I had a pretty crappy day today, and when this happens, I find myself letting my mind wander to far away (and long ago) places. I read an article about clowns today (somewhere on the internet), and it made me think of my sister.
My sister *loved* clowns. In the house I spent my early years in, my sister had a room full of clowns. I think she even had some form of clown wall paper at one point, but I can't be sure. (That actually might have been my room, but it would have been long before I was capable of making decorating decisions on my own... so I'll blame it on my mom.) Anyway, I do clearly recall the dozens of clown figurines she had.
They scared the be-gee-zus out of me.
It was really a horrible thing, too, because I always loved to have little mini-slumber parties in her room, and I would have to really psych myself up to be able to go to sleep. I could see all of these big noses and painted cheshire grins, and I could feel my tiny heart pounding as it attempted to leap out of my chest.
It probably didn't help any that my sister would sometimes goad my fear just a tiny bit. I'll give her credit - most of the time she told wonderful stories about houses made out of candy and princesses in far away lands. But sometimes... she would introduce me to her "pets".
We were both born with a curious kind of imagination, and she used hers to invent these "invisible animals" that slept above her bed. It would've been okay (probably) if she'd picked kindly animals like ponies or kittens, but no, she once told me that she had a pet spider... and that it was going to crawl on me...
While I slept.
Can you think of anything scarier to a seven year old girl? Scarier than an invisible spider that will crawl on you while you sleep?
I think not.
I think she told me these stories on the nights when she really wanted to sleep alone, but they never deterred me. I would lay there in the dark and listen to her breathe, praying that I would feel anything creepy or crawly.
And I don't know if she ever realized this or not, but the whole reason I was able to sleep was because I would always think to myself that she would protect me (from her invisible pets, ha!).
And she did.
Sometimes she still does.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
The Best Laid Plans
Wonder of all wonders, my husband had a day off yesterday. It wasn't a sad little half-day, either (you know, when he has to go in for three hours and then come back home). No, he had an entire day to do whatever he pleased. We've actually been planning what we were going to do on this marvelous day off together for almost two weeks.
Thursday we finally decided that we would make a trip down to Florida to visit a few stores and, basically, spend the day wasting time and enjoying each other's company. We were very excited about our plans, and we actually spent half of the day before talking about all the nice things we were going to do.
Friday morning I woke up at nine a.m. (isn't it nice to sleep in?). D was still asleep, so I flipped through T.V. channels and watched a few episodes of "House". By eleven, I figured out that he wasn't going to wake up, and by noon, I figured out that our day wasn't going to go at all how we had planned it.
Finally, my sleepy husband wandered into the waking world, and he made some cute comment about possibly still going out of town (as if it still might happen). I humored him for the moment, and for my smiles and good nature, he made me lunch (a chicken salad sandwich and broccoli potato soup).
That alone was worth skipping the trip. It's always cute to watch him cook.
All in all, it was a wonderful day. We went and picked up dinner from a wonderful seafood restaurant, and we spent the afternoon watching movies. It wasn't what we had planned, but it seems like anytime we make plans recently they always get waylaid.
It always works out for the best though. I had a great day, and days like this are always what remind me that this is what I got married for.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
I feel tall.
I went to the doctor's office today (again) to see if they could do something about this miserable Black Plague I've been toting around for nearly a week now, and when I stepped into the back of the office (you know, that place where they ask you to step on the scales and you close your eyes), the nurse kindly asked me (after laughing at me a little because I have an inner ear infection and my normal clumsiness + tilted equilibrium + moving scale = almost falling on my face) if they had ever measured my height.
I had to stop and think for a second (when was the last time I was measured?)... No... the last time was when I was fifteen and getting my learner's license (you know... when they make you stand up next to that roll of tape they've got on the wall... the one that makes you feel like you've just robbed a jiffy store).
So, I stepped over to this funky looking doo-dad, and she stretched (she was tiny) to move the bar down. Imagine my surprise when I stepped away, and she said "5'8'' ". All matter-of-fact-like.
I was in shock.
For years, I have believed that I was barely scraping 5'6''. I was so much in shock by her statement that I took off my shoes and made her measure me again.
Still 5'8''.
I don't even know what to say about this. I feel like a giant! When did this happen, and why didn't anyone tell me?
So now, my husband is gloating because he's always told me that he is 5'7'', and I never believed him (because he's always been a little bit shorter than me).
I can't believe he was right.
Now, I must decide what to do as an important member of society. Is there some kind of club I should join?
I had to stop and think for a second (when was the last time I was measured?)... No... the last time was when I was fifteen and getting my learner's license (you know... when they make you stand up next to that roll of tape they've got on the wall... the one that makes you feel like you've just robbed a jiffy store).
So, I stepped over to this funky looking doo-dad, and she stretched (she was tiny) to move the bar down. Imagine my surprise when I stepped away, and she said "5'8'' ". All matter-of-fact-like.
I was in shock.
For years, I have believed that I was barely scraping 5'6''. I was so much in shock by her statement that I took off my shoes and made her measure me again.
Still 5'8''.
I don't even know what to say about this. I feel like a giant! When did this happen, and why didn't anyone tell me?
So now, my husband is gloating because he's always told me that he is 5'7'', and I never believed him (because he's always been a little bit shorter than me).
I can't believe he was right.
Now, I must decide what to do as an important member of society. Is there some kind of club I should join?
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Clumsy, Clutzy Coughing Fits
I've been sick for four days. This is the dainty little sneezing with pretty cloth hankies either. This is a fire in my throat, and a cork in my nose. That's right people; I have strep throat. Again. I don't know why this particular ailment loves me so much, but I seem to contract it at least two times a year. And, it hangs onto my body like I'm the only thing with tonsils for a two hundred mile radius.
Most of my family doesn't even know that I'm sick, and this is because I turn into a complete introvert when I'm ill. I don't want to talk to people. I don't want to see people. I don't even want to listen to people. Everything. Hurts. I'm also kind of a whiner, and I realize it. So, the sound of my own voice becomes irritating.
However, I didn't write this post to whine about being sick. I wanted to tell all of you how badly sickness seems to amplify my normal clumsy nature.
You see, I've always known that I was a clumsy, clutzy person. From the moment I walked into my third grade classroom and stepped straight into a trashcan (and proceeded to get my foot stuck in said trashcan), I have known that I was doomed to bump and trip my way through life.
Really, its not that bad of a lot to have overall. I just have lots of bruises.
However, it seems that when I am sick this normal trippy, dippy nature is amplified to insurmountable heights. I proceeded to make this ten times worse today when I took an "Energy Now".
You see, I sell vitamins and natural remedies in my spare time (www.trivita.com/13564194). I like the natural products because they don't interfere with any other medication I might have to be on, and when I'm sick, I double up on my daily vitamins hoping the the extra vitamin C will help my body win the fight.
Well, another thing I don't do when I'm sick is clean. I stay in my bed as much as I can, and I try to keep myself hydrating and focusing on getting well. Today I decided that I had been in bed long enough and that my house needed to be cleaned (boy, was I right). So, I hobbled out of bed and coughed my way down the stairs to look at the damage.
I was nearly overwhelmed, but I pulled myself together and started working. After an hour or so, I was too tired to move. But, I had a secret remedy, and I wasn't afraid to use it! "Energy now" is a green tea, B-12, and other energy amplifiers supplement that gives you a nice natural boost without the drag later on. I love it, and I knew it would be perfect for today.
However, I didn't expect my wheezing and bumbling to get in the way. I tripped on my way into the kitchen. I bumped into the end of the couch and got a nice bruise. I slammed my head into the arm of the treadmill, and I slipped in the bathroom after cleaning the floor.
I think I've determined that its best for me to just admit defeat and crawl back in bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Most of my family doesn't even know that I'm sick, and this is because I turn into a complete introvert when I'm ill. I don't want to talk to people. I don't want to see people. I don't even want to listen to people. Everything. Hurts. I'm also kind of a whiner, and I realize it. So, the sound of my own voice becomes irritating.
However, I didn't write this post to whine about being sick. I wanted to tell all of you how badly sickness seems to amplify my normal clumsy nature.
You see, I've always known that I was a clumsy, clutzy person. From the moment I walked into my third grade classroom and stepped straight into a trashcan (and proceeded to get my foot stuck in said trashcan), I have known that I was doomed to bump and trip my way through life.
Really, its not that bad of a lot to have overall. I just have lots of bruises.
However, it seems that when I am sick this normal trippy, dippy nature is amplified to insurmountable heights. I proceeded to make this ten times worse today when I took an "Energy Now".
You see, I sell vitamins and natural remedies in my spare time (www.trivita.com/13564194). I like the natural products because they don't interfere with any other medication I might have to be on, and when I'm sick, I double up on my daily vitamins hoping the the extra vitamin C will help my body win the fight.
Well, another thing I don't do when I'm sick is clean. I stay in my bed as much as I can, and I try to keep myself hydrating and focusing on getting well. Today I decided that I had been in bed long enough and that my house needed to be cleaned (boy, was I right). So, I hobbled out of bed and coughed my way down the stairs to look at the damage.
I was nearly overwhelmed, but I pulled myself together and started working. After an hour or so, I was too tired to move. But, I had a secret remedy, and I wasn't afraid to use it! "Energy now" is a green tea, B-12, and other energy amplifiers supplement that gives you a nice natural boost without the drag later on. I love it, and I knew it would be perfect for today.
However, I didn't expect my wheezing and bumbling to get in the way. I tripped on my way into the kitchen. I bumped into the end of the couch and got a nice bruise. I slammed my head into the arm of the treadmill, and I slipped in the bathroom after cleaning the floor.
I think I've determined that its best for me to just admit defeat and crawl back in bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Party Planning
Well, I posted one thing today that I know will make my mother cry, so I had to post something else to make her laugh.
Last Saturday was my husband's birthday, and this year we decided to throw a little party at our house with both of our families in attendance. I don't know why, but "small" parties always seem like a good idea to me. I always think it'll be no big deal, (People. Food. What else could you need?) and then I wake up the day after and every muscle on my body hurts like I've been hit by a train.
How do I always manage to do this?
Really, it should be easy. After all, it wasn't completely my responsibility. Other people brought things. Other people help set up. Other people helped to clean up. Where does all this pain come in?
I'll tell you where - I inherited my mother's "stress" gene.
My brain says, "A simple party. That sounds nice."
To which my mind replies, "A party? Oh my God. We have to clean the house. We have to really, really clean the house. Cabinets need to be reorganized! Are all of my files in order?! They might LOOK through those! Right?! Right!"
So then, I spend a week neurotically cleaning my house, but by the time the party comes around, its gotten messy again because I can't be cleaning the drawers out in the bedroom and vacuuming the living room. (Because, obviously, you need to choose the obsessive small things over the normal, big ones.)
Then my brain says, "We'll grill. It'll be sooo simple. Give other people things to bring, and then I'll only have to do one thing!"
But my mind butts in with, "I know I was only going to bring the buns and hamburgers, but what about baked beans? Oh! And, potato salad! We can't have hamburgers without potato salad! Oh no, wait! Don't forget the wheat buns! Someone might want wheat buns. Oh... and a cake. I need to make a cake for my mother-in-law because its her birthday too, and she's making my husband's birthday cake so she'll need her own!"
This causes me to spend a whole day cooking - which also makes me revert back to cleaning because I am a very, very messy cook.
It turned out to be a wonderful party - really, it did. I was glad everyone got to come, and my grandparents even managed to make it out. I got to show off a piece of furniture that my husband built for me, and we got to spend a few hours talking to the people we love the most.
I had today off from work anyway, so I've taken it easy for the most part. Now, I'll be ready to start the day tomorrow, and my husband has a memorable birthday.
For my family reading this, I love you all, and thank you again for coming. Next time, we'll have it at Mom and Dad's! ;)
Last Saturday was my husband's birthday, and this year we decided to throw a little party at our house with both of our families in attendance. I don't know why, but "small" parties always seem like a good idea to me. I always think it'll be no big deal, (People. Food. What else could you need?) and then I wake up the day after and every muscle on my body hurts like I've been hit by a train.
How do I always manage to do this?
Really, it should be easy. After all, it wasn't completely my responsibility. Other people brought things. Other people help set up. Other people helped to clean up. Where does all this pain come in?
I'll tell you where - I inherited my mother's "stress" gene.
My brain says, "A simple party. That sounds nice."
To which my mind replies, "A party? Oh my God. We have to clean the house. We have to really, really clean the house. Cabinets need to be reorganized! Are all of my files in order?! They might LOOK through those! Right?! Right!"
So then, I spend a week neurotically cleaning my house, but by the time the party comes around, its gotten messy again because I can't be cleaning the drawers out in the bedroom and vacuuming the living room. (Because, obviously, you need to choose the obsessive small things over the normal, big ones.)
Then my brain says, "We'll grill. It'll be sooo simple. Give other people things to bring, and then I'll only have to do one thing!"
But my mind butts in with, "I know I was only going to bring the buns and hamburgers, but what about baked beans? Oh! And, potato salad! We can't have hamburgers without potato salad! Oh no, wait! Don't forget the wheat buns! Someone might want wheat buns. Oh... and a cake. I need to make a cake for my mother-in-law because its her birthday too, and she's making my husband's birthday cake so she'll need her own!"
This causes me to spend a whole day cooking - which also makes me revert back to cleaning because I am a very, very messy cook.
It turned out to be a wonderful party - really, it did. I was glad everyone got to come, and my grandparents even managed to make it out. I got to show off a piece of furniture that my husband built for me, and we got to spend a few hours talking to the people we love the most.
I had today off from work anyway, so I've taken it easy for the most part. Now, I'll be ready to start the day tomorrow, and my husband has a memorable birthday.
For my family reading this, I love you all, and thank you again for coming. Next time, we'll have it at Mom and Dad's! ;)
For My Future
I've been holding on to a journal my sister gave me in January for my birthday. I've been promising myself that I would keep it as a pregnancy diary whenever my husband and I conceived again. Well, we haven't gotten to that point yet, but I decided in a moment of sadness and clarity this past week that I didn't necessarily have to wait completely. This was my entry:
Dear Future Little Bear,
I stood at my sink peeling potatoes today and cried. It wasn't the first time. I'm sure it won't be the last, but I wanted you to know. I know there will be days when you're older, and you'll probably wonder if daddy and me really love you because that's what all children do.
I know these pregnancy journals are supposed to be filled with happy thoughts and well wishes, but I don't think that's very realistic. Everyone worries. Everyone has fears, so I wanted to prove to you that I am just as human as you are. But, I also wanted you to know that even through my doubts and questions I have always loved you - even before you were here.
Today marks the end of the beginning in our attempts to conceive you. It's been six months, and you're still not here. I didn't think it would take this long, and I know that's very naive of me. But, I am human. I don't think anyone thinks about conception until they're actually trying to conceive.
So, today made me sad because it means there is one more month that I have to wait to meet you. I will dry my eyes now, and I will keep trying until you are here. I just wanted you to know that on this day I already love you - even before you have begun your life on this earth.
Love,
The One Who Waits
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Off the Grid
I have already admitted to being a technology junkie, and I was forced to confront the depth of my obsession again today. As I’ve said before, I work from home. For the most part, its very convenient. I have good hours. I work with pretty laid back people - people who work from home always seem a bit more relaxed to me. And for the most part, when I’m done with work for the day, I’m done with work.
I just don’t have to commute.
However, there is a downside to my work, and its called rain. You see, out here in the boonies we have satellite internet. It’s like satellite TV, only its for your internet. …I know… that’s a very vivid explanation, isn’t it? Anyway, this also means any time that it rains… or is overcast… or… I don’t know… a cloud decides to stop for lunch over our satellite, I don’t get internet.
Let me also say that I did something really stupid and forgot to charge my cell phone last night, so about the time the internet went out, my phone also died.
And it all left me.
The great world of technology abandoned me completely.
No internet.
No email.
No internet radio - because, really, who can get F.M. reception waaaaay out here.
No instant messenger.
Not even any Google Talk. (I know some of you are probably wondering what Google Talk is, and let me just say to you… shameful. Everyone should know what Google Talk is.)
No Google period! How am I supposed to exist without being able to look up words I don’t know or people I’ve never heard of?!
I know. You probably don’t understand the depth of my plight, and that’s pretty sad too.
The point of this post, you may ask… Well… There really isn’t one. I’m just pouting.
I should never be deprived of internet.
It’s a terrible thing.
And this has been your public service announcement for the day. Enjoy.
I just don’t have to commute.
However, there is a downside to my work, and its called rain. You see, out here in the boonies we have satellite internet. It’s like satellite TV, only its for your internet. …I know… that’s a very vivid explanation, isn’t it? Anyway, this also means any time that it rains… or is overcast… or… I don’t know… a cloud decides to stop for lunch over our satellite, I don’t get internet.
Let me also say that I did something really stupid and forgot to charge my cell phone last night, so about the time the internet went out, my phone also died.
And it all left me.
The great world of technology abandoned me completely.
No internet.
No email.
No internet radio - because, really, who can get F.M. reception waaaaay out here.
No instant messenger.
Not even any Google Talk. (I know some of you are probably wondering what Google Talk is, and let me just say to you… shameful. Everyone should know what Google Talk is.)
No Google period! How am I supposed to exist without being able to look up words I don’t know or people I’ve never heard of?!
I know. You probably don’t understand the depth of my plight, and that’s pretty sad too.
The point of this post, you may ask… Well… There really isn’t one. I’m just pouting.
I should never be deprived of internet.
It’s a terrible thing.
And this has been your public service announcement for the day. Enjoy.
Monday, October 17, 2011
A Day in the Life of Desireé - Part 2
12:15 PM
Nap time. Two words that strike fear into the heart of every child under the age of eight. My niece is no exception. She despises nap time with a passion. As we made our way to the top of the stairs and crawled into bed, my adorable four-year-old niece stared up at me with big brown eyes and questioned, “Can I watch TV., please?”
With a sigh, I did what every good non-parent does and gave in.
So for an hour, we watched TV. and avoided taking a nap.
1:30 PM
I needed to take a shower before we made our way to town, so we took a quick trip downstairs for toys. I resettled Desireé in the bed and took a quick shower, calling out to her every few minutes to make sure she wasn’t getting in to anything.
After I was done with my shower, I thought of the one thing that would keep her completely enthralled while I fixed my hair and make-up. A bath. This child loves water more than a fish. She likes to dump all of her toys in the bath tub and play games that I can’t even think to comprehend as an adult.
It worked like a charm. By three o’clock, I was dressed and ready to go. It only took a matter of minutes to scoop her from the tub and get her into her freshly washed clothes.
4:00 PM
After a few errands in town, we drove out to my grandparents’ house to play and talk for a little while. We had pizza for dinner, and all the adults watched in amusement as Desireé pulled the pepperoni off her slice and tried to cram the whole thing in her mouth at one time.
She and I spent some time coloring in one of her drawing books, but she soon decided that she wanted to go play outside - so much for that bath. During our trip around my grandparents’ house, my niece managed to stumble through an ant hill, and her feet got eaten to pieces.
She had bites on her heels, the tops of her feet, and even one in between her toes. She cried and begged to scratch them while Mega poured vinegar and children’s Benadryl over the sores.
Needless to say, she spent the rest of the time we had together that day on the couch in my grandparents’ den alternating between telling me that her feet were getting better and asking if she could scratch them because they itched.
Nap time. Two words that strike fear into the heart of every child under the age of eight. My niece is no exception. She despises nap time with a passion. As we made our way to the top of the stairs and crawled into bed, my adorable four-year-old niece stared up at me with big brown eyes and questioned, “Can I watch TV., please?”
With a sigh, I did what every good non-parent does and gave in.
So for an hour, we watched TV. and avoided taking a nap.
1:30 PM
I needed to take a shower before we made our way to town, so we took a quick trip downstairs for toys. I resettled Desireé in the bed and took a quick shower, calling out to her every few minutes to make sure she wasn’t getting in to anything.
After I was done with my shower, I thought of the one thing that would keep her completely enthralled while I fixed my hair and make-up. A bath. This child loves water more than a fish. She likes to dump all of her toys in the bath tub and play games that I can’t even think to comprehend as an adult.
It worked like a charm. By three o’clock, I was dressed and ready to go. It only took a matter of minutes to scoop her from the tub and get her into her freshly washed clothes.
4:00 PM
After a few errands in town, we drove out to my grandparents’ house to play and talk for a little while. We had pizza for dinner, and all the adults watched in amusement as Desireé pulled the pepperoni off her slice and tried to cram the whole thing in her mouth at one time.
She and I spent some time coloring in one of her drawing books, but she soon decided that she wanted to go play outside - so much for that bath. During our trip around my grandparents’ house, my niece managed to stumble through an ant hill, and her feet got eaten to pieces.
She had bites on her heels, the tops of her feet, and even one in between her toes. She cried and begged to scratch them while Mega poured vinegar and children’s Benadryl over the sores.
Needless to say, she spent the rest of the time we had together that day on the couch in my grandparents’ den alternating between telling me that her feet were getting better and asking if she could scratch them because they itched.
Friday, October 14, 2011
A Day in the Life of Desireé - Part 1
I spent the entirety of my day yesterday in the mentality of a four year old. I have a beautiful niece with an inquisitive personality who loves the color pink. As a fun mix up, I’ve decided that today’s post will be about exactly what its like to entertain her for a whole day. Now, I will say this ahead of time. My husband and I don’t currently have any children, so I’m not really used to the chaos they throw into day-to-day activities.
I will also say that I try to be a fun aunt. I dedicate as much time during the day to doing fun activities and other things that she likes to do.
7:00 AM
I gathered a slightly sleepy child from her mother’s car seat with “silky” and “bun-bun” (her security blanket and blanket-bunny) in tow. By the time we reach my front door, we’ve already discussed her dream about unicorns and what she could possibly want for breakfast.
She really wanted fruit loops, but I managed to talk her into making whole wheat blueberry muffins. While we wait on them to cook, she decides that she needs a chocolate poptart to tide her over, but she does finally manage to eat a muffin during a series of He-Man cartoons - my husband’s dvds.
9:00 AM
With breakfast settled, we decided to do some chores. It’s amazing what can entertain a four year old. We washed dishes (me doing the washing and her playing with soap and water). We vacuumed (I vacuumed and she used my mini-vac to go over the rugs in the kitchen. We even folded and ironed the clothes (she managed to fold one towel, I think).
10:00 AM
Finally, the wet cleared out of the air, and we were able to go outside to play for a little while. First, I took her to the big stretch of pavement in the front yard to play with sidewalk chalk. She drew two baby unicorns while I drew the mommy. Then, she asked me to the name of basically everyone we knew, and when one of our future drawings overlapped my husband’s name I was commanded to rewrite it.
She’s very interested in the alphabet, and it amazes me how long you can spend just reciting letters and teaching her what letters are in different words.
We also managed to play with the leaf blower. I was surprised how entertaining it was to chase her around blowing leaves in her general direction while watching her laughing and running.
After we were done in the front yard, we moved to the back to talk to all the animals. D’s aunt and uncle are here visiting from Florida, so we spent some time talking to their dog, Buster. He’s a large beagle with a habit of howling. We also talked to the rabbit, Tucks. We fed him celery through the holes in his pen and talked to him while he nibbled on leftover carrot shavings.
11:15 AM
Lunch with a four year old is always a grand affair. First, I made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Then the crust needed to be cut off.
Then it needed to be cut into bite-sized pieces. She then proceeded to count the number of said pieces every time she ate one.
After her sandwich, she decided that she was still hungry and wanted macaroni and cheese.
After macaroni and cheese, she wanted gummy bears.
When I told her that she couldn’t have gummy bears, she wanted a cupcake.
When I told her she couldn’t have a cupcake, she poked out her bottom lip and crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “But Aunt Sarah…”
I gave her the glare I inherited from my mother and returned with, “But Desireé…”
I decided it was time for a nap.
I bet you can all guess how well that went, but I’ll tell you the rest of the story tomorrow.
I will also say that I try to be a fun aunt. I dedicate as much time during the day to doing fun activities and other things that she likes to do.
7:00 AM
I gathered a slightly sleepy child from her mother’s car seat with “silky” and “bun-bun” (her security blanket and blanket-bunny) in tow. By the time we reach my front door, we’ve already discussed her dream about unicorns and what she could possibly want for breakfast.
She really wanted fruit loops, but I managed to talk her into making whole wheat blueberry muffins. While we wait on them to cook, she decides that she needs a chocolate poptart to tide her over, but she does finally manage to eat a muffin during a series of He-Man cartoons - my husband’s dvds.
9:00 AM
With breakfast settled, we decided to do some chores. It’s amazing what can entertain a four year old. We washed dishes (me doing the washing and her playing with soap and water). We vacuumed (I vacuumed and she used my mini-vac to go over the rugs in the kitchen. We even folded and ironed the clothes (she managed to fold one towel, I think).
10:00 AM
Finally, the wet cleared out of the air, and we were able to go outside to play for a little while. First, I took her to the big stretch of pavement in the front yard to play with sidewalk chalk. She drew two baby unicorns while I drew the mommy. Then, she asked me to the name of basically everyone we knew, and when one of our future drawings overlapped my husband’s name I was commanded to rewrite it.
She’s very interested in the alphabet, and it amazes me how long you can spend just reciting letters and teaching her what letters are in different words.
We also managed to play with the leaf blower. I was surprised how entertaining it was to chase her around blowing leaves in her general direction while watching her laughing and running.
After we were done in the front yard, we moved to the back to talk to all the animals. D’s aunt and uncle are here visiting from Florida, so we spent some time talking to their dog, Buster. He’s a large beagle with a habit of howling. We also talked to the rabbit, Tucks. We fed him celery through the holes in his pen and talked to him while he nibbled on leftover carrot shavings.
11:15 AM
Lunch with a four year old is always a grand affair. First, I made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Then the crust needed to be cut off.
Then it needed to be cut into bite-sized pieces. She then proceeded to count the number of said pieces every time she ate one.
After her sandwich, she decided that she was still hungry and wanted macaroni and cheese.
After macaroni and cheese, she wanted gummy bears.
When I told her that she couldn’t have gummy bears, she wanted a cupcake.
When I told her she couldn’t have a cupcake, she poked out her bottom lip and crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “But Aunt Sarah…”
I gave her the glare I inherited from my mother and returned with, “But Desireé…”
I decided it was time for a nap.
I bet you can all guess how well that went, but I’ll tell you the rest of the story tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Story Teller
I love it when people talk with their hands. I think its almost poetic - the fluid momentum of speech versed against dancing hands. With each movement, you learn so much more about a person and the story they’re telling.
My family has a history of these finger-fluttering story tellers. Personally, I know my own words rise and fall with the intensity of my tale, and I’m always leaning on the edge of my seat to make sure each phrase is perfect. I do so love to tell a good story.
I also love to hear them, and I love it when relatives get together because I get so much more good material. I’ve been known to spend whole days just wasting away on spoken word. I think its becoming a lost art.
I know many people twice my age who can weave a fanciful anecdote - true or false. However, the number of people in their twenties who like to just “sit and talk a spell” seems to be dwindling more and more by the day.
Where are all the good story tellers going? Are we going to wake up one morning and not remember the meaning of the phrase “once upon a time” or “you won’t believe what happened the other day”?
The whole topic of this post came to me during a visit from my grandmother’s sister who recently came to stay. I didn’t even know she was in town, but I try to make it a habit to stop by and see my grandparents (whom we call Mega - pronounced Mee-Gah - and Papa) at least once a week. Papa, in particular, needs a little stirring up every once in a while, and I’m not against giving the old man a run for his money.
However when I arrived, I realized that my Aunt Gloria was down for the week from Alabama (how two women from Utah ever ended up in Georgia and Alabama I’ll never understand, but I digress). Well, I had really only planned to stay for two or three hours, but - sure enough - Aunt Gloria and I got to talking… and before I realized it the whole day had passed by. I think we caught each other up on every niece, sister, cousin, and great-grandchild there is in our family, but it was just so much fun.
We talked with our hands and our feet - and even our eyebrows when we really needed to get the point across.
After I left, there was a happiness in my heart that settled there for days, and I think that’s because that’s the way we are meant to be. In this era of text messaging and emails, we so often lack actual physical expression on a day-to-day basis that we are losing all of the good story tellers, and I for one can’t sit back and just let it happen.
So I beg of you when you catch yourself in conversation this week, work your hands into your dialogue and see exactly where it takes you.
You’ll be surprised just how much better pointing a finger can make you feel.
My family has a history of these finger-fluttering story tellers. Personally, I know my own words rise and fall with the intensity of my tale, and I’m always leaning on the edge of my seat to make sure each phrase is perfect. I do so love to tell a good story.
I also love to hear them, and I love it when relatives get together because I get so much more good material. I’ve been known to spend whole days just wasting away on spoken word. I think its becoming a lost art.
I know many people twice my age who can weave a fanciful anecdote - true or false. However, the number of people in their twenties who like to just “sit and talk a spell” seems to be dwindling more and more by the day.
Where are all the good story tellers going? Are we going to wake up one morning and not remember the meaning of the phrase “once upon a time” or “you won’t believe what happened the other day”?
The whole topic of this post came to me during a visit from my grandmother’s sister who recently came to stay. I didn’t even know she was in town, but I try to make it a habit to stop by and see my grandparents (whom we call Mega - pronounced Mee-Gah - and Papa) at least once a week. Papa, in particular, needs a little stirring up every once in a while, and I’m not against giving the old man a run for his money.
However when I arrived, I realized that my Aunt Gloria was down for the week from Alabama (how two women from Utah ever ended up in Georgia and Alabama I’ll never understand, but I digress). Well, I had really only planned to stay for two or three hours, but - sure enough - Aunt Gloria and I got to talking… and before I realized it the whole day had passed by. I think we caught each other up on every niece, sister, cousin, and great-grandchild there is in our family, but it was just so much fun.
We talked with our hands and our feet - and even our eyebrows when we really needed to get the point across.
After I left, there was a happiness in my heart that settled there for days, and I think that’s because that’s the way we are meant to be. In this era of text messaging and emails, we so often lack actual physical expression on a day-to-day basis that we are losing all of the good story tellers, and I for one can’t sit back and just let it happen.
So I beg of you when you catch yourself in conversation this week, work your hands into your dialogue and see exactly where it takes you.
You’ll be surprised just how much better pointing a finger can make you feel.
Friday, October 7, 2011
The Ice Cube Bandit
Before you even begin to question, this is about the cat… again. I know. It’s probably a pitiful life I lead, but it amuses me. So there.
Ever since I got married, my cat has been reacquainted with indoor living. Long ago when I first brought her home from the Humane Society, she was an inside kitty, but my Shoubi has always thought of herself as more of a barn cat. So after several years, we let her have her way, and she began living outside 24/7.
However when I got married, the house we moved into was not suitable for an outdoor pet, so she moved back inside. On the whole, she’s been quite happy with the new digs. She scratches the carpet, sheds on the furniture, and has someone to clean up her bathroom habits. What’s not to love?
As I stated in previous articles, Shoubi is also a tad on the not-well-adjusted side of life. Things strike her fancy in a very queer way, and its made living with her to be a very interesting learning experience. I’ve already told you the story of her attempt to rescue dishes from the plight that is my sink. Now I’m going to tell you another story.
And it begins inside my fridge.
Whenever we open the door to the refrigerator at our house, it sends out a summons and calls the cat from whatever room she is sleeping in and demands that she stand inside the bottom to prevent us from closing the door. Apparently, the food is afraid of the dark, but the little man inside the fridge refuses to keep the light on unless the door is open.
Go figure.
Maybe he worries about my power bill as much as I do.
Shoubi doesn’t care how much it could cost me. She just wants us to leave the dang door open!
Needless to say, my husband and I have come up with several methods to either prevent her from getting inside the fridge at all or to back her out slowly once she’s already gotten inside.
The first measure is preventative, and its absolutely ridiculous. It consists of knowing exactly what you need and opening and closing the door so quickly that her keen kitty senses don’t have time to register the fact that there is a viable chance of intruding.
The second is used after the cat has already gotten into the coop, and it goes as follows: close the door. We simply close the refrigerator door and hope that she gets the message to back away. (Let me also note that this doesn’t really work. She will actually stay in there even with the door closed.)
And… that’s pretty much the only options we’ve come up with so far.
Well all that aside, I’ve always really wondered why she was so fascinated by the refrigerator, and tonight - I am proud to say - I figured it out.
I kind of feel stupid for not noticing it before.
She wants a piece of ice.
I kid you not, and I will repeat it for all the disbelievers out there. The cat wants a piece of ice, and she knows that they come from the general vicinity of the refrigerator. I discovered this because I noticed tonight when I was getting my own ice fix from the freezer that she was licking the small ice flurries that missed my cup and hit the tile.
A light switch turned on inside my head. It couldn’t possibly be this easy.
So, I waited twenty minutes and tried it again. Sure enough, her attention was diverted from the refrigerator by the ice cube.
I have now done this more than four times, and I’m beginning to think the cat may have another real problem.
Apparently, she’s addicted to ice cubes.
Who would’ve thought?!
Ever since I got married, my cat has been reacquainted with indoor living. Long ago when I first brought her home from the Humane Society, she was an inside kitty, but my Shoubi has always thought of herself as more of a barn cat. So after several years, we let her have her way, and she began living outside 24/7.
However when I got married, the house we moved into was not suitable for an outdoor pet, so she moved back inside. On the whole, she’s been quite happy with the new digs. She scratches the carpet, sheds on the furniture, and has someone to clean up her bathroom habits. What’s not to love?
As I stated in previous articles, Shoubi is also a tad on the not-well-adjusted side of life. Things strike her fancy in a very queer way, and its made living with her to be a very interesting learning experience. I’ve already told you the story of her attempt to rescue dishes from the plight that is my sink. Now I’m going to tell you another story.
And it begins inside my fridge.
Whenever we open the door to the refrigerator at our house, it sends out a summons and calls the cat from whatever room she is sleeping in and demands that she stand inside the bottom to prevent us from closing the door. Apparently, the food is afraid of the dark, but the little man inside the fridge refuses to keep the light on unless the door is open.
Go figure.
Maybe he worries about my power bill as much as I do.
Shoubi doesn’t care how much it could cost me. She just wants us to leave the dang door open!
Needless to say, my husband and I have come up with several methods to either prevent her from getting inside the fridge at all or to back her out slowly once she’s already gotten inside.
The first measure is preventative, and its absolutely ridiculous. It consists of knowing exactly what you need and opening and closing the door so quickly that her keen kitty senses don’t have time to register the fact that there is a viable chance of intruding.
The second is used after the cat has already gotten into the coop, and it goes as follows: close the door. We simply close the refrigerator door and hope that she gets the message to back away. (Let me also note that this doesn’t really work. She will actually stay in there even with the door closed.)
And… that’s pretty much the only options we’ve come up with so far.
Well all that aside, I’ve always really wondered why she was so fascinated by the refrigerator, and tonight - I am proud to say - I figured it out.
I kind of feel stupid for not noticing it before.
She wants a piece of ice.
I kid you not, and I will repeat it for all the disbelievers out there. The cat wants a piece of ice, and she knows that they come from the general vicinity of the refrigerator. I discovered this because I noticed tonight when I was getting my own ice fix from the freezer that she was licking the small ice flurries that missed my cup and hit the tile.
A light switch turned on inside my head. It couldn’t possibly be this easy.
So, I waited twenty minutes and tried it again. Sure enough, her attention was diverted from the refrigerator by the ice cube.
I have now done this more than four times, and I’m beginning to think the cat may have another real problem.
Apparently, she’s addicted to ice cubes.
Who would’ve thought?!
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
The Things I Think About at Three in the Morning
It's exactly 3:13 A.M. here on the east coast. It's also Wednesday, October 5, 2011 - or so my husband's pilfered computer task bar tells me. And, I don't know about anyone else, but these early morning hour/late evening nights are when I have my life altering epiphanies. How do normal people (namely ones who are able to sleep at night) do it?
My world is one of constant changes. I never seem to do anything a particular way for too long, so my sleep schedule is constantly adjusting. (It probably doesn't help that I'm on a low dosage of constant steroids, but I do the best I can.) Anyway, I'm kind of veering off subject.
My point is that I wanted to tell you the kind of things I think about late at night. For starters when I have one of these benders, its usually because I feel like there's something that needs to be done, and it stresses me to the point where I can't sleep. I know its not healthy (Mom), but I promise I don't do it often. It also usually helps me feel very accomplished for the next few days because I gain those hours that most of you wasted sleeping.
Tonight, I finally reached the point where I felt the dirt in my house slowly creeping in. It started simply enough. Tomorrow is trash day. My husband takes the trash out on Wednesday mornings at 5 A.M. on his way to work, so Tuesday night I get it all together for him. As I walked around, I got a good look at the place - dusty shelves, dirty laundry, a fridge full of leftovers that needed to be thrown out, etc.
And it stuck in my head.
I'm still covered in paint from spending my day putting finishing touches on a ladder shelf D built for me (love it - post to come later), and my back aches from bending over so long to twist and paint upside down...
But it had to be done.
If it hadn't, I wouldn't have slept tonight, and I would've been miserable cleaning house tomorrow when there are other things on my 'To Do' list.
So while I was cleaning, I reflected on my marriage and my life. It's what I usually do during these times. I like to let my mind wander. My second anniversary is only a month away. I still distinctly remember pre-wedding jitters and wondering if I was really doing 'the right thing'. I remember trying on my mother's wedding dress for the first time and knowing that I would never need to look anywhere else.
I remember sitting at a sewing table with a woman I hardly knew (my mother-in-law whom I love dearly now) while we took aforementioned dress apart in hopes of making it fit just right.
I remember how wonderful it was to wake up the next morning and realize that I had started a new chapter in my life.
Where there once was an 'I', there now is a 'we'.
I remember moving into this house during a miserable construction and wondering if we would ever really get along. I remember our first big fight and how ridiculous I thought it was (even then). I remember finding out I was pregnant. We were both so shocked and worried that I think it took weeks to settle in.
I remember being alone and being told that our baby was gone. It was so hard and so sad that sometimes I still can't bear to think about it. My supposed-to-be due date has come and gone now with no baby, but it has drawn us together in a way I didn't know was possible.
I know now that maybe I wasn't ready. I know now what I really want in life. I know what it means to love someone more than yourself. I know what it means to be mad and sad and happy all at the same time.
These are the things that marriage has taught me. These are the things life and love and God have taught me. These are the things Daniel has taught me.
And without any of this, I would never be the same.
So here's to all of us. To life. To love. To loss. It is what we are, and it will be what it will be.
My world is one of constant changes. I never seem to do anything a particular way for too long, so my sleep schedule is constantly adjusting. (It probably doesn't help that I'm on a low dosage of constant steroids, but I do the best I can.) Anyway, I'm kind of veering off subject.
My point is that I wanted to tell you the kind of things I think about late at night. For starters when I have one of these benders, its usually because I feel like there's something that needs to be done, and it stresses me to the point where I can't sleep. I know its not healthy (Mom), but I promise I don't do it often. It also usually helps me feel very accomplished for the next few days because I gain those hours that most of you wasted sleeping.
Tonight, I finally reached the point where I felt the dirt in my house slowly creeping in. It started simply enough. Tomorrow is trash day. My husband takes the trash out on Wednesday mornings at 5 A.M. on his way to work, so Tuesday night I get it all together for him. As I walked around, I got a good look at the place - dusty shelves, dirty laundry, a fridge full of leftovers that needed to be thrown out, etc.
And it stuck in my head.
I'm still covered in paint from spending my day putting finishing touches on a ladder shelf D built for me (love it - post to come later), and my back aches from bending over so long to twist and paint upside down...
But it had to be done.
If it hadn't, I wouldn't have slept tonight, and I would've been miserable cleaning house tomorrow when there are other things on my 'To Do' list.
So while I was cleaning, I reflected on my marriage and my life. It's what I usually do during these times. I like to let my mind wander. My second anniversary is only a month away. I still distinctly remember pre-wedding jitters and wondering if I was really doing 'the right thing'. I remember trying on my mother's wedding dress for the first time and knowing that I would never need to look anywhere else.
I remember sitting at a sewing table with a woman I hardly knew (my mother-in-law whom I love dearly now) while we took aforementioned dress apart in hopes of making it fit just right.
I remember how wonderful it was to wake up the next morning and realize that I had started a new chapter in my life.
Where there once was an 'I', there now is a 'we'.
I remember moving into this house during a miserable construction and wondering if we would ever really get along. I remember our first big fight and how ridiculous I thought it was (even then). I remember finding out I was pregnant. We were both so shocked and worried that I think it took weeks to settle in.
I remember being alone and being told that our baby was gone. It was so hard and so sad that sometimes I still can't bear to think about it. My supposed-to-be due date has come and gone now with no baby, but it has drawn us together in a way I didn't know was possible.
I know now that maybe I wasn't ready. I know now what I really want in life. I know what it means to love someone more than yourself. I know what it means to be mad and sad and happy all at the same time.
These are the things that marriage has taught me. These are the things life and love and God have taught me. These are the things Daniel has taught me.
And without any of this, I would never be the same.
So here's to all of us. To life. To love. To loss. It is what we are, and it will be what it will be.
Monday, October 3, 2011
The Day My Computer Died
Okay, I admit it. I always have been and always will be a computer junkie, and these past few months of working from home with a completely computer based business haven't helped my habit. I have a blackberry with internet capabilities and few limitations. I have a laptop with unlimited wireless internet. Heck, I even access my printer remotely via a local network I set up with my internet connection!
It's habit that I'll probably never break, and, thankfully, this era works in my favor. I can shop, talk, work, schedule, bank, and breathe via my wireless connection.
So today will be a day forever burned into my memory in this technologically riddled era. I have been denying the fact for weeks that my schizo-computer has been more on the fritz as of late than usual. I kept telling myself that it was just being tempermental in its old age (six years)! Its allowed to have a few quirks because it ran so smoothly and kept all of my programs and files just the way I liked them.
It was just like a classic corvette. Sure, it might have been a little bulky, but it was all good under the hood and nothing ran better.
Until late last night.
I was actually in the middle of writing another blog post (which is lost and needs to be redone now) when the power dimmed and my poor computer jumped its circuit. It's been doing this for weeks now, but I kept ignoring the facts - praying that it would straighten out after a month or two.
After being unable to revive my old friend for over twenty four hours, I have finally come to the conclusion that the old dog is dead. I will mourn its passing like a favorite friend. It ran well for many years and has suffered numerous reformatting sequences with as much beauty and grace as possible.
So now I face the inevitable future with dread, our household has now become a one computer domain. Yes, that's right. My husband and will now be sharing one computer.
How did we ever survive in the "olden" days?!
I'll let you know how it goes. Wish me luck.
It's habit that I'll probably never break, and, thankfully, this era works in my favor. I can shop, talk, work, schedule, bank, and breathe via my wireless connection.
So today will be a day forever burned into my memory in this technologically riddled era. I have been denying the fact for weeks that my schizo-computer has been more on the fritz as of late than usual. I kept telling myself that it was just being tempermental in its old age (six years)! Its allowed to have a few quirks because it ran so smoothly and kept all of my programs and files just the way I liked them.
It was just like a classic corvette. Sure, it might have been a little bulky, but it was all good under the hood and nothing ran better.
Until late last night.
I was actually in the middle of writing another blog post (which is lost and needs to be redone now) when the power dimmed and my poor computer jumped its circuit. It's been doing this for weeks now, but I kept ignoring the facts - praying that it would straighten out after a month or two.
After being unable to revive my old friend for over twenty four hours, I have finally come to the conclusion that the old dog is dead. I will mourn its passing like a favorite friend. It ran well for many years and has suffered numerous reformatting sequences with as much beauty and grace as possible.
So now I face the inevitable future with dread, our household has now become a one computer domain. Yes, that's right. My husband and will now be sharing one computer.
How did we ever survive in the "olden" days?!
I'll let you know how it goes. Wish me luck.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Letters to the Editor
This post is going to be a little different. I’ve decided to try something that I’ve seen countless other people do and see how well it works. Here’s the idea:
All over the internet I’ve seen posts written by people that are sort of like “letters to the editor”. Basically, you write a letter to someone or something that has frustrated/angered/generally wronged you without sending it, and this process helps you get over whatever it is you’re upset about.
Let’s see how well it works, shall we?
Letter #1
Dear Printer,
You have one job, one single task, to reach fulfillment during your questionable market value lifespan of three to five years. I was led to believe that one mission in life wasn’t so much to ask, but apparently I was wrong.
I changed your cartridge.
I cleaned your printer head as per my instruction manual and online trouble shooting references.
WHY are you making nasty lines on my pages?
If I have to run one more diagnostic alignment, you’re going to become very closely acquainted with the baking soda I keep in the bottom of the trash can.
Just thought you should know,
A Concerned Customer
Letter #2
To Whomever May Drive in Front of Me:
I don’t know why your daily tasks aren’t as important as mine. I don’t get out that often, but when I do, I would like to drive a little faster than fifteen miles per hour under the speed limit. I promise you; no one is going to pull you over for driving the speed posted on the signs alongside the highway. They are there as a guideline and can be very useful if you are not aware how fast you could be going.
And how do you manage to know exactly when I leave the house? And why are you always going the same place that I am?
Do you realize how much I hate passing people on the highway?
Sincerely,
The Person Who Thinks About Ramming Your Bumper
(Seriously. Gas. Pedal.)
Letter #3
Dear Restaurant Employees,
I know I may be a little bit pickier than some people because I worked in restaurants for quite some time, but I don’t think its too much to ask that you put on gloves when you scoop my ice cream or grab my cookie. Do you realize how many germs are on the change that you’re digging through in that register? Not to mention what bodily fluids could already be on your sweaty hands.
Wash them as well, please. I know. I know. It’s a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it wasn’t something I already did myself.
With Concern,
Don’t Make Me Come Over that Cash Register
P.S. On the flip side, this is actually very good for my diet because knowing that you will be filthy, I get desserts a lot less often!
- - -
Now, don’t we all feel better?!
All over the internet I’ve seen posts written by people that are sort of like “letters to the editor”. Basically, you write a letter to someone or something that has frustrated/angered/generally wronged you without sending it, and this process helps you get over whatever it is you’re upset about.
Let’s see how well it works, shall we?
Letter #1
Dear Printer,
You have one job, one single task, to reach fulfillment during your questionable market value lifespan of three to five years. I was led to believe that one mission in life wasn’t so much to ask, but apparently I was wrong.
I changed your cartridge.
I cleaned your printer head as per my instruction manual and online trouble shooting references.
WHY are you making nasty lines on my pages?
If I have to run one more diagnostic alignment, you’re going to become very closely acquainted with the baking soda I keep in the bottom of the trash can.
Just thought you should know,
A Concerned Customer
Letter #2
To Whomever May Drive in Front of Me:
I don’t know why your daily tasks aren’t as important as mine. I don’t get out that often, but when I do, I would like to drive a little faster than fifteen miles per hour under the speed limit. I promise you; no one is going to pull you over for driving the speed posted on the signs alongside the highway. They are there as a guideline and can be very useful if you are not aware how fast you could be going.
And how do you manage to know exactly when I leave the house? And why are you always going the same place that I am?
Do you realize how much I hate passing people on the highway?
Sincerely,
The Person Who Thinks About Ramming Your Bumper
(Seriously. Gas. Pedal.)
Letter #3
Dear Restaurant Employees,
I know I may be a little bit pickier than some people because I worked in restaurants for quite some time, but I don’t think its too much to ask that you put on gloves when you scoop my ice cream or grab my cookie. Do you realize how many germs are on the change that you’re digging through in that register? Not to mention what bodily fluids could already be on your sweaty hands.
Wash them as well, please. I know. I know. It’s a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it wasn’t something I already did myself.
With Concern,
Don’t Make Me Come Over that Cash Register
P.S. On the flip side, this is actually very good for my diet because knowing that you will be filthy, I get desserts a lot less often!
- - -
Now, don’t we all feel better?!
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Tale of the Dishwashing Monster
This story begins as many others do - on a normal day with a mundane task. This story is also like a regularly repeated television show. Same bat time. Same bat channel. Allow me to explain.
At our home, we do not have a dishwasher. I have two hands, a sink, some soap, and some water. Just like the pioneers did it. I consider it to be one of my ultimate sacrifices in getting married, but I’m also a tad on the dramatic side.
In my household, its also a normal occurrence that I am the one doing the dishes. Surprise, surprise. Sometimes I think male anatomy might have an aversion to water.
Since day one, my cat has also been interested in my daily dish washing events. I’ve come to believe that she hears the clink and clang of porcelain against glass, and her mind twists the sound into some kind of medieval plea for help. I have tried to reassure her again and again that the pie plate is not in need of saving, but it has a fruitless effort.
As time progressed from the beginning of my marriage, she became more and more interested in the coming and going of things in the sink, and she began a ritual. As soon as I turn on the tap and add some soap, my heroic kitty rushes into the kitchen and sits at my feet - ever vigilant on the off chance that I will let her people go.
When several minutes elapse, she will then proceed to meow a plea and make a requesting circle around my ankles, begging for the prisoners release. If I pay her no attention and continue to torture the silverware with my scrubbing sponge, she reaches a breaking point.
It is at this time that my own precious cat will turn against me in a silent rage. Sitting sharply with her back straight and her ears flicked back, she decides that I am at fault. I have defied her commands, and I have to be treated to warlike situations.
Now, you need a tad more information to understand this next part because no regular cat could impose such cruelty with quite the force that she does. I took her on the scales today just to reaffirm my knowledge. My precious kitten weighs a whooping 19.4 lbs. Of that weight, her tail is less than a pound, but it is the most lethal next to her claws and teeth.
During the dish washing phase if all of her pleas are ignored, my sweet little kitty resorts to smacking my legs with her tail, and because she is so large it tends to leave bruises on my ankles. Originally, I told people what these bruises where from, but the story has become far too long to repeat on a day-to-day basis. So now, I tend to hold in my shame and just tell people that I ran into something.
I get fewer stares that way.
One day I pray that I will have a dishwasher of my very own and that my cat and I will be on even terms in every area of the house, but for now, I’m stuck with bruises and trying to do the dishes in the dark so she doesn’t notice.
At our home, we do not have a dishwasher. I have two hands, a sink, some soap, and some water. Just like the pioneers did it. I consider it to be one of my ultimate sacrifices in getting married, but I’m also a tad on the dramatic side.
In my household, its also a normal occurrence that I am the one doing the dishes. Surprise, surprise. Sometimes I think male anatomy might have an aversion to water.
Since day one, my cat has also been interested in my daily dish washing events. I’ve come to believe that she hears the clink and clang of porcelain against glass, and her mind twists the sound into some kind of medieval plea for help. I have tried to reassure her again and again that the pie plate is not in need of saving, but it has a fruitless effort.
As time progressed from the beginning of my marriage, she became more and more interested in the coming and going of things in the sink, and she began a ritual. As soon as I turn on the tap and add some soap, my heroic kitty rushes into the kitchen and sits at my feet - ever vigilant on the off chance that I will let her people go.
When several minutes elapse, she will then proceed to meow a plea and make a requesting circle around my ankles, begging for the prisoners release. If I pay her no attention and continue to torture the silverware with my scrubbing sponge, she reaches a breaking point.
It is at this time that my own precious cat will turn against me in a silent rage. Sitting sharply with her back straight and her ears flicked back, she decides that I am at fault. I have defied her commands, and I have to be treated to warlike situations.
Now, you need a tad more information to understand this next part because no regular cat could impose such cruelty with quite the force that she does. I took her on the scales today just to reaffirm my knowledge. My precious kitten weighs a whooping 19.4 lbs. Of that weight, her tail is less than a pound, but it is the most lethal next to her claws and teeth.
During the dish washing phase if all of her pleas are ignored, my sweet little kitty resorts to smacking my legs with her tail, and because she is so large it tends to leave bruises on my ankles. Originally, I told people what these bruises where from, but the story has become far too long to repeat on a day-to-day basis. So now, I tend to hold in my shame and just tell people that I ran into something.
I get fewer stares that way.
One day I pray that I will have a dishwasher of my very own and that my cat and I will be on even terms in every area of the house, but for now, I’m stuck with bruises and trying to do the dishes in the dark so she doesn’t notice.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Pound Cake
And in my case, it makes a perfect pound cake.
To understand this story, ironically, you need a little history. Sometimes I think of myself as a baker - not by trade but by love. I love to stand at a stove or an oven and create things out of flavor and texture. However, I do have a fatal flaw that sneaks up on me and ruins even the best of my efforts.
Timing.
I am so impatient that I can’t even wait for eggs to cook long enough to scramble - mine are always dry and limp. So, when it comes to baking something beautiful and simple like a pound cake I have always gotten so wrapped up in the timing that I usually end up causing the darn things to go flat.
Years ago, I actually decided that I just wasn’t meant to be a pound cake baker and gave them up completely! However, I found myself intrigued at the idea of trying again (I think I have issues with ever really letting things go… I mean… is there anything wrong with actually being able to do everything). My grandmother offered me an old bundt pan that she was planning to throw out.
It’s old and a horrible shade of 1950’s style yellow on the outside with a blackened inside only achieved from years of labor and love. At first glance, it is as innocent a pan as any other, but closer inspection reveals the depth of creation born from it.
It is just the piece of history I needed to make a perfect pound cake. With a light coat of oil, I entrusted my grandmother’s old pan with an airy sour cream pound cake recipe and slid it into the oven with a prayer.
Turns out, family charm was just the piece of history I needed. It was a beautiful cake, and I’ve already made one more since this one with great success.
So that’s my lesson for today. History is history. It should be embraced and remembered for everything that it was meant to be.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
What's in a Name?
Let me start this off by saying that my husband and I are not very far into our marriage. We will actually celebrate our second anniversary this November. So, we are still, occasionally, discussing the possibility of buying a house, getting pets, having children, and the like. When it comes to children, I think every couple discusses the possibility of quantity, gender, and naming quite often.
Naming things has always been a sort of quirk of mine. I don’t think I was every really good at it as a child, and now that I’m an adult with the chance of gifting a living, breathing human being with one, I’m pretty much terrified.
I mean… Come on, I named my cat Shoubi (again, pronounced Show-Bee), and I was, most definitely, lucid at the time! I spent a lot of time choosing that name. Imagine what I could possibly come up with for a child.
The choices are unfathomable.
Needless to say, D and I have discussed names for our progeny at length.
Now, I’ve told you all of this to draw you further back in time nearly fifteen years ago (when I was still in single digits on the age board). I can honestly tell you now that I really like my name. I love it. I love to write it. I love the way it sounds, and I love the way its spelled. However, fifteen years ago I wasn’t really fond of it.
In particular, I did not like my middle name. You see, I had always wanted to have a beautifully flowing name - especially when written, and in my nine-year-old mind to be “flowing” it needed to have a ‘y’… or a ‘g’… or anything that dipped beneath the line on my wide ruled notebook paper. I assured myself that it had to be more fun to write your name with one of those extra little loop-de-loops in it.
Even in my teenage years when I decided that I couldn’t be the crazy cat lady, I was still a little caught up on having one of those pretty letters in my name. I decided I could have one… if I married the “right” guy. It amazes me now that I did look - for several years - with a certain scrutinizing quality at every man’s last name.
Fortunately, I found my husband (or rather, he found me), and he didn’t really give me a choice on whether or not I wanted to marry him. He really just decided that I was going to marry him, and that was that.
It took me a long time to appreciate my name for its own swirling loops and hoops. I just had to learn to look at it from a different angle. It turns out that capital ‘S’ and ‘L’ can be quite beautiful when written the right way.
And my little girl, if I ever have one, will get a pretty ‘q’ in her name.
Naming things has always been a sort of quirk of mine. I don’t think I was every really good at it as a child, and now that I’m an adult with the chance of gifting a living, breathing human being with one, I’m pretty much terrified.
I mean… Come on, I named my cat Shoubi (again, pronounced Show-Bee), and I was, most definitely, lucid at the time! I spent a lot of time choosing that name. Imagine what I could possibly come up with for a child.
The choices are unfathomable.
Needless to say, D and I have discussed names for our progeny at length.
Now, I’ve told you all of this to draw you further back in time nearly fifteen years ago (when I was still in single digits on the age board). I can honestly tell you now that I really like my name. I love it. I love to write it. I love the way it sounds, and I love the way its spelled. However, fifteen years ago I wasn’t really fond of it.
In particular, I did not like my middle name. You see, I had always wanted to have a beautifully flowing name - especially when written, and in my nine-year-old mind to be “flowing” it needed to have a ‘y’… or a ‘g’… or anything that dipped beneath the line on my wide ruled notebook paper. I assured myself that it had to be more fun to write your name with one of those extra little loop-de-loops in it.
Even in my teenage years when I decided that I couldn’t be the crazy cat lady, I was still a little caught up on having one of those pretty letters in my name. I decided I could have one… if I married the “right” guy. It amazes me now that I did look - for several years - with a certain scrutinizing quality at every man’s last name.
Fortunately, I found my husband (or rather, he found me), and he didn’t really give me a choice on whether or not I wanted to marry him. He really just decided that I was going to marry him, and that was that.
It took me a long time to appreciate my name for its own swirling loops and hoops. I just had to learn to look at it from a different angle. It turns out that capital ‘S’ and ‘L’ can be quite beautiful when written the right way.
And my little girl, if I ever have one, will get a pretty ‘q’ in her name.
Monday, August 8, 2011
What Is All This Marriage Stuff About?
My brain came up with this question all on its own today when I was reading (skimming) some articles on CNN about marriage and its possible demise. Every couple of months it seems like they come out with something new. Something shinier. Some article or clip about how the world is changing and everything is going downhill in a handbasket straight to hell.
Way to be positive, world.
Even in my darkest days as the crazy cat lady, I still believed in the institution of marriage. I didn’t always think *I* would be one of the ones becoming institutionalized, but the sanctity of it all has always struck me as a beautiful thing.
My opinions of love vary from most of the people I know. I’m not generally an idealist. I think that love is something grown from a single seed of hope. In my mind, every person could marry any one of several potential mates - it just takes the right timing and circumstances to make it all happen. My own husband strongly disagrees with me on this matter.
He said he fell in love with me at first sight. (Yes, he is a little dramatic.)
I believe him. He is an idealist, and I think he always has been. He likes to see the innate good in people and think that things will always turn out for the best.
I don’t. I’m a planner. I make lists. I look at the pros and cons and determine which is a more likely outcome. In every situation, I see a math problem. My husband married me because he was ‘in love’. I married my husband because I saw the unique potential in our relationship. I knew that he was the best possible partner for me. I knew we would make things work through all the tough situations.
I knew it would last between us most of all because he’s a dreamer, and I’m not a quitter.
Now, two years later my love for him grows every day. I see our children in my dreams, and I feel our years together in old age in my heart. He’s helped me become a dreamer, and I’ve taught him what it truly means not to be a quitter.
All of these sappy thoughts and the CNN article made me question myself about what marriage really means. Being true to myself, I could only think of one way to express it - so here’s my list:
1.) Marriage is something sacred. It means you are allowed to wake up next to one person for the rest of your days on earth together - even if one of you has recurring bad breath.
2.) Marriage means even though you still get to maintain your own identity and opinion… you now only get half a vote.
3.) Marriage means that if you want to argue you might as well go ahead and get it out of your system because the person you’re yelling at is still going to be there after you deflate. You might want to make sure you don’t say something really stupid because the other aforementioned person also might choose to remind you about what you said for years to come.
4.) Marriage doesn’t mean you have to be on a schedule, but if its getting kind of late you might want to make a courtesy call if you don’t want to hear any yelling or sobbing when you get home.
5.) You also might want to make that call if you don’t want to sleep on the couch.
6.) Marriage also means that if you say you’re going to sleep on the couch, you should probably just go ahead and sleep on the couch instead of standing there like an idiot and huffing about sleeping on the couch. (Just a side note: Neither my husband nor I have ever actually ended up sleeping on the couch, but we’ve both talked about it way more than was actually necessary.)
7.) Marriage also means accepting the fact that you are now part of a pair, and if you ever go out alone everyone is going to ask you where your spouse is and how they are doing.
8.) Marriage also means that you aren’t alone anymore. At the end of the day, there’s always someone to go home and tell your stories to.
9.) In addition to that, marriage requires that you often listen to the same stories being told over and over and over. And over.
10.) Marriage is about compromise, and if you can’t handle the heat, you probably shouldn’t be in the kitchen.
Way to be positive, world.
Even in my darkest days as the crazy cat lady, I still believed in the institution of marriage. I didn’t always think *I* would be one of the ones becoming institutionalized, but the sanctity of it all has always struck me as a beautiful thing.
My opinions of love vary from most of the people I know. I’m not generally an idealist. I think that love is something grown from a single seed of hope. In my mind, every person could marry any one of several potential mates - it just takes the right timing and circumstances to make it all happen. My own husband strongly disagrees with me on this matter.
He said he fell in love with me at first sight. (Yes, he is a little dramatic.)
I believe him. He is an idealist, and I think he always has been. He likes to see the innate good in people and think that things will always turn out for the best.
I don’t. I’m a planner. I make lists. I look at the pros and cons and determine which is a more likely outcome. In every situation, I see a math problem. My husband married me because he was ‘in love’. I married my husband because I saw the unique potential in our relationship. I knew that he was the best possible partner for me. I knew we would make things work through all the tough situations.
I knew it would last between us most of all because he’s a dreamer, and I’m not a quitter.
Now, two years later my love for him grows every day. I see our children in my dreams, and I feel our years together in old age in my heart. He’s helped me become a dreamer, and I’ve taught him what it truly means not to be a quitter.
All of these sappy thoughts and the CNN article made me question myself about what marriage really means. Being true to myself, I could only think of one way to express it - so here’s my list:
1.) Marriage is something sacred. It means you are allowed to wake up next to one person for the rest of your days on earth together - even if one of you has recurring bad breath.
2.) Marriage means even though you still get to maintain your own identity and opinion… you now only get half a vote.
3.) Marriage means that if you want to argue you might as well go ahead and get it out of your system because the person you’re yelling at is still going to be there after you deflate. You might want to make sure you don’t say something really stupid because the other aforementioned person also might choose to remind you about what you said for years to come.
4.) Marriage doesn’t mean you have to be on a schedule, but if its getting kind of late you might want to make a courtesy call if you don’t want to hear any yelling or sobbing when you get home.
5.) You also might want to make that call if you don’t want to sleep on the couch.
6.) Marriage also means that if you say you’re going to sleep on the couch, you should probably just go ahead and sleep on the couch instead of standing there like an idiot and huffing about sleeping on the couch. (Just a side note: Neither my husband nor I have ever actually ended up sleeping on the couch, but we’ve both talked about it way more than was actually necessary.)
7.) Marriage also means accepting the fact that you are now part of a pair, and if you ever go out alone everyone is going to ask you where your spouse is and how they are doing.
8.) Marriage also means that you aren’t alone anymore. At the end of the day, there’s always someone to go home and tell your stories to.
9.) In addition to that, marriage requires that you often listen to the same stories being told over and over and over. And over.
10.) Marriage is about compromise, and if you can’t handle the heat, you probably shouldn’t be in the kitchen.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
The Truth of the Matter - Part 2
In my heart, I know that Shoubi is her own worst enemy. She has always been jealous of any new person (or anything for that matter) that came into our lives; I believe its because she has an undiagnosed mental defect that turns her into what I have deemed “crazy cat” at any random point in time - transforming from lovey-dovey kitty to demon-spawn hellcat in two seconds flat.
Because of this “delicate condition,” I noticed only a few weeks after her adoption that she was (and is) quite unwilling to accept other cats into our little family. This definitely threw a wrench into my crazy cat-accommodating plans. If I could only ever have one cat, I would definitely not draw the whispering and superstition I had hoped for.
And who in their right mind would talk about an old single woman with only one cat? I think there’s a rule somewhere that you have to have at least twelve before you garner any sort of notoriety.
However, I loved Shoubi more than any predetermined future. (Who wouldn’t love someone unconditionally who could keep all of your closest secrets to heart?) And because she is such a particular cat, I believe I have the right to blame my current situation completely on her furry little shoulders.
You see… it is completely her fault that I am now married to the man who explained to me that it was totally possible to have room for two in my heart. It is because of her that I look forward to a future of anniversaries and children.
D (my husband) was the first male that kitty dearest ever took a liking to, and since I couldn’t have any more cats, I had to marry him. Between the two of them, they really gave me no other choice.
It probably would have been easier being the crazy cat lady, but I’m a true southerner at heart. I’m sure the locals will find something else to whisper about eventually. For now, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied being a crafting-cooking-writing-working converted crazy cat lady.
So welcome to my life. I hope you enjoy the show. It's been a little bit of a bumpy ride, thus far, but I have the feeling we're only just getting started.
Because of this “delicate condition,” I noticed only a few weeks after her adoption that she was (and is) quite unwilling to accept other cats into our little family. This definitely threw a wrench into my crazy cat-accommodating plans. If I could only ever have one cat, I would definitely not draw the whispering and superstition I had hoped for.
And who in their right mind would talk about an old single woman with only one cat? I think there’s a rule somewhere that you have to have at least twelve before you garner any sort of notoriety.
However, I loved Shoubi more than any predetermined future. (Who wouldn’t love someone unconditionally who could keep all of your closest secrets to heart?) And because she is such a particular cat, I believe I have the right to blame my current situation completely on her furry little shoulders.
You see… it is completely her fault that I am now married to the man who explained to me that it was totally possible to have room for two in my heart. It is because of her that I look forward to a future of anniversaries and children.
D (my husband) was the first male that kitty dearest ever took a liking to, and since I couldn’t have any more cats, I had to marry him. Between the two of them, they really gave me no other choice.
It probably would have been easier being the crazy cat lady, but I’m a true southerner at heart. I’m sure the locals will find something else to whisper about eventually. For now, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied being a crafting-cooking-writing-working converted crazy cat lady.
So welcome to my life. I hope you enjoy the show. It's been a little bit of a bumpy ride, thus far, but I have the feeling we're only just getting started.
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Truth of the Matter
From the age of twelve, I was convinced that love was, most definitely, overrated. I watched my friends start the process of puberty and become blubbering balls of hormones faster than I could get my first pimple. Having a sister five years my senior, I was already quite familiar with several forms of heartbreak, and I wasn’t very keen to experience any of them. They seemed to warp her into some sort of sick self-sacrificing machine - that wasn’t at all appealing to me.
At fifteen, I had what I still consider to be my first real relationship. It was as terrible, if not more so, as I expected, and it pretty much cemented my plan to become a crazy cat lady. I know, I know. This is something a young girl wouldn't usually aspire to be, but considering my alternatives (love-struck and dumb), I figured it was my best bet for staying sane and growing up to be a fully-functioning adult.
So, for the next few years I developed my plan. I was always a little eccentric; my family knew I was “special” from the very start, and, at seventeen, I drove up to our local chapter of the Humane Society to adopt a pet that would be completely mine. An animal I would present to the world to show my inner personality and to help me bring out my nurturing side.
Can you guess what I picked?
She was barely small enough to fit in the palm of my hand and so covered in fur that she looked more like a hairball for the first six months of her life. She was black and white with the most beautiful green eyes I’d ever seen, and for me, it was, most definitely, love at first sight.
Forget the fact that she’d already been returned more than once for bad behavior at a mere twelve weeks of age. Also, ignore that she was just a tad bipolar and seemed to come a little unglued at the slightest provocation. She would hiss and scratch and bite at nearly anyone who tried to get in her tiny, world-dominating way, but she loved me.
And for an overly emotional seventeen year-old going through a world of physical and mental changes, she was exactly what I needed.
So, I gave her a ridiculous name, and I welcomed her into my world. I thought that she would be the beginning of my life as the crazy cat lady, and I opened my arms to greet a future filled with fluffy hats, cottage gardens, and Studebakers with mismatched paint.
It was the perfect plan... with only one fatal flaw.
At fifteen, I had what I still consider to be my first real relationship. It was as terrible, if not more so, as I expected, and it pretty much cemented my plan to become a crazy cat lady. I know, I know. This is something a young girl wouldn't usually aspire to be, but considering my alternatives (love-struck and dumb), I figured it was my best bet for staying sane and growing up to be a fully-functioning adult.
So, for the next few years I developed my plan. I was always a little eccentric; my family knew I was “special” from the very start, and, at seventeen, I drove up to our local chapter of the Humane Society to adopt a pet that would be completely mine. An animal I would present to the world to show my inner personality and to help me bring out my nurturing side.
Can you guess what I picked?
She was barely small enough to fit in the palm of my hand and so covered in fur that she looked more like a hairball for the first six months of her life. She was black and white with the most beautiful green eyes I’d ever seen, and for me, it was, most definitely, love at first sight.
Forget the fact that she’d already been returned more than once for bad behavior at a mere twelve weeks of age. Also, ignore that she was just a tad bipolar and seemed to come a little unglued at the slightest provocation. She would hiss and scratch and bite at nearly anyone who tried to get in her tiny, world-dominating way, but she loved me.
And for an overly emotional seventeen year-old going through a world of physical and mental changes, she was exactly what I needed.
So, I gave her a ridiculous name, and I welcomed her into my world. I thought that she would be the beginning of my life as the crazy cat lady, and I opened my arms to greet a future filled with fluffy hats, cottage gardens, and Studebakers with mismatched paint.
It was the perfect plan... with only one fatal flaw.
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