Let us hope the title of this one doesn't tempt impotent sex perverts because I'm not writing about penises here. I'm writing about a sore foot.
My husband, John, and I have been busy with renovations for well over a year. John is much busier than I because he's maniacal about everything and anything. He wants things to be perfect and this hasn't allowed me to do much lately. Even though I do things well, he always believes he does them better and leaves crap jobs for me. Crap jobs equal any kind of wood stripping, which I absolutely detest. Strippers (now, now sex pervs, the chemical kind), heating guns, lead paint chips ... what's to love?
So now I stay clear of John and due to that fact, decided to switch the dryer door around by myself. Yes, I finally have my new dryer and I love it! I've been hanging out clothes for months just like a pioneer lady, but now can finally enjoy some tumbled soft freshness. When asked how much I loved the new dryer recently, I answered, "Enough to have some unabashed humping of it in the middle of the day."
The only thing that wasn't right was the door, which as I mentioned, I tried to fix. The only screwdriver I could find was one meant for midgets or people with unformed fingers. It was about 2" long. Still, I persevered and got the door off, switched the inside of the door around, and proceeded to then drop the whole thing on my foot.
You would think dryer doors wouldn't be heavy. You would be wrong. You would think they would be incapable of doing any damage. You would be wrong again. You would think once a foot is throbbing and purple, a person wouldn't be able to continue on with the task until it is complete. Wow, Miss Cleo you are not. I have conquered the dryer door and I do have the limp to prove it.
It's nothing terrible at all today, but enough to make me glare angrily at the dryer every time I see it. We have this love/hate thing going on now. Hopefully the rest of you bloggers are hobble-free.
My son is normally an even-tempered, big-hearted soul. When he does get angry, it's usually justifiable. Like when his sister keeps flicking him in the side of his head or poking his ribs for the sheer joy of watching him become miserable. He's content with little and satisfied with less than that. This is why the little guy barely makes it into my blog. I'm not troubled with or perplexed by him. Sure, I worry his love of lounging may put a damper on a successful future, but I'm confident this is just normal childhood stuff.
Along with his Runescape addiction. Runescape is an online game where you create characters (knights, wizards, etc.) to battle monsters, search for treasure, and complete quests. "Cool" people do not play this game. This is like an online DND crowd and while I'm not stereotyping, role players aren't known for their ability to get chicks and be suave. Heck, they're aren't any role playing major leaders in the US or writers of classic literature. I doubt Elvis was one and I don't see any on the richest men in America list. I can't imagine my last surgeon donning a wizard's robe and joining a game.
Of course, I don't expect my son to be any of these things, but I do want him to have a myriad of different friends and activities in his life. Well, even more out-going friends. Friends who skateboard, play instruments, and actually are in the sun for a bit therefore have some color in their cheeks. Is this too much to ask?
My daughter, the ever-popular whiz kid, decided to ask around about her brother to the "underlings" who look up to her and not liking what she heard, has started something we now call "Operation Popularity." She has dedicated herself to making my son as popular as she is now, but with good friends, not just a clique.
In an unheard of feat, she actually told all her friends that her brother was "freakin' amazing" and a host of other phrases he's never heard her utter about him. She also made him a Myspace where she started building up his friend's list and networking a bit -- with kids from their own school.
It's strange to me. My son has many friends, but is not popular. I thought popularity was having many friends. When did this change?
At the risk of sounding proud/obnoxious parenty, my son is good looking. I've seen what 7th grade has to offer and he's definitely at the top of that list. I'm blessed my genes helped to provide it, but he stopped dating. My daughter had one girl tell her she didn't think my son was interested in the opposite sex because he never asks anyone "out" and when they ask him, even if he agrees, he doesn't actually speak to them. I can vouch for that, he's too busy hiding in a dark room playing Runescape, I guess.
My husband says this is not normal. Is it? I didn't grow up with testosterone. I was boy crazy by the age of 9. I was done playing games and collecting comics by then, but is it different with dudes? Just because my husband said at 12 boys should be constantly thinking about the opposite sex, is that the standard? I'd really like to know.
Still, as crazy as it sounds, I have agreed and signed on to "Operation Popularity" with the caveat of if my boy starts to hate it or becomes miserable, we abandon the project immediately.
The rules are this --
1. You can play Runescape and role play all you want, but you no longer tell anyone about it. 2. Same as above except add super heroes, action figures, and anything under his age level. 3. Defer to sister on fashion stylings. Jeans found on floor paired with whatever shirt was closest to your hand no longer cuts it. 4. Date and actually speak to a girl this year, preferably a girl who does not role play, but if she does, don't tell anyone about it. 5. He plays school football with proper sports equipment, no Gimli armor hats allowed.
At least the kids are getting along splendidly now. She wants to help and instead of rebelling (like I had originally thought would happen), he is actually enjoying some of it and even saying, "Whatever Sis picks out is fine." When I asked him if he was all right with all this, REALLY happy about it, he said, "It's cool. It should make things easier."
Easier because he's going into middle school this year, very traumatic event, and his sister is taking him under her wing (except in public) to help him through the transition. Please, God, just keep that big heart intact.
Quite a hippie-ish title from a person who would beat wannabe hippies with a stick if she could -- if it were legal and if the bruises, bumps, and scrapes would magically disappear after a minute or two. :::sigh::: OK, I'll leave this daydream for another time and bring you [insert drum roll here] ... my flower garden!
For some holiday or occasion, I can't remember which, hubby bought me seeds from Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson. Yes, you can buy seeds from Jefferson's own stock, which are still being cultivated today -- including various vegetable/fruit crops as well. This was the first and only one to bloom thus far (others should be soon) ... I bring you the French-Striped Marigold. And yes, when I saw it I did think of Thomas Jefferson looking at the same bud long, long ago while perhaps thanking a slave for all their hard work. I only have myself to thank. Thank you, Beth. No problem, Beth, t'was a pleasure.
From my own stock, a few sweet peas. They're not really a pea at all and if I were to compare them to anything, it would be an iris. An iris that smells sweet and grows like mad over the ground or up a shrub. I'm not really fond of sweet peas, but this is my first year of having them so beyond a sweet scent, they do nothing for me. They take forever to bloom and die quickly, much like a fruit fly or teen pop star.
I once had a best friend who loved daisies. Ever since she told me of this fact, I've been growing them. This year I put them in almost every bed or arrangement I had cooked up. From my English gardens to my shrub borders. The bud in full bloom was the first one, however, to grow from a seed so it will get its just desserts here. The other is from a Gerbera daisy patch that keeps on going strong.
I liked drugs a lot as a teen. I mention it a lot because I have fond memories, well, I have cloudy memories of my stoner days. Days of looking at a spilled plant on the floor and believing it was a gateway to hell. Yeah, the good old days ... and for, that reason alone, I bring you one of my red poppies. Poppies grow rather quickly and die just as quick so this is a flower I'm just not that into anymore. I've grown up, Ma ... at long last.
Smallville. I can't go too many posts without mentioning it, but one of the things I love best about Smallville show is my dream home -- the Kent Farm. The Kent Farm is a large yellow farmhouse with a big red barn and other out buildings. Martha Kent loves flowers, but none more than the sunflower. I admit, they've grown on me. I planted a ton of sunflowers this year and can tell you this ... with little know-how and no effort, you can grow a big beautiful flower that lasts a long, long time and if that wasn't just the biggest sell in the world, you can also eat it. (not the whole flower, of course, don't be a a cad, but the sunflower seeds are a delightful treat)
So, I hope you enjoyed this little walk through my garden today. Come back soon, won't you?
When I find an intelligent, heart-warming, touching story that doesn't have sex or cursing every other frame, I usually fall in love with it and "The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio" is no exception. I've never been a fan of Julianne Moore, but she is absolutely delightful in this TRUE story of how a mother raised 10 children by contesting, i.e. writing jingles. Even Woody Harrelson delivers a rare great performance. "Must see" never really feels right to me, but this is one I was so glad to have seen, I watched it again the next day, so that's not half bad.
Before I started reading "The Count of Monte Cristo", I took two nights to read "A Redbird Christmas" by Fannie Flagg and I'm so glad I did. She's the woman who wrote "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe" and many others, but this one had that same down home, calm, leave the sex where it belongs (out of books and in your own bedroom) feel. You can't help but feel good after you read this author and this book delivered that same, warm feeling. Take a man in a big city with a severe emphysema diagnosis given less than a year to live and move him to a quiet, small, out of the way town on the river in Alabama where old-fashioned values and home cooked meals are still intact. Add an injured redbird and a crippled child, well, I'll let you see the rest if you should choose to read it.
Catty. That's it ... the word I think of when I'm in, around, listening to, or watching a group of women.
"My husband buys me whatever I want because he lives to make me happy."
"I'm getting a new car, but I deserve something better than what I've been driving."
"Oh, all the guys looked at me and 'so and so' got upset because she's fat."
"I'm vain, I'll admit it, but if people don't like it, they're just jealous."
"I need a boob job and to lose 15 pounds and lips like Angelina Jolie."
"She needs a boob job and to lose more weight than I do."
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
It drives me insane. I can't imagine how it sounds to men, but it's getting to the point where I can't even stand to read it online anymore.
I'm a busy woman because I keep myself busy, but lately I've been taking on extra projects just to have an excuse of why I'm staying at home and offline. I feel like I just need to say it though -- WOMEN, YOU ARE LOSING YOUR MINDS!
Why not stop trying to put others down to make yourself feel better? I have a better idea, try lifting someone up. I think you'll be amazed at how much better you feel when you do.
Stop trying to impress people with the crap you probably didn't even pay for with cash. I don't care about pink cell phones, miniature dogs in fancy purses, or luxury cars. Paris Hilton can afford it. Can you really and if you can't, why are you even trying?
Read a book. Most of the bloggers I frequent are book readers and it's no accident why I ended up reading them ... they're interesting, they're well read, they're articulate. Beauty fades and the only thing you can take with you is knowledge.
If your self worth is tied to the size you wear or how much you shop, rethink your life. I'm not saying I have a perfect life by any means, but you can't buy peace and I've got plenty to spare.
I'm too tired for fancy titles and long posts, but I gave you a cute picture. I need a favor. I really love classic literature, the kind that was required reading in school. I'm just stuck with what to read next that I haven't read before.
Let me just state up front, I have read and own every book and/or short story written by Charles Dickens, the Bronte sisters, Tolstoi, Dostoevsky, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I've read all of Steinbeck and quite a few others, but I just need some good recommendations. I'd truly appreciate it, guys and gals! Have a terrific weekend!
Remember my beautiful mailbox? Yeah, well, it was vandalized. I know some of you who either don't care or are saying to yourself, "She deserves it," at which point I would have to ask, what is wrong with you people? Apparently, someone ON FOOT came to just OUR mailbox (no other mailbox on our dead end road was touched) and tried to steal it. They almost succeeded, but couldn't get the last bolt to give so what did they do? They picked up one of my bricks and decided to scratch the mailbox and succeeded in two places.
Hubby spent part of his Sunday fixing it, repainting it, and all of his Sunday cursing over it. I would visit him outside to ask if he wanted a cool drink and he would answer, "You know, if I catch the little bastard who ..." All day long. He even rigged up a system of using two cellphones to keep constant watch over the mailbox and would sprint up our 400' driveway at the slightest noise to which my daughter would hear on her own cell phone, "False alarm! Dirty little bastards."
I finally told my husband it wasn't worth it. It's just a mailbox. He thought I would understand how he felt, how you do something beautiful and good and someone shits on it, and while I do understand, I wasn't going to let it ruin my day. I told him, "Our mailbox was the only mailbox on the entire street to get vandalized and to me that just says you did what I wanted you to do ... you created the best mailbox on the street. So, if you really think about it, this was just confirmation of the fact. It was so nice someone just couldn't stand to look at it any longer." Oh well, it worked for me.
And in demon daughter news, her sentence has ended and she's doing terrific. The boy has stated again that he likes her, has a crush on her, and she has told those who he relayed the message through, "Nah, I don't like him that way. He's just a friend." Having children means many things, but I wouldn't change it for anything. Even with the drama and the pain, the flip side of it is the purest joy I've ever known in my life. There is nothing that has ever meant more to me than being a mom and having my children with me on their journey. I feel lucky to be their mother and I hope they feel the same.
I'll just come right out and say it -- my daughter had her first kiss. When it comes to parenting, I'm pretty liberal. I don't put unnecessary restrictions on my children. I give my son my Victoria Secret catalogs. I don't tell him why and I have never said, "If you play with it, you'll go blind." I believe in healthy long talks and trust. I just BELIEVE in these things and ... so far, so good.
My daughter comes to me for just about everything -- spats with her friends, advice on how to handle a big brother of a friend who is smoking pot, sex, drugs -- she's asked me just about everything. And I've been honest. I never kept my past from her, even the colorful parts. It was hard admitting to my daughter that I had lost my virginity at 13 to a boy who wasn't her father. It was difficult admitting the drugs I've ingested, snorted, and carried around on my tongue. Still, it made her see me as someone who knew what was going on in a teen's life ... someone whose advice was spot on time and time again.
Then Kyle shows up. Loser, thy name is Kyle. Oh, I shouldn't say that, I know. I should be fair and kind, sweet and light, but this boy has my daughter in a frenzy. They aren't even dating, but they had a closed mouth (thank God) kiss on the lips. According to the sparse details, they're both shy so this was plenty.
*This is the edit. Kyle has told all of my daughter's friends that he has a crush on her and has liked her for the last 4 years. Kyle told them he doesn't really my daughter likes him. To be honest, my daughter is normally very cold when it comes to boys. That is all.*
It started out as an embarrassed confession, "Mom, I have something to tell you. Well ... it's not a bad thing, it's a good thing. Geez, I don't know ..." Then I guessed it, "You kissed Kyle," and she said, "Yes," while looking down and I started crying. I started crying! How lame can you get? I'm bawling my eyes out and I can see the ship going down so I say, "I'm not crying because I'm unhappy. I'm crying because this is a milestone. Just give me a minute." *sob* *sob* *sniff* *sniff* "Mom, are you really crying?" There goes my Cool Parent of the Month award.
We talked. It was all good. I told her I was glad he was a gentleman and didn't try to make out with her. I told her nothing has changed ... if a boy respects you, he doesn't inspect your tonsils on the first kiss. I received a "gross" in return. I told her I trusted her and I was glad she confided me. I hoped it was special for her because you only have one first kiss.
A week passes and this boy is at her best friend's house, but it seems another girl is "humping him" (daughter's words) and my daughter is internally freaking out. Humping equals rubbing all over him in a pool. Daughter calls me, I pick her up, and I swear to God, it was like the exorcist. She's screaming at her brother, then at me, then about Kyle and this "slut" girl, then back at her brother, back at me until I finally came out of my dazed state long enough to say, "Whatever happened wasn't because of your brother or me. I will tell you a painful truth because I love you ... if this boy really liked you, he wouldn't have allowed this girl to rub up on him like that, especially in front of you."
This is when the lines were drawn and I became the enemy. This is when I was told I didn't understand and couldn't understand because my daughter may be many things, but she does not suffer from low self-esteem. It's inconceivable to her that a boy doesn't like her or could not want to devote every waking moment to her.
So, I did what any self-respecting parent would do -- I grounded her for the weekend. No phone, internet, or friends. I told her to take some time to think about the things that are really important in life, to clear her head, and to ask herself if yelling at her mother and calling names is really the best way to handle any situation.
Oh yeah, I just know my whole Cool Parent membership is going to be revoked.
I put the book I'm currently reading up on the dresser at 3am yesterday, I close my eyes, and finally drift off into slumberland. Two hours later, I hear my air conditioner making a strange noise, then everything in my room begins to turn off and on. The lights turn on to maximum brightness. My treadmill starts all by itself, without the key in it, and then an orange flash illuminates the room. My husband jumps out of bed and begins running around like the proverbial chicken with his head cut off.
The power company was at the house by 6am. I'm in shorts, a t-shirt, and my robe still. Apparently, we were over-loaded. The surge was caused by my air conditioner ... or at least that's where it started. The surge protectors we had in every room did nothing to protect us. They only made the main switch not do it's job and shut the power down. My daughter's surge protector caught fire. Thankfully, my daughter was not at home and no damage (besides a fried surge protector) was done.
Basically, we had too much plugged in at one time. Surge protectors give you 6-8 places to plug in your stuff, but that's not really recommended. It's offered, but it's not actually safe. Something I would have liked to read about in a manual somewhere, but maybe it's just plain common sense.
Now we have paired down all of our electronics. In the electrical blast, we lost two surge protectors, a telephone, and my bedroom's air conditioner. (One night before upstate NY gets 100+ degree temperatures ... figures) Now we no longer overload and overuse. If we're not using something, we unplug it.
I don't think this means our bad luck is beginning again since I don't actually believe in luck. I look at it as a message from the universe. Homes aren't really made for all the electronics we bombard them with and we learned our lesson before we lost a family member, the house, all of our possessions, and my little dog too. (sorry, couldn't resist)
Please, make sure things aren't overloaded in your neck of the woods, Dear Bloggers!
