the hair stylists, to the model makers, to the caterers and accountants. They, too, would like the recognition and can only get that if you watch all their names scroll by. Plus? You never know when Hollyweird is going to tack on some important plot point at the end of the credits. It happens all the time and so many people miss these things! TRAVESTY!
9. Thou shalt not complain about movie ticket prices to the movie theater management. - The movie theater management has no say regarding movie ticket prices. That's a movie production house thing. Complain to Paramount, 20th Century Fox, Disney, or don't go to the movies at all! Wait six months for the DVD. Just don't hassle the poor, frazzled theater manager who just wants to keep his employees from pissing in the popcorn machine.
10. Thou shalt pick up your trash once the movie is over. - Look. Don't pick up every piece of popcorn you dropped. But pick up your cup, popcorn container, and Goobers box, haul your lazy ass out of the theater, and drop said items in the trash cans. For the love of Pete - those poor movie theater goobs already have to mop your Iron Man slobber off the floor. Do you really think they want to pick up your trash, too?
Whew! Thanks. Feel better now...
The 10 Commandments of Movie-Watching!
(Think a booming James Earl Jones-type of voice. Echoing from on high. Because, as we all know, God sounds like James Earl Jones. Seriously. The burning bush in my front yard told me so!)
1. Thou shalt not use your cell phone in any form or fashion during a movie or its previews. No texting, no receiving calls, no making of calls. - Seriously, people. Can you not live for two f-ing hours, in the moment of the movie, and let your peeps just hang? Come on. You've probably already texted/twittered them that you're at said movie. They can deal! Because if you don't put the phone down? I just might have to throw it at your face.
2. Thou shalt leave your baby/toddler/young child at home with a babysitter. - Honest to God, I am so friggin' tired of going to these really loud and scary horror/sci-fi/action flicks and seeing a young couple in the row in front of me with a baby. A MOTHER F-ING BABY! Put down the large popcorn, Diet Coke, and box of Goobers and use the money you would have spent on said concessions on a damned babysitter. Can't afford it? STAY AT HOME!
3. Thou shalt not talk during the movie. - Duh.
4. Thou shalt not talk during the official movie previews. - Some people in the audience are there to see a specific preview and couldn't care less about the movie. At times, really important upcoming sci-fi movie previews can be attached to the lamest movies and those of us who are die-hard sci-fi geeks are there for the two-minute preview. So, SHUT THE F UP!
5. Thou shalt keep thy feet to thyself. - Yes, if the seat in front of you is empty, feel free to prop up those clodhoppers at will. But? If someone is sitting in front of you? Like me? I'm not your personal ottoman, asshat! GET YOUR FEET DOWN!
6. Thou shalt not "nervous laugh" during pivotal movie moments. - Little air-headed teenage girl? In the back? With your male posse? Trying to be cool? Yeah, um, how do I say this. Those boys aren't at that movie for you. They're at that movie for the movie. What a concept, I know. I'm there for the movie, too. Not for your air-head commentary and certainly not for your ill-timed nervous "how do I respond to this important part of the plot" laughter. Just be quiet. Please? I'm sure you can manage that for two hours. If not? I have duct tape in the car. The silver tape will complement your earrings. Honest.
7. Thou shalt sit next to total strangers on opening night. - That guy? That seriously geeky guy sitting in the center of the theater? He's not going to bite. He's focused on watching this movie on it's opening night. And since it's opening night? It's going to be crowded. Sit next to him - don't leave an empty seat between you. You're going to have to scoot over, anyway. The movie theater goobs will make you move over because the theater will fill to capacity and that family of four over there? They would like to sit together. So... MOVE!
8. Thou shalt watch the credits in their entirety. - Firstly, all those names in the credits? Those are real-ass people who worked on this movie. Worked hard. From the actors to the hair stylists, to the model makers, to the caterers and accountants. They, too, would like the recognition and can only get that if you watch all their names scroll by. Plus? You never know when Hollyweird is going to tack on some important plot point at the end of the credits. It happens all the time and so many people miss these things! TRAVESTY!
9. Thou shalt not complain about movie ticket prices to the movie theater management. - The movie theater management has no say regarding movie ticket prices. That's a movie production house thing. Complain to Paramount, 20th Century Fox, Disney, or don't go to the movies at all! Wait six months for the DVD. Just don't hassle the poor, frazzled theater manager who just wants to keep his employees from pissing in the popcorn machine.
10. Thou shalt pick up your trash once the movie is over. - Look. Don't pick up every piece of popcorn you dropped. But pick up your cup, popcorn container, and Goobers box, haul your lazy ass out of the theater, and drop said items in the trash cans. For the love of Pete - those poor movie theater goobs already have to mop your Iron Man slobber off the floor. Do you really think they want to pick up your trash, too?
Whew! Thanks. Feel better now...
07 May 2008
Who Are You and Where Is CMG?
Seriously. I've been taken over by a body snatcher. I don't know wtf is going on with me.
I? And the Ty-man? Had sex at 3:00AM yesterday.
OK, get the visuals over with. Can you picture it? See it? Good. Is it over? Continue reading...
The point I'm trying to make is that any time any body part of the Ty-man reaches over to my side of the bed during the night, I immediately wake up and shove him back over to his side of the bed. No, there isn't a piece of tape down the middle, but I know where his side ends and mine begins on our queen-size Tempur-Pedic.
I understand that it's a 60-inch wide bed. That's 30 inches of glorious space to spread out my ever-expanding mommy-ass. But I'm married to the Ty-man. All 6 feet, 3 inches of him. And the Ty-man? He likes to spread.
Out.
Normally, that drives me nuts. I want my sleep happy, comfortable, and undisturbed. Why? I don't know. I'm just made that way. I'm not a nighttime cuddler. Bite me.
But last night? When the Ty-man wandered over to my side? And planted his 20-pound exothermic arm across my chest?
Cue cheesy porn flick music and let the games begin!
(Sorry Betty and Chuck. I know this is the last thing you wanted to read regarding your sweet, youngest son. To you, he's the innocent little boy in a Star Wars t-shirt. To me? He's a sex-machine. There. I said it.)
And it's not just me being taken over by a late-night-sex-wantin'-body snatcher. I present you with the following evidence that Steve Jobs has possessed my husband:
Yep. You guessed it. That's the "I love Windows XP and Apple can't do it any better than Bill Gates does it" Ty-man. With his own MacBook Pro. Hell, he's even denounced Mr. Gates and is talking about switching our entire house (read: media server) over to Apple. Oh, yeah. I've converted him.
Your journey to the Dark Side is complete, my young apprentice! I'm so proud! *Sniff*
Writer's Note: Does this mean I actually had sex with Steve Jobs? Eeeeeewwwwwwww.
I? And the Ty-man? Had sex at 3:00AM yesterday.
OK, get the visuals over with. Can you picture it? See it? Good. Is it over? Continue reading...
The point I'm trying to make is that any time any body part of the Ty-man reaches over to my side of the bed during the night, I immediately wake up and shove him back over to his side of the bed. No, there isn't a piece of tape down the middle, but I know where his side ends and mine begins on our queen-size Tempur-Pedic.
I understand that it's a 60-inch wide bed. That's 30 inches of glorious space to spread out my ever-expanding mommy-ass. But I'm married to the Ty-man. All 6 feet, 3 inches of him. And the Ty-man? He likes to spread.
Out.
Normally, that drives me nuts. I want my sleep happy, comfortable, and undisturbed. Why? I don't know. I'm just made that way. I'm not a nighttime cuddler. Bite me.
But last night? When the Ty-man wandered over to my side? And planted his 20-pound exothermic arm across my chest?
Cue cheesy porn flick music and let the games begin!
(Sorry Betty and Chuck. I know this is the last thing you wanted to read regarding your sweet, youngest son. To you, he's the innocent little boy in a Star Wars t-shirt. To me? He's a sex-machine. There. I said it.)
And it's not just me being taken over by a late-night-sex-wantin'-body snatcher. I present you with the following evidence that Steve Jobs has possessed my husband:
Yep. You guessed it. That's the "I love Windows XP and Apple can't do it any better than Bill Gates does it" Ty-man. With his own MacBook Pro. Hell, he's even denounced Mr. Gates and is talking about switching our entire house (read: media server) over to Apple. Oh, yeah. I've converted him.
Your journey to the Dark Side is complete, my young apprentice! I'm so proud! *Sniff*
Writer's Note: Does this mean I actually had sex with Steve Jobs? Eeeeeewwwwwwww.
06 May 2008
The Kids' Table
You all know what I'm talking about. The kids' table was always the fold-up card table with an old, over-washed tablecloth. Your mother or grandmother tried so hard to dress it up but everyone knew it had spent the previous year in the basement, leaning against some lonely wall until the annual family Thanksgiving/Christmas gathering. Until that morning, the table had probably been covered in dust and cobwebs until Grandma wiped it down and covered it with that God-awful 1950s Ozzy and Harriett mess of a tablecloth. Then, the youngest children would be crammed in at said table to eat their holiday dinner. Usually the older teenagers served as temporary babysitters, stop-gaps to keep the little kids from making it into the fancy dining room with the extremely breakable china and parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles dressed to the nines for a dinner that would be consumed in minutes. The teenagers were, of course, biding their time until college when, as 18-year-old freshmen, they could consider themselves adults and ready for the "big" table.
I hated the kids' table. For me, the kids' table was a punishment. It certainly wasn't an escape from the adults, a place to throw mashed potatoes and continue playtime with my cousins. In fact, the kids' table at my grandparents' house wasn't any fun at all. At least, it wasn't fun for me.
Up until age 9, our major holidays were spent with my mother's family: her father, step-mother, sister, brother, nephews, step-sister, and step-nieces. I looked up to my older step-cousin Ann (bear with me - that's her middle name - just trying to be polite with the identities of others) and her younger sister Lynn. Although they lived out in the "boonies" they seemed so much more aware of life and the world around them. Ann was certainly the prettiest of us three, they both wore stylish, preppy clothes, and listened to Blondie, for chrissake. I couldn't compete in the looks, clothes, or music departments, but I loved playing with them. My other cousins, Lee and Alan, were just - strange. Too serious for kids aged 5 and 7 and I felt I could never connect with them. Even four years ago, at the tender age of 29, when Lee died of a drug overdose I couldn't mourn his passing. I didn't know him.
The kids' table was a place out of time for me. The cousins all got along with one another and left me out of most conversations or laughed at what I said. I felt more at ease with the adults - adults who, except for my parents, acted as if speaking with me were an inconvenience. They didn't get me and my adult-speak coming from a 9-year-old larynx was probably disconcerting. I was an honest, intelligent child who got on their nerves.
So, there I sat at the kids' table, too precocious for the other kids, too annoying and young for the adults, at an in-between place that was uncomfortable for all. I wish now there had been a third table, a Heather table, where I could have sat alone with my meal and a book.
I think I would have been happier.
I hated the kids' table. For me, the kids' table was a punishment. It certainly wasn't an escape from the adults, a place to throw mashed potatoes and continue playtime with my cousins. In fact, the kids' table at my grandparents' house wasn't any fun at all. At least, it wasn't fun for me.
Up until age 9, our major holidays were spent with my mother's family: her father, step-mother, sister, brother, nephews, step-sister, and step-nieces. I looked up to my older step-cousin Ann (bear with me - that's her middle name - just trying to be polite with the identities of others) and her younger sister Lynn. Although they lived out in the "boonies" they seemed so much more aware of life and the world around them. Ann was certainly the prettiest of us three, they both wore stylish, preppy clothes, and listened to Blondie, for chrissake. I couldn't compete in the looks, clothes, or music departments, but I loved playing with them. My other cousins, Lee and Alan, were just - strange. Too serious for kids aged 5 and 7 and I felt I could never connect with them. Even four years ago, at the tender age of 29, when Lee died of a drug overdose I couldn't mourn his passing. I didn't know him.
The kids' table was a place out of time for me. The cousins all got along with one another and left me out of most conversations or laughed at what I said. I felt more at ease with the adults - adults who, except for my parents, acted as if speaking with me were an inconvenience. They didn't get me and my adult-speak coming from a 9-year-old larynx was probably disconcerting. I was an honest, intelligent child who got on their nerves.
So, there I sat at the kids' table, too precocious for the other kids, too annoying and young for the adults, at an in-between place that was uncomfortable for all. I wish now there had been a third table, a Heather table, where I could have sat alone with my meal and a book.
I think I would have been happier.
05 May 2008
Mom My Ride
I spent Sunday celebrating my best friend's/sorority sister's 40th birthday party. Pound cake and margaritas may not sound like a great combo but, damn. We had an awesome time.
So, I leave for you, my loyal peeps, one of my favorite videos. Enjoy!
So, I leave for you, my loyal peeps, one of my favorite videos. Enjoy!
03 May 2008
Recommended Meme!
So, it's Saturday. Saturday means half my brain shuts down and those I.Q. points take a two-day vacation. Pour vous? It means a Saturday meme courtesy of Momma. The rules? Answer the questions below with. Just. One. Word.
William Shatner would dig this.
Me? Being too verbose for one word? All have explanations. So sue me.
1. Where is your mobile phone? counter (Recharging.)
2. Your significant other? relaxed (As opposed to creating another spreadsheet. He's addicted.)
3. Your hair? boring (As opposed to kicky!)
4. Your mother? restless (She's a Red Hatter. I can't ever keep track of her!)
5. Your father? deceased (Sniff.)
6. Your favorite thing? quiet (a.k.a. kids are asleep)
7. Your dream last night? nothing (Should have caught me a few nights ago. Now that was a dream.)
8. Your favorite drink? coffee (And? Cosmos)
9. Your dream/goal? life (As in loooooooong.)
10. The room you’re in? comfortable (Family room. Large couch. Big TV.)
11. Your ex? nada (No ex-husband. Ex-boyfriend? I think he's in Alabama. Ish.)
12. Your fear? entropy (Heat-death of the universe. Scary shit.)
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Bonaire (Kickin' back. Diving everyday.)
14. Where were you last night? Greenwoods (Pig. Out.)
15. What you’re not? pretty (Nope. I'm not. Nowhere close. My physical classification is "doesn't scare children or the elderly.")
16. Muffins? breakfast (Lemon poppy seed)
17. One of your wish list items? peace (Like, everywhere. Everyone getting along with everyone else.)
18. Where you grew up? Appalachia (Picturing barefoot, dirty, underfed kids, aren't you? Me, too.)
19. The last thing you did? eat (BBQ)
20. What are you wearing? clothes (Duh.)
21. Your TV? Westinghouse (Thomas Edison's arch enemy! Damned alternating current bastards!)
22. Your pets? annoying (They're cats... what do you expect?)
23. Your computer? MacBook (All hail, Steve Jobs.)
24. Your life? sheltered (Like, never leaving the house sheltered.)
25. Your mood? tired (It's evening. Hello?)
26. Missing someone? Jennifer (cousin)
27. Your car? serviceable (It's a minivan! What the hell else am I supposed to say?)
28. Something you’re not wearing? socks (Bet you were wishing I'd typed bra. Perv.)
29. Favorite Store? Gap (Actually, it's Banana Republic, but that's two words.)
30. Your summer? boring (As opposed to European vacation. Yeah. Not me.)
31. Like someone? kids (Yeah. My kids are cool. I lurv them!)
32. Your favorite color? purple (Again, duh.)
33. When is the last time you laughed? yesterday (I haven't had coffee yet. I'll laugh today after that.)
34. Last time you cried? Thursday (I think I was watching Little House on the Prairie. SHUT UP!)
William Shatner would dig this.
Me? Being too verbose for one word? All have explanations. So sue me.
1. Where is your mobile phone? counter (Recharging.)
2. Your significant other? relaxed (As opposed to creating another spreadsheet. He's addicted.)
3. Your hair? boring (As opposed to kicky!)
4. Your mother? restless (She's a Red Hatter. I can't ever keep track of her!)
5. Your father? deceased (Sniff.)
6. Your favorite thing? quiet (a.k.a. kids are asleep)
7. Your dream last night? nothing (Should have caught me a few nights ago. Now that was a dream.)
8. Your favorite drink? coffee (And? Cosmos)
9. Your dream/goal? life (As in loooooooong.)
10. The room you’re in? comfortable (Family room. Large couch. Big TV.)
11. Your ex? nada (No ex-husband. Ex-boyfriend? I think he's in Alabama. Ish.)
12. Your fear? entropy (Heat-death of the universe. Scary shit.)
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Bonaire (Kickin' back. Diving everyday.)
14. Where were you last night? Greenwoods (Pig. Out.)
15. What you’re not? pretty (Nope. I'm not. Nowhere close. My physical classification is "doesn't scare children or the elderly.")
16. Muffins? breakfast (Lemon poppy seed)
17. One of your wish list items? peace (Like, everywhere. Everyone getting along with everyone else.)
18. Where you grew up? Appalachia (Picturing barefoot, dirty, underfed kids, aren't you? Me, too.)
19. The last thing you did? eat (BBQ)
20. What are you wearing? clothes (Duh.)
21. Your TV? Westinghouse (Thomas Edison's arch enemy! Damned alternating current bastards!)
22. Your pets? annoying (They're cats... what do you expect?)
23. Your computer? MacBook (All hail, Steve Jobs.)
24. Your life? sheltered (Like, never leaving the house sheltered.)
25. Your mood? tired (It's evening. Hello?)
26. Missing someone? Jennifer (cousin)
27. Your car? serviceable (It's a minivan! What the hell else am I supposed to say?)
28. Something you’re not wearing? socks (Bet you were wishing I'd typed bra. Perv.)
29. Favorite Store? Gap (Actually, it's Banana Republic, but that's two words.)
30. Your summer? boring (As opposed to European vacation. Yeah. Not me.)
31. Like someone? kids (Yeah. My kids are cool. I lurv them!)
32. Your favorite color? purple (Again, duh.)
33. When is the last time you laughed? yesterday (I haven't had coffee yet. I'll laugh today after that.)
34. Last time you cried? Thursday (I think I was watching Little House on the Prairie. SHUT UP!)
02 May 2008
Thermodynamics 101
Today, class, we are going to talk about the exothermic process - a chemical reaction which results in a release of energy in the form of either heat, light, sound, or electricity. Why am I thinking of physics right now? Because of my husband. The Ty-man is exothermic.
Here's the theorem/equation/solution.
Ty-man is, of course, a man. Men eat food and take in oxygen as humans are wont to do. Therefore, after the digestion of food and cellular respiration, the exothermic reaction takes place.
Now, once the food is consumed and digestion begins, the first sign of the exothermic process is heard rather than seen or felt. The Ty-man produces gas and one hears a loud belch. The release of energy in the form of sound has been fulfilled. Later, he will retire to the basement to tinker with his electronic equipment or computer. Making sure the home theater receiver is set to the proper levels, that the projector is in working order, or that another DVD has been ripped to the server, Ty-man completes the second requirement of an exothermic process: electricity.
Now, we move along to the release of light. After nagging him for weeks about changing the light bulbs on the landing and at the bottom of the stairs (in the kitchen), Ty-man trudges up to the laundry room, retrieves the necessary tools, and finally brings forth light from dark. The third of four signs of an exothermic process comes forth.
And finally, to bed. With the AC cranked up, the ceiling fan on, and skimpy jammies in place, I throw off the covers because my husband, the furnace, as decided to snuggle up to me. The release of energy in the form of heat has just been fulfilled.
Ty-man + food + oxygen = belches/electronics tinkering/handyman/heat = Exothermic process
Class is finished. Please turn in your reports on "Why CMG is Endothermic." Next week we'll be discussing rocket science. Pop quiz in the morning. That is all!
Here's the theorem/equation/solution.
Ty-man is, of course, a man. Men eat food and take in oxygen as humans are wont to do. Therefore, after the digestion of food and cellular respiration, the exothermic reaction takes place.
Now, once the food is consumed and digestion begins, the first sign of the exothermic process is heard rather than seen or felt. The Ty-man produces gas and one hears a loud belch. The release of energy in the form of sound has been fulfilled. Later, he will retire to the basement to tinker with his electronic equipment or computer. Making sure the home theater receiver is set to the proper levels, that the projector is in working order, or that another DVD has been ripped to the server, Ty-man completes the second requirement of an exothermic process: electricity.
Now, we move along to the release of light. After nagging him for weeks about changing the light bulbs on the landing and at the bottom of the stairs (in the kitchen), Ty-man trudges up to the laundry room, retrieves the necessary tools, and finally brings forth light from dark. The third of four signs of an exothermic process comes forth.
And finally, to bed. With the AC cranked up, the ceiling fan on, and skimpy jammies in place, I throw off the covers because my husband, the furnace, as decided to snuggle up to me. The release of energy in the form of heat has just been fulfilled.
Ty-man + food + oxygen = belches/electronics tinkering/handyman/heat = Exothermic process
Class is finished. Please turn in your reports on "Why CMG is Endothermic." Next week we'll be discussing rocket science. Pop quiz in the morning. That is all!
01 May 2008
Open Letter 4
Dear Publishers of Baby Board Books:
I know, these board books are great for introducing babies and young toddlers to the joys of reading. Thick pages for clumsy fingers, not many words, big pictures and textures to hold their interest.
BUT.
Cardboard? Seriously? Kids chew on every-friggin'-thing until they're - like - 15! Do you really think kids need to get a daily dose of fiber from wood pulp? 'Cause the next time I see clumps of pulp in my child's poo? I just might have to shove a tree up each of your asses. If we can create packing peanuts from cornstarch, why can't we do the same with board books? Saliva hits it, it dissolves into a harmless, digestible goo. Goo I can handle. Wood pulp? Not so much.
Dear Dooce®:
After hearing Avitable bitch several times regarding your blog and how you don't allow comments on your posts, I hung out at your place for about an hour on Monday. Nice decor, well-written posts (putting me to shame, that's for sure), and beautiful photographs. So? I subscribed in Bloglines.
OMFGBBQ!!!!
7,587 subscribers?!?!? In Bloglines alone?!?!? Damn! How many do you have altogether? Over 300 comments on Tuesday's post, about your new book? You currently support your family of three with your blog?
No, don't give me that to live up to. I can't. I can feel the effort and creativity going away as I slip into a catatonic state, twitching and repeating over and over, "Over seven-thousand. LOL Cats has only 2,700. More popular than LOL Cats. How...."
You owe me a portion of your proceeds to pay for my psychiatric care, thank you very much.
Dear Loyal Blog Readers:
Yes, I'm a loyal subscriber to LOL Cats. Bite me.
I know, these board books are great for introducing babies and young toddlers to the joys of reading. Thick pages for clumsy fingers, not many words, big pictures and textures to hold their interest.
BUT.
Cardboard? Seriously? Kids chew on every-friggin'-thing until they're - like - 15! Do you really think kids need to get a daily dose of fiber from wood pulp? 'Cause the next time I see clumps of pulp in my child's poo? I just might have to shove a tree up each of your asses. If we can create packing peanuts from cornstarch, why can't we do the same with board books? Saliva hits it, it dissolves into a harmless, digestible goo. Goo I can handle. Wood pulp? Not so much.
Dear Dooce®:
After hearing Avitable bitch several times regarding your blog and how you don't allow comments on your posts, I hung out at your place for about an hour on Monday. Nice decor, well-written posts (putting me to shame, that's for sure), and beautiful photographs. So? I subscribed in Bloglines.
OMFGBBQ!!!!
7,587 subscribers?!?!? In Bloglines alone?!?!? Damn! How many do you have altogether? Over 300 comments on Tuesday's post, about your new book? You currently support your family of three with your blog?
No, don't give me that to live up to. I can't. I can feel the effort and creativity going away as I slip into a catatonic state, twitching and repeating over and over, "Over seven-thousand. LOL Cats has only 2,700. More popular than LOL Cats. How...."
You owe me a portion of your proceeds to pay for my psychiatric care, thank you very much.
Dear Loyal Blog Readers:
Yes, I'm a loyal subscriber to LOL Cats. Bite me.
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