I'm so aggravated with myself, I can hardly stand it. I fully intended to participate this week in the Carnival of the Recipes as CaltechGirl was the hostess with the Mostess. Daggumit!!! GRRR.
So read it HERE! It is up and it looks GREAT.
I was all ready to cut and paste the recipe for Pepper Vodka Chicken from Frazzled Dad, but then I got to the part where it said, 'Fire is involved' and I chickened out. (No pun intended.) It brings back memories on how I accidentally almost set my kitchen on fire a few years ago.
Unbeknownst to me, the evening before, my husband had melted a butter sauce and it got on a back burner and he didn't clean it up. I turned on the stove and after a minute or two, 2 foot flames shot out from the back burner. I damn near had a heart attack. I grabbed a pot lid, threw it over the fire and squelched it. I turned around to look for our fire extinguisher and there sat my three boys. They had been playing nearby and when they saw the great fire, they pulled up chairs. They were sitting three in a row, watching intently when I heard:
Mom! Do it again! Do it again!
I don't do fire anymore.
Anyway, there's great stuff over there at Not Exactly Rocket Science. Check it out! I double dog dare ya!
Where to start. Where to start.
We took the boys for pizza tonight. I heard a story I had not heard, one that occurred on Sunday, and then it went from there…
My boys are deathly afraid of dogs. Deathly. Of all dogs. Big and small. Puppies and dogs. There are many things to blame it on, but the vast majority of the blame falls squarely on my brother in law and his wife and the fact they were completely incapable of training their dogs, thereby having this piece of shit genetic mutant Yorkie that barked, jumped relentlessly and snapped all the time, and a big Norwegian Elkhound who felt the need to compete with said POS Yorkie, and so she barked all the time too… except her bark is deep and scary.
POS Yorkie finally died. Good damn riddance. I’m talking to them on the phone when it happened and they are so upset, and I tried, I really really tried, to be upset. And I kind of was. For them. They were sad. But… let me make it perfectly clear, I HATED that dog and I do not miss it. At all. Not once. That POS had not one redeeming quality.
Now, I married into an Italian family, which means we go to each others homes for Sunday dinner. Over the last 10 years, those dogs have scared the ever living crap out of my kids. The loud growling and barking, the jumping and snapping at their faces by the POS Yorkie. The dogs got put away, but still, the damage was done.
Now that POS Yorkie is dead, hopefully rotting in doggie hell, the Elkhound has calmed down considerably. But… as I said, the damage is done.
So this past Sunday, my husband took my boys and their best friend to Mass. If you recall, for 1st Holy Communion, my 2nd son asked that their best friend be able to spend the night. Their best friend is like a 4th son to me. No kidding. It’s nothing for me to take the 4 boys. I love him like my own. So my husband takes them all to Mass the next morning.
They are walking in the parking lot and a man with a small yellow lab puppy is walking in the parking lot, puppy on leash. The pup was probably about 8-10 weeks old. The man accidentally drops the leash, and the puppy CASUALLY starts to stroll next to my boys, his tail wagging his whole body. My two younger boys have grabbed onto their Daddy’s hands, but my older (I know I shouldn’t laugh) is so overcome with fear, he JUMPS into some bushes. And gets stuck. His clothes are stuck in the bushes.
Now their friend is watching all this. And he’s saying to my eldest, laughing hysterically, as my eldest is trying to get himself unstuck from the bushes, “I don’t get it. What are you afraid of? IT’S A PUPPY!!!!”
I’m hearing this story at the table, and my husband and two younger boys are laughing at my eldest. I am laughing. My eldest is looking sheepishly at me, grinning, but kind of embarrassed. Hey, this stuff happens in families. You get laughed at for stupid stuff…
But being that he has such a great sense of humor… the entire story starts turning into a joke.
Background on this story joke: we always talk about ‘the bad people’. These are people who do bad things to children. We run through scenarios. “What do you do if a stranger offers you candy or asks you to come to their car to see their puppy?”
The funny thing is, I just found out that Son#2 actually thought that they offer you candy because the candy is laced with poison and that puts you to sleep, and then they drag you off in the car.
I finally said to him today, “Sweetheart, you are a little guy, you weigh 47lbs. If they want to throw you in that car, they don’t need to drug you with poison candy. They’ll just pick you up and throw your ass in the car. They’re using the candy or anything else they can think of to get you CLOSE ENOUGH!”
Heh. Poison sleeping candy. Go figure.
OK, so flash forward to tonight and the ‘scared of the puppy’ story. Somehow the two older boys are talking about bad people and my eldest says to my middle son, “Hey little boy, want to come to my car for candy or to see my puppy?”
My middle son feigns horror and replies, “Oh no!!! Not the puppy!!!”
Now, I’m laughing my ass off. And they keep this going, on and on, the scenario is getting larger and they're laughing hysterically, and next thing I know… my middle son, the one with the weak stomach, has swallowed Sprite down the wrong pipe and is choking on that as well as the mouthful of Sprite he had.
He’s coughing harder and harder and suddenly he starts to vomit. (Thank God we hadn’t had pizza yet. Remember last time we ate pizza? I’m thinking pizza is bad…) Sprite is being hurled on our table when… it starts to come out his nose.
And I don’t mean a little bit… it appears to be a lot, and it’s coming out FIZZY! Soda is coming out of his nose like soda spraying out of a shaken up coke can! I’m watching in horror, my husband is catching it in his hands. I’m throwing napkins. It stops. He is fine.
It was amazing. I had no idea coke sprayed like that 2nd time around and out a nose to boot.
On a lighter note, his sinuses are clean and he is breathing very clearly... I would say, all and all, it was a pretty light and lively dinner.
Today Bones wanted jello for dessert. It went like this:
Bones: Mom, can you make us some jello?
5 minutes pass
Bones: Mom, when are you going to make my jello?
Me: Later. I promise. I’ll make you jello.
Bones, jello box in hand: Mom, can you make me some jello?
And on and on it went until I nearly blew a stack. He’s Mr. Instant Gratification and it makes me frickin’ nuts.
So I finally make it to the kitchen, to find all I needed sitting on the counter so I can make this jello. As I’m pouring water into the pan to make it hot, he plops down this jello mold. It’s shaped like a angel food cake pan, but made out of plastic. The mold is wet.
I’m staring at the mold thinking, “Where have I seen this? Where did he get this?” when I look at him and ask. He says, “the bathtub!”
Then I remember.
My folks were in town and Bones went into this phase where every couple hours, he wanted to take a bath. I’d run warm water for him, walk back in, and there he would be floating on his back, eyes closed, with a jello mold… stuck on his pen-is. It was just sitting there over his crotch. Hiding his bits and pieces. Like a sombrero. (I have no idea why this vision of a sombrero covering a pen-is continues to infiltrate my brain, but I must’ve seen a picture of such somewhere and that’s the first thing that came to my mind.) My parents and I would walk in to continually check on him, laughing at the naked floating boy in the tub… with all parts covered by this plastic jello mold.
So now I stare at the jello mold on my counter and I think, “You have got to be kidding me. This has been sitting in dirty bathwater, hiding a pen-is, and I’m supposed to make jello in it?”
“Why is it wet? Did you wash it?”, I ask hopefully. Realize, however, if he had, I still would have rewashed it. I was just wondering if the impact of the uncleanliness of it all had actually hit him.
“Nope. I just pulled it out of the tub. That’s bathwater” was the reply, as if this were perfectly acceptable.
I run steaming hot water, scalding water, in the sink, and wash the jello mold thoroughly with more than adequate soap. I then let it boil in boiling water for a few minutes.
There was a time that I found nearly all my cooking utensils in the tub. Need measuring spoons? Look in the tub. Measuring cups? Tub. Tupperware? Tub. Ladle? Same. Colander? Tub. Forget expensive bathtub toys. My kitchen supplies were the fave. Sterilizing kitchen ware was routine.
So I’m sitting there making jello in the new sterilized pen-is hider, and my second son comes up and says, “Umm. Mom. That was in the tub. I’m not eating jello with butt germs.”
I looked at him and said, “First, I would not serve you butt germ jello. Second, even if I would, I’m eating the jello too and *I* would NOT serve MYSELF butt germ jello.”
I’m stirring in the cold water and my first son comes up and says, “Mom! Wait! That was the mold that was in the tub! That’s dirty!”
I’m now laughing and explaining how it has been properly washed and sterilized, but inside I am thinking, at what age does this happen? I have my 5 year old who has been bathing with this damn thing for two weeks and he’s probably even peed in the water (I don’t want to know) and he throws it on my counter to be used to eat out of, but I have my 8 and 10 year olds probably even more skeeved out than I was… and I was pretty repulsed.
Those of you without children are going to be repulsed by this post, so you may just want to move along. Seriously. It’s icky. Although… after Ogre’s comment on what he does to telemarketer’s in THIS post, he may think this is no sweat. *grin*
A friend of mine and I were e-mailing. She is a mother. Most of my friends are now in this cycle of their lives. Small children. Gotta love ‘em when they aren’t making you nuts.
Anyway, something came up the other day when she was with her Mom. There was a discussion about what they called bathroom functions when growing up. Now her husband went into laughing conniptions when her mother told him that growing up, they called the peeing, going tee tee, and pooping was called ‘the Big Job’. Man, just typing that cracks me up.
In this house… the worst I can do is tell you I still use the phrase, ‘Do you have to go potty’. I am seriously trying to break that with my 8 and 10 year old for two reasons. First, why do I care if they have to use the restroom? They are old enough to know if they’re doing some sort of pee pee dance, that they need to find one. They don’t need me asking them and reminding them to empty their bladders. Second, they just flat out don’t need Mama calling it ‘potty’ anymore. Trust me, I’m never going to graduate to saying to them, “Yo, you gotta take a dump?” but something along the lines of “Do you need to use the restroom” should suffice.
When they were toddlers and we were potty training, it was always, “Do you have to pee?” or “Do you have to poop?” There were never any special names. Which… actually… looking at some recent incidents with my 5 year old, was not such a wise idea. Special names would have alleviated the embarrassment of being in a restaurant with Bones and hearing him declare in his shouting voice, for the child cannot speak in normal tones, “Mom! I have to poop!” We are working on table etiquette and what can and cannot be said at the table. Still, I think that having heard him say something like, “Mom! I have to do the BIG job!” would have saved me my reddened face and the obvious fact everyone in the restaurant knew what needed to be done. Much to their dismay.
So… if you don’t mind, and want to be so bold, in the comments, just tell us what y’all have called it. And if you don’t want to admit to anything, you can always just say, “Well, my ‘friend’ calls it…” and we’ll know what you mean. *wink*
I'm stuck in the 80s. I took this quiz I found at blog daughter Sissy's and came up that I'm stuck in the 80s. OK, there is some 90's influence, but if you look at what I really love, I'm an 80's kinda gal. From Peter Gabriel to REM, oh, throw some Prince in there, I'm all over the 80s. I didn't see INXS or The Smiths as options...
So here is my musical taste, I gather, according to a 5 second quiz. Take it. It's fun. (Jack, that means YOU!)
Your Taste in Music:
|80's Alternative: Highest Influence|
|90's Pop: Highest Influence|
|90's Rock: Highest Influence|
|80's Pop: High Influence|
|Adult Alternative: High Influence|
|80's R&B: Low Influence|
|90's Alternative: Low Influence|
|Alternative Rock: Low Influence|
|Progressive Rock: Low Influence|
|Punk: Low Influence|
|Ska: Low Influence|
Holy Crap Lions Tours! I have a new Blog Bro.
I'm still stuned, STUNNED I tell ya, that it happened.
Peter has started a blog. That's right, the Bad Example frequent commenter and guest poster at Harv's, the man who talked to me about the Lady Smith .38 and encouraged me to try it out, leading me to say to The Great Omnipotent One when he was visiting, "Can you teach me to shoot?" (Actually, the thought of getting a gun had been in my head as TGOO had been talking to me about it, but Peter's post came at just the right time.)
So with that... Shakey Pete's Shootin' Shack. His first Post is HERE, a little about him. I like his views on many things. His view on homosexuality in particular struck a chord with me (I don't care about people's sexual orientation... not my business) and it made me laugh when I read this paragraph:
I'm not particularly interested in anyone's sex lives than my own and Linda Lou's. The gay issues do not interest me at all except as they effect the larger society, I've problems of my own. Who someone else chooses to lie down next to is none of my business. I'm fifty-eight years old and not once in my life has anyone asked my permission to be gay.
So true, so true.
So take a gander over at Peter's. I'm glad he's joined the ranks and I'm looking forward to reading his views on the world, from a man whose been around the block a few times.
Army Wife Toddler Mom is talking about her first day at home with the small one now that Army Husband has gone back to work. (He took extended leave after he got back from 18 months in the sandbox.) Little people will keep you hopping!
Harvey picked up on it and posted HERE about how to get your man to talk about their day at work.
Damn. I'm a bitch. I don't care if he tells me about his day or not. How awful is that? He more than likely will as he's an extrovert, and I'll listen, but for the most part, I just assume no news means everything is status quo.
I think that throws me into the unsupporitve wife realm. Really.
He has no clue what I do at my paying job. It has always been thus. He knows what military program I work on. He knows where my building is located. He knows my work days. He knows how much I make. He knows my co-workers.... I think. That's it. If you were to ask him what I did, he would say, "Oh, she's an engineer on such and such a program." If you were to press deeper, he would probably look at your blankly.
When we got married, my attitude was, "That is YOUR job, this is MY job". I don't talk about my work at home, he would be bored. And his job... bores me. If I wanted to do what he did for a living, I would have majored in it. He works with the general public, which would make me frickin' NUTS!
So, if something bad happens and he wants to share, I'm an ear. I'll listen. If something good happens and he wants to celebrate, I'll be the cheerleader.
But... if I hear nothing, I assume it is status quo and will be told when it is otherwise. I don't ask.
It works for us.
For my new readers, I thought I might clarify some things. For my loyal readers, this will be a reminder.
I did not seek employment. They sought me. If I had been a horrible employee that stressed everyone out, that people hated to contend with, they would not have called me. I have since been privy to conversations with regard to other former co-workers seeking employment with my new employer and have heard them being turned down… we have a good group of people and we don’t want to mess with the mix.
My vent was not about my current employer, but about the big corporation we subcontract with. I worked for that big corporation for 12 years. The only good thing about it was working with the United States Air Force, my co-workers (I keep in touch with a few I grew to love), and the actual mental work. The management style was that of mind games and brain washing, where everyone wondered if they would have a job next year, the threat of being laid off constantly being held over your head if you did not ‘perform’, and people were consistently told that, ‘You’ll never be able to find a job as good as the one you have here in this county. We pay the best, we have the best benefits, people would DIE to work for us.’ Funny, as people died WHILE working for them…
I did not get fired. They closed my plant. I feel certain that if they had not, I would have stayed and shut off the lights at age 62 ½. I am not bitter, but actually thankful it occurred. It made me prioritize my life… my family comes first.
My current company is extraordinarily laid back and a real pleasure to work for. I never see management, it is casual, there is never any screaming and yelling and cursing at people, employees are never called into offices to have their asses chewed out constantly, nobody walks around with a pink ring around their mouth from all the Pepto Bismal they drink to keep their stomach at bay, nobody has been carted off yet having suffered a heart attack at work. That last one is always a bonus.
Let me tell you about my rants. You’ve been privy to a few here. Where in my earlier days, they were more often, I was more easily irritated by gross ineptitude, they are less frequent now as I prefer not to get that worked up about crap I just have no control over. However, it does happen and since it is part of my personality.
I do NOT rant and carry on in public. I don’t stand in my cube shouting at people. Yesterday’s rant consisted of my calling my lead, the guy who hired me, a guy who knows me probably better than my husband except not in the biblical sense, a guy who knew EXACTLY what he was getting when he made the call for me to come work for him, and saying something like, “Who in the hell came up with this process? They didn’t fix the process. To fix the process you pull it apart and figure out where the weak links are. All those pinheads did was add ANOTHER LAYER OF MANAGEMENT! GRRR…” and off I went.
So… would you like to know what happened next, which I did not post? After I got off the phone with my lead, and he explained in deep detail how this affected all of us and who the King Pinhead was who came up with this ‘fix’ (I guessed who he was on the phone), my cube was suddenly FULL of my co-workers saying, “What did he say? What did he say?” Everyone wanted to know all the details of how we were now supposed to function, why it had occurred, and what was next.
If I had been a stark raving mad bitch, trust me, nobody would have come to my cube for process data.
I’m not a good mechanical engineer. I can do it, I am average, but I’m not GREAT. I am a process oriented person… I am an analyst as my blog bro _Jon of We Swear pointed out in his comments. In my life before working for pay again, in my volunteer work, organizations came to me and said, ‘we are broken, fix me’, and I did. Everyone has a talent. Mine happens to be flowing out the process with team members, the capability of seeing through the crap, figuring out the weak links, and WITH team members, fixing it. That is one of the things I can do. I'm also excellent at analyzing data and forecasting.
I hate people telling me their problem, asking me for help, and then when I make suggestions, they are real quick to say, “no, that won’t work. No, that wont’ work.” Don’t do that to me. It will piss me off. If you come to me with a problem, be open to my suggestions. You may not want to take them, but listen to them and see if they can fit your needs or if they can be modified to do so. And then… if you perpetually whine, then you better be able to come up with a couple suggestions of your own.
I hate helpless people too busy whining to formulate a plan of action.
Because of this, I NEVER take my problems to management without potential solutions.
I hate meetings as I have found most of them just to be a forum for someone to listen to themselves talk. Very little is accomplished and I have too much work on my desk to be wasted listening to people blather.
I am not management material. And… for the record, even though I am not happy about the selection of a few people to King Pinhead position at my old company, I am very happy to say, that one of my closest friends was finally recognized for her innate abilities and although she will never make it to the VP level she deserves, she has made it up the ranks. I would work for her in a heart beat.
So I hope that clarifies things. They sought me, I like them, my old employer is still messed up, I LOVE my co-workers, I am not stressful to work with, I am process oriented, I hate whiners, I still hate meetings, I am not management material.
I got a call today from someone taking a ‘shopping poll’. She identified herself and I hate to be rude, so what the hell. I’ll let her start before I politely say, “I’m not interested” and hang up.
OK, so here’s my question, are there really people out there that answer those questions? Seriously?
First, she knew my last name, although she pronounced it incorrectly as they always do. I am curious as to what she is going to ask. So I politely say, “Yes.” Then she says she is doing an informal shopping survey. I am curious.
Second question, “What grocery store do you shop with?” I answer, ‘Publix’. I don’t care if she knows where I shop. It is not as if she asked WHICH Publix.
Next question… here’s the big one… “how much do you spend a week on groceries?” to which I reply, “I do not believe this is your business nor anyone else’s”. Do people really divulge that type of information?
Then she asked, “How many people are in your family?” and then I ended it with, “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in participating in this survey” and I hung up.
So people REALLY REALLY answer these personal questions to marketers? I just have to know.
And in case any of you are wondering why I am polite… yes, they are intruding on my time, but these folks are being paid to do a crap job. In my opinion, life is too short to be rude to people like that. If I bother to pick up, I am polite and hang up. I just think there is too much rudeness in this world and I’m not going to contribute to it unless forced to.
My job has become just that… a job. I find myself frustrated with the BS processes from my former employer that I now subcontract with. The inflexibility of big corporate processes makes me nuts.
I went on my first major rant today at work. Big rant. I could feel my blood pressure rise as my lead said to me, “Yes, you are right, but you get paid the same, so who cares?”
Yeah, sure, great attitude, but the problem is what is occuring IS WRONG and RIDICULOUS! I cannot handle crap like that. It MUST be corrected and I cannot let it go or it makes me nuts.
It is a mental thing. This issue is trivial, I know in the big scheme it doesn’t matter, even though it causes MORE work for me, but it still makes me nuts.
And I know I am ‘wrong’ in feeling this way and I should just coast through like everyone else and collect my damn paycheck. I hear it ALL the time. But I can’t.
I was told when ranting today that someone from the Great White North was going to come down and explain ‘the new process’. I nearly freaked. I don’t want to attend a damn meeting! No! Those are BAD! Last week I had to attend a dog and pony show guised as ‘training’. Holy crap. Everyone sat down at the big long conference table; I took a chair by the door. Someone said, “Hey! Don’t sit way over there. Come join us!” I feigned a ‘I may have a sick kid at school’ and held up my set on ‘no ring’ cell phone, as if I might have to jump up and take a call. In reality, I sat by the door so mentally I felt like I could escape if I had to. There was something about knowing I could just stick my foot out that door and not be totally in the room.
I can’t do it anymore. I’m not in that zone. There was so much I hated before and I have been free for so long and I feel like they’re starting to bash me, this square peg, into molding and fitting into this round hole… and I don’t want to fit that round hole. I will not fit that round hole.
And I am frustrated in knowing of some who have been promoted so far beyond their competency, from my old company and for whom I must now interact, it makes me physically sick. They were frickin’ no good idiots when we started at the company together, and now they’re still frickin’ no good idiots, but now they’re frickin’ no good idiots with POWER, which makes them dangerous.
GRRR. The minute I am unable to compartmentalize and I allow the BS to bleed over into my personal life, the minute I allow work to interfere with my home life, I will quit. I cannot live the life I lived. I cannot go to that dark place again. It is not good for me and it is not good for my children.
On two positive notes, which my buddy DK who reads this will appreciate: 1) it took me until now to get this pissed off at work and I’ve been working since November and 2) I haven’t threatened to throw anyone out a plate glass window.
The negative is that now that the shine has completely worn off, the period between times when I get thoroughly pissed is going to get shorter and shorter until I get to a near perpetual spontaneously combust stage.
I have joined the ranks of the average American and I have ‘a job’ I do not look forward to going to. It is a paycheck. Thank God it’s only 10-15 hours a week. I’d have a damn meltdown if it was one hour more.
No, this has not bled into my life today. I am ranting here, because I can. It is my catharsis. It is my blog.
Blog daughter VW, of One Happy Dog Speaks, has the first Karnival of the Kidz up HERE!
Pictures, stories, go take a look!
Eric of Straight White Guy answered the Meme HERE. I am at the point, that if you just mention Eric's name, I start to laugh. Poor guy. I just think he's so daggum funny.
He did not disappoint...
TGOO and I went shooting on Friday. I had looked in the yellow pages for a good shooting range that rented guns. We found one close by and went for an hour. It’s a great range, hand gun, rifle, and archery. They sell anything you could want, permitted you are legally allowed to buy it, and they offer all sorts of lessons and classes.
I rented a Lady Smith .38 special. It fit nicely in my hand. TGOO had his .45. He got me a silhouette, which I hearby call 'blue man' as it was blue and was of a man, to shoot at while he took a bullseye.
I’d never shot before. Ever. I’d never been shooting, never heard a gun fire. Being a person who prefers quiet and startles easy, it took me awhile to get used to the noise that a gun makes, even with ear protection.
TGOO had me aiming at the center of mass and he had the blue man at what he called ‘bedroom range’. Someone comes into your bedroom, this is the distance he will most likely be from the bed. Of course there are many assumptions here, that the gun is on my nightstand, etc., etc., but it was a good place to start. (I have kids, there will be no gun on my nightstand.)
For those who know nothing about guns, the .38 is a revolver and it holds 5 bullets. He had me shoot it two ways, one with the hammer already cocked and the other with my slowly pulling on the trigger until it fired. Either way, I am way too jumpy. The noise and the recoil, although very small, was a lot for me to get used to.
I started with hitting blue man twice in the neck. I was aiming for his stomach. This is with taking careful aim, forget being pumped full of adrenaline at 2AM in the dark. I was kind of depressed. I mean it seemed so simple. Look down the gun, through the site, I see what I want, pull the trigger… and I’m off by 9 inches.
TGOO’s .45 is sweet. It’s loud as hell, the kickback was much greater, and the grip was hard on my hands, but it was smooth. Bam, I nailed blue man. Big hole in his stomach. No matter where TGOO told me to aim, as long as I was still at bedroom distance, I nailed him give or take an inch or two. Shoulder, head, neck, center of mass, blue man would have been a dead man.
However, swap blue man for the bulls eye and push it out further and I started out barely tagging the target. Whereas TGOO had nice big holes right in the center of the target, I ended by barely nailing the outer ring. I was better, but I still need practice.
We had me in a solid stance, two hands. We fired with me in a solid stance, one hand. TGOO also had me lay the gun down, spontaneously pick it up and fire, one handed. Over and over and over we fired. I fired the .38 and then he’d have me do a couple rounds with his .45. I got better with time, but I am a long way from being any expert or even being comfortable. A long damn way.
We left with my left ear ringing (yes I was wearing eye and ear protection) and my hands, wrists and forearms sore. Even if I can get over my jumpiness, which I will, I still have to contend with my poor hand and arm strength. That one is going to take time. I told TGOO that arm and hand strength is something men take for granted… they don’t think about having it as it ‘just is’. To those of us without it, it is something to work on.
So… bottom line… gun purchasing will not be this year. I’ll be going down once a month to the range and renting and firing on my own. I have some classes I want to take on gun safety, etc. There may be a couple other models I want to try out. I liked the Lady Smith .38, but before I invest that kind of money, I want to be sure that’s the one I want; the one I can use comfortably.
And for those who have been curious as to why I am thinking of carrying, I’ve had some things occur lately. I was in what I think was a potentially bad situation a little over a month ago, where I was thinking to myself, ‘I wish I had a gun’. I have not blogged on the situation and do not intend to. Also, my husband has started to travel more and I am taking to the roads more, alone with my boys.
I have a game plan in my head for myriad situations, but would feel better if a gun was in the plan. TGOO has been telling me for years that I needed to get one. I have resisted for personal reasons… but now it is time.
From over at Jennifer's History and Stuff, I got this quiz.
How is it, that I put in that I want 4 distinct seasons and I get Austin? Sorry, folks, but when I think of Austin, I still think of two seasons, Hot and not so Hot. Perhaps I am wrong.
Anyway, it did say 'city', so I can't gripe of the largeness of these places. I'm just not a big city girl. Period. I do like Atlanta and I've lived in Honolulu. I've heard nice things about Denver. I'm am questioning the selection of Seattle. I think Seattle is the reverse equivalent of Austin: two seasons, Cold and not so Cold. I'll pass on Seattle too, although I hear wonderful things about it.
American Cities That Best Fit You:
My Mom and The Great Omnipotent One left today. I’m kind of depressed. My life is just so ‘Right’ when they’re around. They are such good people, so damn funny, the two of them.
The light hearted banter in the morning over coffee as my Mom needles TGOO for sleeping on her side of the bed. TGOO doing the crossword, asking Mom and I questions we have no answer to. I take that back, Mom can help him brain storm an answer. I’m pretty much useless.
Mom making tea for my boys in the afternoon. TGOO throwing the ball to the boys or pitching to them in the backyard.
All three of us kids feel this way when we leave my folks or they leave us. They had been at Morrigan’s house before they came to see us. She called me while they were driving and she is yelling, “You stole my parents! I miss them already!”
10 more weeks and we go to Pensacola. I’m counting down.
Have you ever suddenly looked at your life and thought, ‘Holy crap am I blessed’. As frustrated as I’ve been with my life lately, that has happened to me twice in the last week. I always feel fortunate, but there are times I am awash with a feeling of being of the ‘truly blessed’.
Last week my husband was out of town, and I groused and complained to myself as I got my kids out of bed, fed, brushed and dressed, and traipsed them down to a community parade… a Heritage Day parade. We were participating for Son#2’s cub scout den. We had a float. It seemed like such a hassle on top of all the others of my day to day. As I was helping all the boys throw their candy and beads, seeing the various groups from the neighborhoods working on their antique cars or floats, watching the brownie troops and dance groups full of giggling little girls try to march together, listening to the local bagpipe band, noticing the American flags, hearing our names called out by residents we knew as our float drove by, on this glorious beautiful Saturday morning, I had an overwhelming feeling of being oh so blessed.
To live in America can be such a wonderful thing. I spent a lot of time reflecting on our military troops and the sacrifices they make for me to live the life that I live. It is not lost on me.
Saturday was another one of those days, but more personal. We had “Frankie’s” First Holy Communion and with my parents in town, and a massive gathering at the church, it felt very family oriented, yet still somewhat of a community. Watching the children walk down the aisle, hands pressed into a prayerful fold, some of them taking deep breaths to quell the anxiety of their excitement, some of them walking very quickly, staring ahead, as if on a mission, others smiling as if in embarrassment of being the center of attention, it took my breath away. The sweetness. The innocence. Frankie was so proud.
Some of the mothers know I made the quilt, but very few. Of the 64 squares, only a handful knew. It was hanging on the wall and I could see children pulling their parents to see their square, the 1/64th of the quilt, yet without their part, it would not have been the same. They were so proud. I heard parents saying to others, “Wait, we can’t leave. We have to go see the quilt.” And I quietly watched, filled with such a peace that they were happy with their creations. They were so proud of what they had done to create the end project. They were beaming… and it was all suddenly worth it and I remembered… I remembered why three times I have volunteered the enormous task of putting this quilt together… and how I will do so again in 2 years when Son#3 has his Holy Communion.
Afterwards, I had a small gathering. It was my family, my folks, my father in law, my brother in law and his wife and child, and Son#1’s best friend since he was born, with his parents… whose Mom is a good friend of mine and also the Godmother of my third son. It was casual as I needed it to be, eating BBQ, chicken pot pie, and home made brownies, afterward the men drinking single malt scotch on the porch, the women sitting around the dining room table laughing. The boys, all four, who had been outside playing chase, barefoot through my yard, throwing balls at each other and just being boys, eventually settled in to play video games. It was a good day for them.
It was a good day for me.
I am blessed.
The cerebral Jack of Random Fate has his answer to the "If I could be..." Meme HERE.
He did not disappoint me. Of course, how could he, since he happened to mention my two favorite cartoons, early Bloom County and Calvin and Hobbes?
This week's Carnival of the Recipes is UP! Be of Bebere.com has done a most excellent job and you can see her post HERE.
Take a gander... I feel certain you will find somethng you like. I know I have.
As I posted earlier, VW has started the Karnival of the Kidz. Well, I had a tough time finding a picture of me as a child this week. All my CDs with family photos had not one picture of me as a child and my scanner is no longer hooked up due to functionality issues. So… I’m posting a Kid post from the past. I went through my memory bank to find one I remember writing and enjoying. It’s not a tough stretch for me to find a Kid post since my blog seems to be nothing more than an amalgamation of kid posts.
For you new readers, this was from last August when I took my three boys to SeaWorld, by myself. My first entry into the Karnival of the Kidz is HERE.
And… there is still time to enter! Post your story or picture and mail to Karnival.Kidz(at)gmail(dot)com. Deadline is tomorrow (Sunday) night, midnight. VW will post links to all stories and pix on Monday!
Today my middle son, who my father has taken to calling Frankie because of his deep blue eyes, had a retreat for his First Holy Communion. The retreat was located down the street from the school.
The school itself is situated on a busy two lane road with traffic running north/south. The school is situated on the western side of the road; the southern traffic is an easy right. To go north… is a real pain in the neck. I’m fortunate that I go south every day, so I just merge in where I can. To go north can bring me great anxiety, so more often than not, on the rare occasions it is required for me to turn north, I will go south, make a u-turn and then come north.
Today, traffic seemed especially thick. All of us with 2nd graders had dropped off our other kids at the school and now were making our way north to the venue of the retreat. I spotted, a gentleman, who is one of the Dads I simply adore. A former Marine F/A-18 pilot, he is the most affectionate Dad, he’s madly in love with his wife, and they just have a great family… of four boys. This is the family I posted on earlier that when I found out she was pregnant, to my horror the first thing out of my mouth was, “I know a good urologist.” He and I became fast friends because we have a mutual acquaintance in the Marine Corps community, we are both children of career Naval Aviators, and we both HAD three boys… until they added one more this past December. Plus, he’s just a real sweetie.
Anyway, I spot the Dad in the truck ahead of me and I figure, “Marine pilot, I’ll follow him. I’ll do what he does and make it through this traffic.”
What in the hell was I thinking? This is a man who is used to aiming a jet to land on something that appears to be the size of a postage stamp and I’m thinking I can somehow do what he does through traffic?
So I’m sitting there behind him in my van, and I watch as he pulls out, makes it between the south bound traffic and merges his big honker SUV into two cars moving north, with less than a foot to spare on each bumper.
I sat there and thought, ‘You must be kidding me.’ So I went south, made a u-turn and then continued north. I can’t handle my mini-van the way a Marine pilot handles his SUV.
A couple years ago, my eldest was making his first Holy Communion. The Great Omnipotent One and I were e-mailing back and forth one night and we were talking about the host and wine. The conversation went something like this:
TGOO: So then the wafer and wine transmogrify into the body and blood of Christ, huh?
Me: Ummm, Dad, they don’t call it transmogrify.
TGOO: Sure they do.
Me: Uh, No, they don’t. It’s called transubstantiation.
TGOO: Are you sure?
Me: Yeah. Transmogrify is what Calvin does. They don’t throw the wine and wafer into a transmogrifier box and ‘Presto’ it’s now the body and blood.
TGOO: Are you sure because I am looking it up in the dictionary and it says ‘to change or be changed completely’ and I think that’s the word.
Now I’m laughing and yelling at him in the computer, “Dad, I PROMISE YOU that the Catholic Church does NOT call it transmogrify. I PROMISE YOU!”
I know damn well he was sitting on his end of the world snickering to himself.
Well, this has obviously become a big joke between he and I.
Flash forward to today, my folks and I pick up ‘Frankie’ from his retreat as it’s only a half day for him and as my son gets in the car, he is holding an art project. TGOO says, “So what did you do in your retreat today? I don’t see a little box. Didn’t you make a transmogrifier?” This is of course lost on my son, but I am laughing.
Later in the mall as we’re getting ‘Frankie’ a pair of dress shoes for the big event, he declares to us, “You know, I tasted the body of Christ today and it tastes awful…” Heh. I could not quit laughing. He carries on, “I thought I would puke. What if I throw up during my Holy Communion…”
Of course TGOO is telling him that after it transmogrifies that it tastes like chicken. I’m telling him not to ask for peanut butter and my Mom is shaking her head and saying, “I can picture it now, he can look back and say, “I threw up on Father during my First Holy Communion…”.
I wish my folks lived closer.
Heh. I may do the nickname thing on my blog for my kids. I don’t know yet. I call me eldest my brown bear, my youngest is Bones, and my Mom has mentioned I never call Son#2 anything. That’s because his nickname encompasses his real name. I also call him Schmoopy and have been tossing it around, but I call ALL my boys Schmoopy at some time.
I think TGOO’s nickname today of Son#2 may be my blog nickname for him if I move onto nicknames. Son#2’s eyes… they are so blue… they are like looking into pools of water. When you look into his eyes, it feels as if you are looking into his soul. People stop us and say things.
Bones’ eyes are like mine… more of a blue gray. But not ‘Blue Eyes’… his are all blue. My Mom started the thought process by suggesting Blue Eyes or something along those lines, and I think TGOO may have hit it. It may be ‘Frankie’. I shall see.
Blog Daughter Sissy of And What Next has answered the Meme that I tagged her with yesterday.
On a side note... Ogre invented this meme and is tracking its spreading through the blogosphere. How damn cool is that?
I don't know how I missed the fact he has created it; I must've been weary from all that damn quilting. Anyway, a good indication for me should have been when I read, "If I could be a llama rider" and Ogre immediately popped into my head. I remember thinking, "Wow. This llama thing has really caught on in the blogosphere..." Yeah. Right.
The weather is gorgeous here so my parents have taken to having breakfast and lunch on the back porch. After the kids got out of school, we gathered around the porch table talking and carrying on, while I finished binding the edges of the quilt.
At some point something came up about Son#2’s girlfriend, so he broke out last year’s yearbook to show a picture.
That’s when The Great Omnipotent One made up his new game. He opened the book and started to read telling the boys, “I’ll read a name and you tell me whether it is Italian or Irish.”
Heh. I think I said my kids go to a small Catholic School. My husband is 100% Italian, his grandparents immigrating over so our last name leaves no question as to his heritage. (To see him leaves no question either as he resembles Al Pacino from Godfather Part I.)
It was just really funny. I’m of course making these names up, but they are damn close, so you can see what he was selecting. He wasn’t picking names like ‘Robert White’, leaving the kids puzzled.
Most of the kids in the school are in fact, of Irish heritage. I’m wondering if this is going to be a new car travel game. “Mom, mom, mom, mom, I’m going to make up a name and you tell me if it sounds Irish or Italian.”
In so many cases, it appares to be all about the placement of that 'O'...
Here are the last few pictures of the quilt which I finished an hour ago. It's due tomorrow morning at 8AM.
The kids and families did a BEAUTIFUL job on their squares. The colors are so vibrant and as my Mom said when she saw it for the first time, "The picture on the internet does NOT do this quilt justice."
I can't wait to see the kid's faces.
Blog daughter VW, had a GREAT idea about starting something similar with children as there are with dogs, cats, and recipes. Not having enough on her plate with sons Tater and Tot, she birthed the "Karnival of the Kids".
Now, you don't have to post pictures of your kids. From her site as follows:
So let's have a little fun and put out pictures and stories of kids! Your kids, yourself as a kid, or your spouse as a kid! I would prefer the pictures to be a kid (or kids) under the age of 5 and posted at your own site. But it's yourself or your children, so feel free to put out what you are comfortable with on the picture side. Also, those cute/stupid/insane stories of what the kids have done lately (or what you did as a child). Send the post link to Karnival.Kidz –at- gmail.com before Midnight Sunday. If you don't have your own blog and would still like to participate, send the picture or story to Karnival.Kidz –at- gmail.com before Midnight Sunday.
So folks, send your entries from your blog to Karnival.Kidz (at) gmail (dot) com (you know the drill, drop the parens.)
Due date: Sunday, Midnight EST.
VW will post all links to the Big Karnival Post on Monday! Remember: You need not be a blogger to enter!
My post to come tomorrow.... I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Stupid scanner is broken... GRRR.
I think The Great Omnipotent One may be a bad influence on my kids. Mom and TGOO are down here for Son#2's First Holy Communion which takes place on Saturday.
Within hours of his arriving, the following happened... each with a different child.
First Offense: He refers to Son#2's First Holy Communion as 'The Eating of the Wafer' or 'The Day Son#2 Eats the Wafer', which I think is funny and I laugh at. I have no idea what TGOO said to Son#2 today, but I was in the kitchen cooking dinner and Son#2 comes up to me and says, "Hey, Mom, can I ask for Peanut Butter on my wafer?" I just kept hearing, "Hey, You got Chocolate in my Peanut Butter!" (We have cleard that up. He will NOT be asking Father for Peanut Butter.)
Second Offense: We're at dinner and TGOO is talking about growing up in Alabama and how they had panthers in the swamps and how they could hear the panthers screaming at night as they were sleeping with their windows open. Of course my boys ask, "Big Daddy, why were they screaming?" He looks at me and I quickly say, 'Because they were playing." He says nothing. Son#1 carries on, "Big Daddy, what game were they playing?"
Now... if you remember from The Talk, Big Daddy is the one that lifted his eyebrow at me and replied "Reallllly???" when Son#1 informed him that we had seen donkeys giving each other piggy back rides on the farm. So without missing a beat he says, "They were making baby panthers." This is completely lost on Sons 2 and 3, but not on 1, whose eyes now get real big.
Nice. Nice that it has come up AGAIN. I told Morrigan and she said, "Oh, be so prepared, he may be the one that tells Son#1 that the EasterBunny is not real."
Me: He will not!
Morrigan: Oh yes, my friend. He'll just lead him down that logical path... like I tried to do... until I found out we can't see the Easter Bunny because of some great invisible force field.
Heh. Not good. Hopefully Son#1 won't lose any teeth while TGOO is here...
Third Offense, and in my mind the funniest and worst: Son#3 is talking to him and it goes like this:
Bones: How old are you, Big Daddy?
Bones: How old is Mom.
TGOO: (Pause) 40.
(Sidenote: he and I were both born in September. I notice that he didn't up HIS age, but he sure as hell didn't mind upping mine!)
Bones: How many years have you been married.
TGOO: (Pause and an evil smirk comes over his face): 39 years. 39 years this June. Your Mom will be 40 in September...
AND HE KEEPS SAYING THIS OVER AND OVER! Now, this is totally lost on Bones, who has no idea what the joke is as the kid is only 5, but this has been a running family joke between TGOO and I for 20 years, at least, a continuation of a joke he had with his eldest sister, with regard to her age and how long my grand parents had been married. My folks have been married for 43 years, but he LOVES to tell us they've only been married for whatever the answer is to the equation of "Bou's age -1".
One day Bones is going to get that.
Morrigan agrees with me... he may be a bad influence.
So here are the rules in italics, followed by my 5, followed then by my tag for the next three...
"Immediately following there is a list of 24 different occupations. You must select at least 5 of them (feel free to select more). You may add more if you like to your list before you pass it on (after you select 5 of the items as it was passed to you). Each one begins with "If I could be..." Of the 5 you selected, you are to finish each phrase with what you would do as a member of that profession.
For example, if the selected occupation was "pirate" you might take the phrase "If I could be a pirate..." and add to it "I would sail the 7 Seas, dating lasses from around the world."
See how easy that is? Here's the list:
If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be an astronaut...
If I were a dog...
If I were an inventor...
If I were a programmer...
If I were a genius...
My answers (I didn't add any occcupations):
If I could be a painter, I would paint happy murals all over my house, murals of fun things I've done with my children, to constantly remind me of the fun we have... even when they make me frickin' nuts.
If I could be a gardener, I would have the most exquisite English garden that covered my entire yard, the whole damn acre, and it would be beautiful and I would live in my yard all day long, even in the summer. (Instead, I have a black thumb since in my home anything that does not ask to be fed, dies. Thankfully I did not give birth to any mutes. That would have been a bad thing.)
If I could be a linguist I would speak Gaelic, French, Chinese, Russian and Portuguese. I put Gaelic first because its in such high demand...
If I could be a llama rider, I would hire Ogre to pick out my Llama and I would get llamas for the entire Bad Example/Frizzenspark family and we would be a pack of Llama riders, riding our llamas from blogmeet to blogmeet. (And Ogre would ride with us as I forget he's not a BE member... he just feels like one.)
If I could be a missionary, I would spend as much time in that position as I could. Oh wait... Crap. That's not what they really meant is it...
Tag You're It goes to:
Jack of Random Fate because I always want to know whats in his head.
Eric of Straight White Guy because he's funny as hell and who knows what in the heck he'll come up with.
Blog daughter Sissy of And What Next because she is in a great quandry as to what to next with her life and I just want to hear what pops into her brain.
Answers will be posted on THEIR blogs and I'll link to them when they're up.
I just finished machine quilting the entire quilt. All that remains is binding the edges and I'm 1/4 through with that.
Normal blogging should resume tomorrow.
I'm ready to get rid of this quilt... give it back to the rightful owners... all those 2nd graders who did such a great job on their squares. I can't wait for them to see it.
As promised, the top. I am putting the back on and sandwiching tomorrow. I'll machine quilt it tomorrow and start hand binding it Monday. It's coming along.
What you cannot see is how beautiful the purple fabric is... it's almost a batik. On the top, in gold it says 'Reconciliation Quilt', and on the bottom, that I cut off, it has the school name and year.
The quilt is perfectly square. It is not a trapezoid. It is just the angle I took the picture.
Final product probably Wednesday.
(Click for Larger Size)
Ack! I have been negligent!
Last week, the Carnival of the Recipes was hosted by my Aussie Fave, Amanda of Aussie Wife. She did an awesome job, complete with little graphics for each grouping!
This week is hosted by Countertop Chronicles. There's a lot going on over there, so take a look!
My 8 year old crawled up in my lap this evening. I just sat there inhaling him. I love my boys. I was kissing all over his little neck, his cheeks, his forehead and I said, “Who gives you the most smooches?” and his reply was, “You, Mimie (my Mom) and Aunt Morrigan”. I thought it was so funny that it was all the women in my family. We are a very smoochy family. My boys get a whole lotta lovin’ when around my side of the family. Odd how families are so different.
So I was over at one of my favorite bloggers, Anita of Fighting Inertia, and she had posted about an incident that happened to her in the supermarket the other day. Her two boys are around the ages of my two eldest. She was shocked because… she had that ‘ovarian shift’ as my sister calls it. It is not something men relate to, obviously, as they have no ovaries, but women… y’all know what I’m talking about. You see this precious sweet thing and you think, “Oh my God. I need one of those.”
It has happened to me. I’m the first to admit, I am a great baby mother. I LOVE babies. LOVE them. And… although I may not be a great mother in general (I’m an OK Mom, not a great Mom… I have to work at being a good Mom), I am in fact a GREAT baby Mom. Babies get a whole lotta lovin’ from me. I could smooch, love, and care for a baby all day long. Whereas other Mothers would grouse and complain about how their infant was up all the time, I never hated those 2AM feedings. I would bask in the smell of my wonderful baby and quietly rock and nurse, stroking and kissing my baby. Side Note: my thoughts were not so loving when my toddlers and pre-schoolers would wake me up at 2AM. Blech.
Anyway, I love babies.
But I am here to announce to you, I have not had an ‘ovarian shift’ in 6 years. Hmm. Uncanny how that coincides with the birth of my last child.
That is right. Since my last child, I have not wanted another baby. I will hold other people’s babies, I have this urge to kiss the back of their neck (bad stuff like puke and drool don’t typically make the back of their neck), I will fuss over them and carry on, but then… I am very happy to hand the baby back to their Mama. Don’t get me wrong. I still LOVE babies, I just don’t want another.
Before it was permanently ensured that there would be no more children in this house, after my 3rd son was born I used to say to my husband, “If I get pregnant again, I guaran-damn-tee you, you’ll find me hanging in the shower.” The thought of having more children, gives me shudders.
And it’s caused me trouble too. There is a Mom at school who I adore. She had three boys and this past August, her back was to me… and when she turned around, she was 5 months pregnant. My eyes popped open, she smiled at me and greeted me in her sweet Louisiana drawl and BEFORE I COULD STOP MYSELF, I said, “I know the name of a good urologist.” There was no, “Congratulations!” or “Look at you, girl! How great!” . it was an open and honest horror and a “I know a good urologist.” When I realized what I said, I clamped my hand over my mouth and apologized profusely. She laughed and said it was fine and with very blushed cheeks and hot face, I proceeded to do the formalities and found out she was having another boy.
Two months after the baby was born her husband called me for the name of that good urologist.
I don’t think she’ll be having that ‘ovarian shift’ anymore either.
My folks are coming in town Tuesday night and I’m going with The Great Omnipotent One and we’re going… gun shopping. Yes, it is time. I want a gun and I have the resident expert coming with me.
We’re going to a shooting range that rents guns so I can check them out. I have a recommendation from Peter who guest posts for my great blog father Harvey, and I am going to check it out among others. I’ve been doing research, asking around.
I was so surprised to find out the guys I work with are really into guns. I had NO idea! I was talking to my lead one day, my buddy who called me to hire me (I don’t know about other professions, but in engineering, you may have a supervisor, but you also have a technical lead… he/she is an equal as in grade level, but is the person with the expertise in the area) and made mention I was going to buy a gun and suddenly his cube was filled with men. It cracked me up. All of them were very into my getting a gun.
My husband’s family… they think I’m a lunatic. My brother in law shook his head when he found out and said, “Rat, you scare me sometimes.” (Rat… his nickname for me.)
So, I’m going to test them out. I’m going to take some gun safety classes. I’m going to get a concealed weapons permit. I am starting the process this week.
That’s right, folks. Boudicca will be armed.
From loyal reader George and my brother, TN, I give you THIS. For all you gnome fans…
Saturday, April 16, at 11:30, ESPN2’s ‘Timeless’ is doing a piece on Brigade Boxing Championships. It airs again on Sunday at 5. (All times EST.) Never heard of it? Go HERE. (Scroll down to the Heavy Hitters section where it is explained.)
The Great Omnipotent One boxed at the Academy. I have this great black and white of him about to beat the snot out of some other midshipmen. It’s a GREAT picture.
I’ve actually created a new category called “Stories with Morrigan”. That would be my sister. It is time to post this story. It is long, but funny and it pertains to something that happened today. Click for the extended entry. She’s so funny. I cannot believe we are related.
I believe it was 1987. I was living at home, my senior year in college. That makes my sister a sophomore in high school. We were sitting around the dinner table when, if I recall, and trust me, if I am wrong in this story, it will appear in the comments, The Great Omnipotent One starts speaking French. He had many years of it and having the mind like a steel trap, he remembered quite a bit… above and beyond our family joke of ‘manges la fenetre’, which means, “eat the window”. My Mom, plays along with the French speaking.
I have no clue what is going on, my sister is looking around, and I don’t remember my brother being there, as really, the focus was my parents and my sister. This goes on for quite awhile when someone, Mom or TGOO, asks Morrigan if she understands French. By this time, she was in her 2nd year of high school French. She gives some answer and it is brought to our attention that my Mom had received a phone call from my sister’s French teacher that she had volunteered my family to take in two French boys from a French choir, while they were in Pensacola on their tour.
To this day, Morrigan swears that she was sitting in class, the French teacher says something about needing host families for these boys, Morrigan thinks ‘Oooo! Teenage boys from France!” and says jokingly, “Oh! I’ll take two!”
Now… there is NO DOUBT in my mind that although my sister swears she was not serious, that the teacher thought, “Smart Ass. I’ll show her.” And she did. She put my sister down for two French boys.
Except… they weren’t teenagers. They were 8 year olds.
Flash forward 5 months and my Mom gets a call saying that said boys will be arriving the following week. She has been blind sided. She has no idea, but what is she to say?
Wow. I have to say, I cannot recall one mess I’ve gotten myself into that comes even CLOSE to that one. Morrigan just has a knack.
The boys arrive; they speak limited English. I spoke limited French, but it is easier to communicate with a French speaking adult than a child, as an adult will make an attempt to make things easier in the conversation. And I promise you, that MY French, as well of that of TGOO’s was far better than Morrigan’s.
It seems the boys were singing with their choir at the Christ Episcopal Church, a GORGEOUS church in downtown Pensacola. The church I got married in, in fact. We were not a church going family. So my Mom, Morrigan, and I, get in our Sunday best and take these two boys down to their performance, knowing we must now sit through it.
Lovely voices they did have. Beautiful, really. I don’t remember what all they sang, but I do remember one. They sang in English, “The Battle of Jericho.” The three of us sat, side by side, listening to their angelic voices, when they start to sing this song… when my heathen sister leans over and says to me, “Why are they singing about a Bottle of Cherry Coke?”
On top of all the other stunts she had pulled, the French boys, her thinking we are getting teenagers, our receiving 8 year olds, the debacle of her trying to speak to them, and now her thinking Jericho is Cherry Coke, I could not quit laughing. I have a problem with my laughter, in particular when it comes to my sister. My Mom likens it to shaking up a can of coke and opening it up… spraying all over uncontrollably… unable to stop. That is me at times, I can laugh so hard I cannot breathe; my stomach is in knots, and tears stream down my face. And… there is no stopping it once it starts. And start it did. I am shaking, convulsing, as we cannot laugh out loud, and Morrigan has started to laugh.
Now… my Mom… is pissed. The pew is shaking and she cannot quiet us down. Did I say I was 21? Yup. And she was 15. Two grown girls acting like complete jerks in church, although it was really my sister’s fault.
This whole thing has become SUCH a family joke, that at this summer’s Ceilidh, Morrigan, for her talent, stood and told the story… in French. She found a translator program on the internet, wrote the story and then recited it to us. Her accent, not being the best, as she was talking about a ‘person’, I thought the story was about fish, until I realized it was about her two French boys.
Flash forward to today. Our school is up and running, but there is still no cafeteria, so we pack lunch every day. I get a handout from my eldest telling me that we can order lunch in advance from a local sandwich shop and they will deliver, if we sign this form. Today I get a copy of Son#2’s form… filled out! He NEVER asked me! He just signed up to buy grapes or a cookie every day for two weeks.
I open his backpack and find this as I’m talking to my sister and I’m saying, “That twerp! I cannot believe he signed up and never told me. I had to find out from his teacher. Did he EVER intend to tell me?”
And… Morrigan’s reply was, “Oh, its like me and those French boys…”
I’m yelling back, “No! I do not see the correlation between my son not telling me he is ordering cookies and grapes for lunch and YOUR NOT telling MOM that you ordered two French boys! It is NOT the same.”
My work environment is business casual. I wear jeans or khakis. I wear sandals mostly. My problem is, I do not wear shoes at home, so when at my desk, I kick off my shoes, curl up in my chair and work. All I need is a quilt over my lap, a cup of tea in my hand, and I’d be set. The problem occurs in that I have to REMIND myself to put my shoes on when I leave my cube.
I’ve been lucky. Typically feeling carpet on my feet when I stand alerts me to the fact I am shoeless.
Can you imagine working at a PROFESSIONAL office place that is SOOOO casual that they put out a policy that says something like, “We are a casual work environment, but for your safety, you must wear shoes.”
Holy crap. I know someone that works at this company, a company so big that if I named it every single one of you would know it, and that… is in her company policy. She said she read it three times thinking, “Am I reading this correctly? Is this company really having to tell their employees to wear shoes???!”
BTW, the 5% comes from my Mom's side. M Go Blue!
Your Linguistic Profile:
|70% General American English|
|5% Upper Midwestern|
OK, take a look at this picture and tell me I’m not the only one who saw a kid who belongs on a flight deck of an aircraft carrier. Tell me I am NOT the only one.
There may be too much Navy blood running through my veins…
My 2nd son’s first Holy Communion is next Saturday. My folks are coming in and we’ll have people over for lunch. It’s a big deal and he’s very excited.
I’m such a dope. He has a part in the ceremony. He is in charge of carrying the religion book. Now, he has an actual religion book at school, so I just figured there must be some ‘Master Religion Book’ somewhere.
He has been very agitated about his job. We’ve been talking about how it’s no big deal. Finally I said to the boys one day, “So what is this religion book? What does it look like? How big is it?”
The two eldest ones just stared at me, looking at me as if I were completely stupid. “Mom, it’s the Bible.”
Oh. THE Master Religion Book. The Bible. Makes sense.
Anyway, with about 20 people coming for lunch, I was hoping to have Italian or BBQ, as in I call it in, pick it up, serve it. Some people call it catered. I call it take out. Either way, that was my plan.
So I asked him what he wanted. Do you think he wants Italian or BBQ? Hell no. He wants me to frickin’ cook something. Chicken Pot Pie, no less. Yes, it is true. We will be having my homemade, takes 2 hours to prep, Chicken Pot Pie for his First Holy Communion luncheon. I do believe my husband may be appalled. He expected a big spread. I’ve come to terms with the fact I will be cooking until I run out the door for the Communion.
He asked for brownies for dessert. At first I was going to make special brownies. Now… not so much. I think we may be having brownies out of a box.
Quilt picture tomorrow. It’s not quite there.
I got over run by a fundraiser I did last month and the pinewood derby. I'm still sewing the border around.
VW may very well be the bane of my existence. That and the fact my husband hasn’t been eating his bunny.
Update on his chocolate bunny: no ears, no paws, no legs, no tail. Only body. Round milk chocolate body.
Anyway, for the last week, she has been leaving messages on my answering machine. “Bou, they’re having a sale on chocolate rabbits at Hoffmans!” (Hoffmans is our locally owned chocolate store.) She’s even been quoting the price of the rabbits. When I talk to her, I speak nothing of chocolate rabbits. I’m hoping they will sell all their rabbits once and for all. I'm hoping this will go away.
The next call, “Bou! The price has come down! You can get a dark chocolate rabbit now for 75% off!”
I’m thinking, “Holy crap. This is bad. I MUST stay away from Hoffmans.”
Yeah. So today we meet for breakfast… and she does the unthinkable. Out of her purse she pulls… a dark chocolate rabbit. For me.
The good news is my husband’s rabbit has been granted a stay of execution.
The bad news is, new bunny has no ears or head.
I am such a chocolate addict. It truly is a problem. There are two pleasures in life I think I could truly not live without. One of them is chocolate. OK, well… maybe I could live without chocolate if I had to choose…
This Sunday is my 2nd son’s pinewood derby. He’s the only one I currently have in scouting, my 1st son not being interested due to a poor experience and my 3rd being too young.
I know, many of you men are thinking, “Wow! I love the pinewood derby!” and you’re either reminiscing about your own childhoods or working with your sons.
Yeah. That’s not me.
My husband is out of town and as good fortune would have it, this is THE weekend. I made sure my husband and son at least built the damn thing before he left town. All that was left was making sure it met it’s weight specs.
I took a trip to the Boy Scout store today to pick up weights. (Sidenote: They do not have a scale.) I got the stick on kind. It seemed easier and I’m hoping I do not regret that choice. I call my husband at the airport and tell him I’ve got weights and he says, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I don’t think it’s light. I think it’s heavy and you’ll want to use the drillbit in the front of the toolbox to drill out the bottom.”
What would these 4 people in my life do if I were not so handy? Seriously. Thank the heavens above that I am completely self reliant.
I decide to go to the Post Office, thinking the entire time, “With my frickin’ luck, I’ll take drill bit to car and snap that sucker right in half.” The car. Not the bit. I arrive at the Post Office and the only scale they have is the one they use where you have to wait in a 30 minute line.
I don’t know about y’all, but I don’t have 30 minutes in my day to stand around so a Postal Clerk can weigh my son’s pinewood derby car. Nor does she probably want to be bothered. So I decide that since one of my errands is to an office supply place, I’ll weigh it there. Of course the store I pick doesn’t have a mailing scale for people to use as they don’t mail packages, so with the kids, I sneak to the back where they sell mailing scales, and I open one. I weigh this car. It comes in under 4 ounces, but I couldn’t trust it.
Next stop… Publix.
That’s right. I took our car to our grocery store deli and after she was finishing cutting the meat for the gentleman ahead of us, I said, “Umm, could you weigh our pinewood derby car?” She laughed and weighed it.
We’re at 3 ½ ounces. I have 1 ½ ounces to go. I’m waiting to stick our weights on until the day of the race so I don’t make it too heavy. And I’m all about weight placement. I’m looking at the angles of the car, figuring out how I can best place the weights for us… to win.
You don’t think I’m going to this thing without full intent to win, do you?!
I got the block quoted part below from an e-mail today and it brought back memories. I took Lamaze. I guess it worked. OK, the breathing part sorta kinda worked, but all through the class I would whisper to my husband, ‘This is such BS. If breathing through pain worked, all the anesthesiologists in the world would be out of business and they’d do surgery with people breathing through it.” Eh, I was half right. It did kind of work.
They showed us these tapes of births. I could have passed on that. I have no desire to watch people in pain and that… is… all… I… saw. Women screaming, freaking out, cursing, crying. Blech. That’s just what I wanted to see; knowing the light at the end of the tunnel meant I might become some possessed evil screaming maniac.
The clincher, however, was the one where the husband is trying to soothe the wife, she is freaking out and… she reaches over… and slaps him. Holy crap. She slapped her husband. I was so shocked; I probably took in 3 times my lung capacity in air with that gasp. I was appalled, horrified, and ready to walk. Out.
She hit her husband.
All I kept thinking is what kind of pain is that woman in that she HIT someone? Would that happen to me?
It’s not in my personality to get like that when I’m in pain. I get quiet. I heard some very vocal women while I was in labor. Wow. Screaming and cussing, but that wasn’t me. Even when things got really really bad and the room started filling up with people and I was nervous, I never got like that. Never hit my husband. Never called him a name. Never blamed him for something we did TOGETHER. (By the way, what is this ‘You got me in this mess?’ crap I hear women yell? That pisses me off. You’re having a baby, which is a positive no matter how bad it hurts. Having a baby is not a ‘mess’. Parents are a mess, babies are not.)
Anyway, I have often wondered of the sanity of that particular woman I watched on film. What was her non-birthing temperament like? Maybe she was Sybil. Then again…. Maybe she was married to this guy… the guy from this joke e-mail I received this morning... and it was just a damn good excuse to do what she had wanted to do for so long… Heh.
The room was full of pregnant women, with their partners. The Lamaze class was in full swing. The instructor was teaching the women how to breathe properly, and was telling the men how to give the necessary assurances to their partners at this stage of the pregnancy.
She said: "Ladies: remember that exercise is GOOD for you. Walking is
especially beneficial. It strengthens the pelvic muscles and will make
delivery that much easier!"
She looked at the men in the room. "And gentlemen, remember: you're in
this together. So it wouldn't hurt you to go walking with your partner"
The room suddenly got very quiet as the men absorbed this information.
Then a man at the back of the room slowly raised his hand. "Yes?" asked
the teacher. "I was just wondering," the man said, "is it all right if
she carries a golf bag while we walk?"
Holy... Crap... Lions... Tours...
It is turning out so pretty I could cry.
Timeline is as follows:
Finish top tomorrow and sew backing together
Friday: Sandwich quilt together
Saturday: Machine quilt
Sunday-Tuesday: Hand Bind
Picture of the top tomorrow. I promise.
The quilt is going… not so well. I handed off half of the top half to another mother because, believe it or not, I don’t like ‘doing it all’. I try to delegate when I can. I had hit a snapping point and called a mother who had been asking to help.
So I sat down in her home on my way to work last Sunday morning, and told her what I needed her to do. “Sew a quarter inch seam, here and here. You MUST keep the lines straight, and it MUST be ¼ inch or when we sew the rows together, they won’t match up.”
Now for you non-quilters, the sashing is the fabric we are putting between the squares. I bought a gorgeous purple fabric and with each square outlined in the purple, each one looks like an individual window pane.
When you start sewing the blocks and small pieces of sashing together, if your seams are not exact, the corners of the sashing and blocks do not match up. You may be right on spot for the top row, but if you’re off by 1/8 inch in the 2nd row, it only grows.
Well, she didn’t listen. I get a call yesterday morning saying, “Umm, remember how you told me that if you’re off, it grows? Well I didn’t notice and it’s a mess and I don’t know how to fix it.” Great. So I tell her not to worry, just drop it in the office.
I pick it up and the last row is off by ½ inch. An entire ½ an inch. NOTHING matches up and it looks like crap. The worst part is, she sewed 3 rows together without ever looking so now I have 24 squares sewn together and I have to rip out all the seams, pin, and resew. Hours and hours of work. Hours. Did I say hours? Yes… hours.
In her defense, she was trying to help and she had never quilted. It was too much for me to put on her and I take responsibility for that. I just wish she had noticed before she sewed them all together.
I’m frustrated. But oh, it gets so much better my friends. So much better… because… we are talking about MY world.
I am standing outside the school and I see the religion teacher. I say to her, “Did y’all decide where you want to give this quilt this year? Is there a parent sick? A child in need? A family that needs hope?”
Last year we gave it to my friend J and they used it on her casket. So I was wondering, who needs the hope and love this quilt will signify?
This is where it gets good.
She looks at me and says, “Well, we have had many thoughts, but the number one place people want it to go is to the new Jack Nicklaus Children’s Hospital in the children’s cancer ward.”
Crap. It could be a decoration. A wall hanging. At the new wing. That Jack built. No pressure. No pressure at all.
Blogging may be light as I’m way behind and it’s due in less than 2 weeks.
Whilst I was unplugged, my blogdaughter VW had her 5th Wedding Anniversary! I was there folks, and it was a lovely wedding and a fun reception, complete with beautiful bride and handsome groom.
Happy Anniversary, VW. May you have many more… but remember, the magic number is TWO!!!!
My bunny has been gone a long time. My husband… hasn’t done jack to his bunny. I walked by it today and there it sat, in its cellophane wrapper… unscathed. Not one knife, tooth or bite mark. Nada. Zippo. Nothing.
It should be a crime to keep a bunny intact like this for so long.
So I remedied it.
He is now missing one (1) ear and his face. Tomorrow I eliminate his other ear and perhaps his head. I am working my way down.
‘Twill be interesting to see if bunny is missed. I think not.
My eldest is learning the 10 Commandments. He has a test tomorrow.
In the car today I hear, “Hey, Mom, what is adultery?”
Ack! Yes, we’ve had THE talk, but I have no desire to talk to him about this. So far this year, we’ve had the talk, I’ve explained the definition of a hooker, I was even creative enough when asked about the word solicit to remind him about hookers, and I’ve now been asked about adultery. I can’t do it. I can’t explain it.
So we have my 10 year old who, to the great disgust of my sister, still believes in Santa and the Easter Bunny, who if you recall has this great invisible force field, and does not know adultery is an issue in this world.
However, he knows about ‘the deed’, thinking we all do it like donkeys (not my place to tell him differently... the link on the Talk explains it), and knows what hookers do for a living and to do it is called ‘soliciting’.
This puzzle isn’t coming together so well…
VW and I have many things in common, one of them being our vast practicality. If you look at her shower picture HERE you’ll see how practical she is. Who else registers for yard tools for the bridal registry? I saw the picture and thought, “Wait, did I get her those?” See, I’m the person that if you put something practical down on your registry, I’m going to buy it for you. I start libraries for children at their baby showers. I buy practical gifts for bridal showers and as wedding gifts.
It is what it is, but I have come to learn, that along with my many personality idiosyncrasies, my practicality is one that is a pain in the neck.
I posted before about my engagement ring and how I didn’t want one. I wanted furniture. When told I couldn’t have furniture and I was going to get a ring, I told him a sapphire. They’re my favorite stone (my birthstone) and they are more inexpensive than diamonds. Diamonds are nice, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never been a glitz and glamour sparkly girl. I’d rather have a ruby or sapphire if I must have a stone. Anyway, that was shot down and when I explained that if I HAD TO HAVE an engagement ring and it HAD TO BE a diamond, keep it small. Heh. Lost that one too. (I did win the band, as you see HERE.)
Flash forward to our first Christmas. It went something like this:
Spouse: What do you want for Christmas?
Me: Jumper cables.
Spouse: What? I’m NOT getting you jumper cables.
Me: Why? That’s what I want.
Spouse: Because I am NOT getting you jumper cables. You can buy those yourself.
Me: I can, but I won’t. That requires me go to Sears, which is at the mall and I hate shopping. I need them. My battery is getting old and I need them. I want jumper cables.
I was told under no uncertain terms was he buying me jumper cables. Of course, this pissed me off to no end. Why bother to ask what someone wants if you aren’t going to oblige? And then I got all wrapped up that he must not be getting me jumper cables because he didn’t want to have to tell his family and friends. I knew exactly what he thought the conversation would sound like:
Friends and Family: So what did you get your wife for your first Christmas?
Spouse: Jumper cables.
Spouse: IT’S WHAT SHE WANTED!
F&F: You cheap bastard.
But I didn’t care. I don’t care what people think about what I drive, the furniture I own, or where I buy my clothes. I do.not.care. I don’t play ‘keep up with the Jones’’ and if other people look down their nose at me, then I don’t want to hang with them.
So deciding that this was some sort of self inflicted peer pressure my husband was suffering from, I did what I do sometimes… and I dug in my heels. Yup. I dug in my heels on jumper cables.
Every week or so I would get, “What do you want for Christmas?” and I would say “Jumper cables.” Nothing. “What else do you want for Christmas?” and I would reply, “Nothing. I ONLY want jumper cables.”
He was frustrated and I wasn’t budging.
Christmas came. I got my jumper cables, which I still have and are in the back of my mini van. That made me very happy. He also got me a pair of Raybans and a cashmere sweater. The Raybans are long gone and the sweater is in my closet somewhere… too well worn to really be worn still, but being kept strictly because it was the first Christmas gift he WANTED to give me.
I’ll have to remember to post on what I got him for his first Christmas. Funny story.
Doesn't it just figure.... I unplug for a few days and I miss an IMPORTANT Date.
Happy Anniversary Harvey and TNT. May there be
66 69 more!!!
I was at a luncheon this weekend and had the distinct honor of listening to THIS man speak. I don't want to get googled for his name. There are sites that should be and I am not worthy. A great man, a great speaker, a great Patriot.
I have one quote from him: "We were not welcome in N. Vietnam and any American who was welcome is a traitor."
I have one thing to add, "To Jane Fonda: A pox upon you and your ilk. May you rot. You bitch."
Sidenote: Upon hearing him speak, I remembered why I love Admiral James Bond Stockdale so much. Read the link if you have the time. A true American hero.
I met Tammi for breakfast on Saturday morning and then we walked the mall for awhile until she had to go to work and I had meetings to attend.
I don't shop much, for various reasons I won't go into, however; the tall, beautiful, and stylish Tammi cracks me up. It was a stress free event.
This is the difference between Tammi shopping and Boudicca shopping and how we pick our clothes:
Tammi: Oh look at this shirt, its a great color and CHECK OUT THOSE CUFFS!
Boudicca: Hey. This shirt says, "no iron".
I got this quote from my Mom this weekend:
"Well behaved women
NEVER make history"
Heh. I am destined for greatness.
This weekend proved it again.
What is the today you may ask yourself? Well, folks… today is Tartan Day. Ith over at Absinthe and Cookies has organized her annual Gathering of the Blogs.
It just seemed appropriate I join, being of over 75% Celtic, mostly Scottish heritage. Afterall… look at my blog folks. I’m thinking it doesn’t get much more Scottish than this.
So a wee bit of family history for you…
The tartan you see as the skin on my page is from Clan McInnis. This is my father’s clan. The clan from which my mother is descended is Clan Watson, a sept of Clan Buchanon. It is of my father’s Celtic heritage that I know the most about… for now. However, let us not forget the famous Watson, one Mr. Watson, to whom the famous Scot, Alexander Graham Bell, called upon spilling battery acid, sending the first words over a telephone, “Mr. Watson, come here, I want you.”
McInnis comes from MacAonghais, or literally Sons of Angus. In Morvern, the McInnis clan was the keeper of the castle Kinlochaline, which has been fully restored by now, but I believe was in the process of restoration when my father paid visit during his trip to Scotland. The McInnis clan is without a Chieftain as he was killed by the MacLeans, by order of the MacDonald’s around 1358.
Our Motto is ‘By The Grace of God and the King’. You can find more about my clan here where you will find some of this information, but just so you know, I know most of this and more by heart.
The Great Omnipotent One is a piper and has been piping for nearly 11 years now. My children grew up to the sounds of his playing and neighbors gather around when my folks visit and TGOO practices outside. He takes his pipes when he travels so he can play them at places he feels connected to, hence he has played them in Scotland.
I took up piping about 13 years ago, and played for just over 2 years, until I became pregnant with my eldest. I picked it back up after his birth, but when I got pregnant again, I quit all together. I have them in my closet, completely preserved and waiting, still with my tartan on the bag. I was never a skilled piper, but it was fun to play.
Every year, on the 4th of July, my family has a Ceilidh, which I thought I blogged on, but cannot find. It gets bigger and bigger as we have more family joining in to the affair. This year my Mom’s kin are coming down.
We don’t eat Haggis in our home, I’ve never tried it, but if you are to visit my folks, if the home is not filled with some sort of soothing new age music, you will hear Celtic music of all types, from mournful songs to pipes to upbeat Celtic dance.
We have fully enbraced our Celtic heritage. We do not want to lose it. Genetically I am of my ancestors on both sides. It is important to us to not lose touch. We are Americans first and foremost, but without the help of people such as my ancestors, we would not be Americans at all… for I have at least 13 ancestors that contributed in our fight for independence.
This is Boudicca’s Voice… this blog, and there is a reason for that too. You can check out HERE as to why my blog is named for Boudicca. It is a personal reason, rather humorous.
So Happy Tartan Day to all.
And now… for our latest Gathering of the Blogs, blogroll… Peruse them all… they all have posts with regard to our Scottish Heritage. Slainte!!!!
Absinthe & Cookies
The Country Pundit
Not Exactly Rocket Science
The Pirate's Blog
Margi Lowry *dot* com
The Bull Speaks!t
Blackfive - The Paratrooper of Love
The Gun Line
Straight White Guy
Today is the Gathering of the Blogs, in honor of Tartan Day! This Grand idea was put together by Ith of Absinthe and Cookies... that would be the Gathering... not Tartan Day!
I am posting this afternoon, with my Tartan Day Post, I have not been remiss, just a bit overwhelmed.
So take a gander at the Gathering of the Blogs Blogroll and check back after 2PM EST for my Tartan Day post.
Absinthe & Cookies
The Country Pundit
Not Exactly Rocket Science
The Pirate's Blog
Margi Lowry *dot* com
The Bull Speaks!t
I worked this weekend and planned on working some 2nd shift hours to meet a deadline that is bearing down on me close of business Wednesday. My fear that a child will get sick before I can meet my deadline has me working hours in both shifts to get it done in time.
So last night I go in for 8, after my eldest’s soccer practice and my husband had returned home from work. I worked from only 8-10 and thought nothing of it. Damn, the systems were fast, it was quiet, and I got so much done.
I walked in at 8:30 this morning and found I had a security violation. You’re not allowed to come to work past 7PM without approval from a string of people. Now if I had come in at 6:30, I think I could stay as long as I wanted… but you can’t come in after 7.
What company has EVER, in the history of man, EVER, said ‘no, you can’t come to work. It’s too late.’ Holy crap. I got called into my manager’s office and I explained the situation. He was completely cool with it; it’s our security department having a fit.
There was this big deal about my situation and it was finally resolved by our writing a letter to the head of security for me to have permission granted by a month to month basis and my manager thinking he can swing it for a full 6 months.
This is just so foreign to me. At my other place of work, it was nothing for me to come back to work after my husband came home… let’s say 7PM and work until 10 or 11. NOTHING. Especially… if we were at war!
I’m a fly under the radar kinda gal. Boy, did I blow it this time. My situation is coming up at the weekly security briefing. I’m lovin’ that. LOVE IT. Crap.
I went into work on Sunday, only to find out our system up in CT was down due to a power outage. I figured while I was there, I might as well work on my next group of Compliance Training tests.
What is wrong with me? I make my way through it and when I get to the test, I break out in a cold sweat. I think my first experience has emotionally scarred me.
I am now trained to be totally compliant in work force diversity (20 out of 20 thank you very much), kick-backs and gratuities (18 out of 20… I sent people to legal too many times again) and time charging (19 out of 20). Not so bad considering my miserable failure when I started this.
But seriously, every time I open the test, I break out in a cold sweat. I’m not a test phobe. It’s just the thought of my failing something SO stupid and my boss finding out that unnerves me.
To MCI Worldcom and ENRON… I hate you.
Bones is not human. I think he's a cartoon. He over dramas everything. He'll bug his eyes out at you for no reason. He does this quirky Popeye face... sometimes I think his face must be made out of rubber. It's like watching a child version of Jim Carrey's Mask... one of his favorite movies by the way.
He has this knack for remembering movie lines... a trait he did not inherit from me. If there is a new movie out, he can mimic it, intonation, accent, you name it. Its kind of eery at times. Annoying most others.
For the longest time he went around the house quoting his favorite line from Shark Tales (Shoik Tales as he says), in thick Jamaican accent, "Lola, I'm not a No.Bod.EEEEE, I"m a WEEEEINER."
He also imitates people. I may have blogged on this before, but if we're in a store and he hears a conversation, he will sit there to himself speaking lines of that conversation... sounding like people conversing. But he always picks the lines that might stand out... like if a man and woman are arguing and the woman gets shrill, I'll be shopping and I'll hear her shrillness coming out of my 5 year old's mouth.
It's truly embarrassing. He doesn't always wait until he's out of ear shot. I am teaching him that it is impolite, but it's taking awhile.
Anyway, back to the movie situation...
What a Mother will allow their children to watch and what a Father will allow, can be totally different things. Sure you can think you're on the same page, but next thing you know, you, the Mom, come back from Publix to find husband and boys on the couch watching....The Fast and the Furious. And this is deemed acceptable by those that hold the Y chromosome. My 5 year old's favorite movie is Van Helsing! I would NEVER have let him watch that.
As my sister has said, "Does he (my husband) have no boundaries with what they will watch?" Well.... yeah, it can't be R.
The latest batch of movies the boys are enthralled with is anything James Bond. So in my van this morning, I hear my 5 year old, in a perfect accent, say,
"So, tell me Bond, do you still sleep with a gun under your pillow?"
Geezoweez. I looked in the rear view mirror at him and he said, "A woman said that to James Bond, Mom."
Umm. Yeah. When I told Morrigan this story she said, "Phht. Just be thankful he didn't say, "Pussy Galore said that to Bond, Mom"." Holy crap. I would've run off the road.
I’m blogging early tonight as I have to go to work. With two sick kids at home, and my uncertainty as to whether I’ll be able to make work tomorrow and meet my deadlines, I’m going in for 8 tonight and trying to pull in a couple hours.
And I can’t remember what I was thinking when I thought I’d get a job outside my kids. Holy crap. Talk about adding a butt load of stress.
Oh, wait, I remember now, it’s all coming back. I was so stunned that anyone would want to hire an old washed up mathematician/engineer, so caught up in the thrill that someone would want me for my mind instead of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich making skills, that I jumped at it.
Thank the Good Lord I only said yes to 10-15 hours. Trying to fit that in with sick kids the last 6 weeks has been a real bear. I’ve tried pulling a 10 hour shift on a Friday when my husband has been off, 4 hours on a Sunday, 3 hours in one night after he gets home. It’s getting kind of old, but as I said to my husband, “When I told them yes, I made a commitment to them.” Trust me, he was completely gung ho about my working again. I think he was close to pushing me out the door. Not so much anymore.
So we’ll get through this, but blogging will be sporadic if I have to pick up more 2nd shift hours.
I wasn’t going to blog on this, but my sister says it so funny in a horrible way at my expense, I need to. There is a lot of background because believe it or not, I don’t blog all that goes on in my life. I try to keep it upbeat. Bad things happen to good people and I don’t post it typically, or at least I try to refrain.
Background: I’m pretty beat. My kids have been sick for the last 6 weeks. I mean sick. It was about 6 weeks ago I spent 4 hours in the ER as my five year old Bones, had a massive croup attack I could not get under control, he started to retract… and we ended up in the Pedo ER. It turned out to be the beginning of the achy feverish flu. He had it for 4 days.
The next week, my 8 year old got it. Feverish and lethargic, he was a mess. He was out 4 of 5 days from school, a complete mess.
The week after that, my 10 year old got it. Same deal. No eating, sleeping all the time, fever, achy, lethargic, and pathetic.
Following week, VW and her kids caught it (not from us, my kids had been too sick for us to get together… all this crap is just going around), so I spent time with VW and Tot in the Pede unit of our local hospital. I, for the life of me, cannot believe I did not catch anything. Nothing.
The week after that was Spring Break, but in the middle of it, Son#1, who is 10, developed a massive ear infection, only the 2nd one he has ever had. Awakened at 2:30 in the morning, I found him in massive pain that Motrin alleviated. I had him at our Pede’s office by 2PM and when she looked in his ear she said his ear drum was on the verge of rupturing. The infection was that virulent. (Side note to any of you medical types: We engineering types went our route for a reason. Looking at an infected ear or anything else is not ‘fascinating to us’. Seriously. Hand us blueprints and engine parts. That’s why we chose OUR path and you chose YOURS. Thanks for offering the look see, but I’ll pass.)
Luckily my sister came into town the next day and was an enormous help… especially since I then had 14 people for dinner for 3 days.
Thursday of this week, Bones wakes up not feeling well and throws up in his lunchbox on the way to school. Nasty stomach virus, horrible pain etc, it subsides until yesterday when it goes the other way… instead of coming up, it is just nastiness.
And this is where our new story begins:
Last night at 12:30, Son#2 comes into my room telling me his stomach hurts. As I go to get out of bed I say, “We need to go to the bathroom.” Given that Bones was hurling on Thursday, I knew what was coming. But he is my strong willed obstinate pain in my neck, and he has other plans, as he crawls over me to sleep between me and his father, mainly on my side. I get up to get a towel, telling him he better not throw up in my bed… when he does.
Oh yes. And as good fortune would have it, we had pizza for dinner. So he SPRAYED pizza puke over the side of my bed, onto my white carpet, onto my bed steps (I have one of those very high rice carved 4 poster beds and I need steps to climb in), all over an enormous decorative pillow, a blanket, and he proceeded to create a path of pizza vomit throughout my bedroom down my hall, on the walls, to the tiled bathroom, where it then splattered all over the floor, with about ¼ cup miraculously actually making it into the commode.
Pissed. I was livid. He was covered, the room reeked, it was soaking into my carpet, and the finish was already being peeled off my bed steps. It took us no less than two hours to clean and bleach the whole mess, not to mention the changing of the bed linens. If he had only frickin’ listened instead of insisting he had to Velcro himself to me when he didn’t feel well.
We have a new rule in this house that we make the kids repeat.
My husband and I say, “If you feel like you’re going to vomit, what do you NOT do?”
Kids in unison, “Don’t come into your bedroom.”
Husband and I, “Where do you go?”
Kids in unison, “Into our bathroom and yell for you!”
I slept on the couch the rest of the night so I could be near my middle son in the other bathroom. He threw up all night.
5AM rolls around and I can hear some child pattering through the house. I have no clue who it is, but they were making their way to my bed, and since I wasn’t there, I was ignoring it. I hear my husband and Bones and it appears that Bones had some sort of lower gastrointestinal explosion all over his bed… his bedroom smelled like a sewer.
I’m up to help change sheets and mattress covers, keeping Son#2 hydrated with Gatorade, Son#2 is crying his stomach hurts and he’s tired of puking. Bones is crying that his buns hurt, he’s tired of… pooping. Gag.
This continues… ALL.MORNING.LONG. Around 8AM, I hear my eldest. He looks at me and says, “I’m not coming out of my bedroom all day. I don’t want what they have” and he disappears only to reemerge to get food or drink. He is so afraid of catching this (I don’t blame him) that when I picked him up from school on Thursday, he had pressed himself up against the side of the car, the entire ride for fear his sick brother would breath on him. I literally saw him only 3 times today and that would be called: breakfast.lunch.and.dinner.
Now, you have to know, I’m frickin’ beat at this point and my patience is wearing thin. I work outside the home now, I have deadlines and people depending on me. With my kids sick all this time, I’ve had to work funky hours. I went in today for a few hours and I will work 2nd shift on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday now to make my deadlines as I can’t work the day shift.
I cannot believe I have not caught any of this… yet. None of it. If I don’t catch this stomach virus, then I need to be in some University study for immune systems. Seriously. It’s not a matter of the fact I’m a hand washing maniac, when kids puke on you or you wake up to find some sick kid has laid his body across yours for comfort and you are now breathing dragon vomit breath… you are GOING to get it. It is a given. Yet… I have not yet… including the hospital visits with VW and Tot. I figured I’d get something for sure then.
So time will tell. I’m thinking of running away. But I better hurry and decide... because my husband might beat me to it...
It’s been awhile and I’m going to piss people off with this post… but guess what? It’s my damn blog so if this pisses you off, move on to a post further down.
I don’t post politics for a reason. This is not a political blog. This is my happy place. I think deep thoughts like the rest of you, I just choose not to blog on them as I don’t feel like my thoughts or views on religion, politics, or world affairs are up for debate. I spend probably 95% of my time in some sort of thought, taking in data and analyzing situations, and unfortunately for me, it occurs in my sleep too… leaving me mostly sleep deprived.
You may THINK you KNOW how I feel on religion, politics, or world affairs, but trust me, unless you know me outside my blog, you do not.
I have not discussed the Terry Schiavo case because I just see no reason to. Here’s a cold hearted fact for you… the main reason being… because I really don’t give a crap about it. I don’t. I said it. I have no control over that situation. I couldn’t mediate and make that bad situation go away. That whole thing had suddenly grown a life of its own and in the media and on the blogs, I saw boorish behavior exhibited on both sides. I like to stay out of the fray if I can. I have a family to raise and the negative energy on something I cannot control is draining.
Things like this make me lose faith in humanity.
But then I was over at Rocket Jones and he had this little blip saying that the Schindler family had sold the list of the people who financially supported them. I didn’t believe him. I mean, they had been so pure in their cause, right? That is what everyone was being led to believe. Surely, they could not be so self righteous? (Read it HERE and put in the following from Bugmenot… userid: fooouts password: foouts)
Holy crap. I am so frickin’ angry, I don’t know what to say. And to think, that just hours before, I was thinking to myself, “You know that husband should just quit beinga jerk and move on now and give them the body. It’s just a body. It’s not her. He is moving on with his life. Close this door. Move on. Who cares if the family carries on and creates a shrine. Who.Cares.”
Now. Not so much. How frickin’ ballsy is this? People, complete strangers, come to you to offer support in YOUR time of grief and you SELL THEM OUT? What in the hell is that about?
Supposedly this group they sold to is doing this so they can e-mail and continue to solicit money for the Schindler’s, but it is irrelevant to me as these groups he is selling them to have a history. Their other causes WILL come up. An unpaid spokeswoman for the Schindler’s was appalled… acting as if these groups were making a buck off the Schindler’s, in their time of grief. I don’t buy that for a minute. Not One.
You can say what you want, I read who they’re selling the list to and who is involved with them and it is just wrong on so many levels. You DO NOT SELL OUT people who have your back, for political causes. If they wanted to be on that frickin’ mailing list THEY WOULD HAVE CONTACTED THAT GROUP AND HAD THEMSELVES PUT ON THERE!
I’m through with it, folks. Done. I’m not reading any more on any of those losers because that’s what they ALL are to me. LOOOOOSERS. Him... Them. There were no saints in this situation.
So to the Schindler family, who felt so self righteous as to sell out the people who had their six in their time of need, I give them the distinct honor of having my first 'raise my sword in anger' post on my new blog, directed at them, and I say “A Pox Upon You and Your Ilk. May you Rot.”
We've had lots of talk about Jesus lately. Let's face it, Easter was here, it's gonna happen. We've moved past Jesus being pinned to the cross and into his childhood. But I'll get to that in a minute.
Blog Sis Sally of Whimsy Capricious, also has a 5 year old. Sally posted HERE wondering if anyone knew a song that might sound like "Jesus was born a minute ago". Tara cracks me up.
So I asked Bones and I got "No, but I know the song, "you can't see Jesus at Night". (Bet y'all didn't know that Jesus was some form of Reverse Vampire did you?) Of course that led to a whole bunch of stuff in the comments as to what it could be, I think I figured out Bone's song, someone else may have figured out Tara's song. Ahhh... Good stuff. Go take a look.
OK, back to Jesus and my boys. The questions as of late have been with regard to Jesus' behaviour as a child. Of course we all know I'm pretty much the wrong person to ask because 1) I'm not the religious one in the family, 2) I'm not sure what the Catholic Church expects... what's the company line on Christ as a child?, 3) I'm brutally honest, and 4) having three boys, there is no such thing as a saintly child in my eyes... Christ child or not.
First question: Mom, mom, mom, mom, do yooouuuu think that Jesus had brothers and sisters.
Answer (I knew this one, score 2 points for Mom): Yes, I know he did.
Second question: Mom, mom, mom, mom, then why don't we ever hear about his brothers and sisters?
Answer (I fudged this one, still worthy of 1 point I do believe): because the Bible teaches about Jesus's teachings as an adult, his childhood is somewhat irrelevant.
Third question: Mom, mom, mom, mom (see a pattern here? Nobody is ever content to call me by my name once, hence I am contemplating changing it to something long and awful so they only WANT to say it once) do you think that Jesus ever disobeyed his Mom, Mary.
Answer (I may be straying from doctrine here, but this is where being a Mom kicked in): Absolutely. No doubt in my mind.
Fourth question: But Mom, he is the Son of God, you think he didn't listen to his Mom or didn't make his bed?
Answer (I may be going to Hell for this one): Phht. Of course. He was a boy, Son of God or not. There is no doubt he didn't listen to his Mom and probably never made his bed.
Fifth question: Mom, mom. mom, mom, don't you think it would be hard to be the brother or sister of the Son of God? I mean, he's supposed to be perfect and all. I think that would be tough.
Answer (Holy crap, where do they come up with this stuff?): Umm. I don't think he was perfect and I'm not sure his siblings knew he was the Son of God. I don't think anyone taunted him or carried on "Hey! Don't mess with my bro! He's the Son of God!" I don't think it was like that. You know... It's really really nice outside today, I'm thinkin' maybe y'all should go out and play a little hockey on the porch..."
I'm thinking I may have needed a degree in Theology to be the Mother of my boys.
It is very difficult for me to write this letter to you. Really. It pains me. But it is time you knew the truth.
You may want to sit down. You are both over 30 and I have a feeling this is going to come as a shock to you. Really.
After all these years, people have been lying to you. I don't think it was intentional, perhaps its a case where they truly didn't know any better. I know they didn't do it to hurt you. But it is time you knew...
You have an accent.
I know! I know! It's a tough pill to swallow, but it's not a bad thing. It's just time you realized that this illusion that you are accentless is just that... an illusion.
Contagion, you have been trying to convince me that you have the type of accent that the media prefers... as in NO accent. And I almost believed you. I did. But then I spoke to Grau and T1G and I have to believe that by association, you must have one too. You just don't know it.
And T1G, tsk tsk, "Perfectly accentless" is just not going to be the name that sticks. I have spoken with you via phone... twice. Trust me, blog bro, you have one.
So my friends, there you have it. The truth. I think with time you'll get used to it. Really I do. That Wisconsin/Illinios accent is a GREAT accent! It really is! it was just time you knew... you've got it.
Your lightly Southern Accented Blog Mom/Sister-
Bou (*Big Evil Grin*)
There are things that happen in this house, conversations held or overheard, that I just can never post.
I would blush punching the keys on the board.
Boys. Holy Crap Lions Tours.
Bones (Son#3) has had a stomach virus since Thursday. Poor little man, his stomach has been in knots. Today, being the 2nd day free of puke, seemed to be a good day to go out for dinner. We went for pizza, ordering him something easier on the stomach. Half way through dinner he had to use the restroom. Like I said, poor little man.
So my husband takes him and they are gone a really long time. Finally, my 2nd son decides to entertain us with the reason he does not like going into the Ladies' room.
Now, I cannot do this story justice as you can't see the head bobbing and big blue eyes fluttering as he tells it, but it went something like this:
'I don't like going to the Ladies' bathrooms because the locks don't work in the stalls. One time I went with Aunt Morrigan and I went into my stall and this woman, SHE DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER TO LOOK TO SEE IF THERE WERE FEET UNDER THE DOOR, and she just busted right in on me and she could see my buns as I was standing there peeing. I hate that. Then, she thought she closed the door, but she didn't and it popped back halfway, so everyone could see my buns. Even Aunt Morrigan."
Heh. He has cute buns. Cracked me up.
Well, this story seemed to start a game of 'who has the worst bathroom story' and when Bones got back, before I knew what was happening, I was getting a detailed grossly graphic description of some bodily functions that I just did NOT need to hear about.
What is worse is that I was so appalled, I started to laugh.
Awful. I do believe I may be scarred for life.