Just An Okie

Has it really come to this?

2012-01-26T11:30:00.000-08:00

I know it's hard not to be bitter when dealing with a person who lies and/or cheats. But ladies, please, take the high road. Don't go online or take out an ad in the paper or staple notices on the local utility poles about how much you hate the guy, or drag out every little detail of his infidelity, or list all the lies he told you and/or everyone else. I have to say, I am shocked a website like that is actually permitted to exist. The potential for slander is so extreme on that kind of a website that I cannot believe it hasn't been shut down, to say nothing of the immaturity level it displays.

Yes, yes, I know, the supposed point of the website is to "warn" other people about these individuals and their bad behavior. And some people, indeed, seem like they ought to come with a warning label tattooed on their faces. But if what they've done isn't considered illegal or a threat to someone else, but just hurtful and/or stupid, don't air it to the world. Remember that Golden Rule you heard at some point while growing up? This is a good time to follow it.

Some people do stupid things. Some people do stupid things with abandon. Some people do stupid things and regret them. Some people don't do stupid things, but have bitter, shallow exes who enjoy ruining other people's lives by making up falsehoods about them. And I can guarantee that all of these kinds of people are well-documented on that website.

Look, if you've been (or are currently) with one of the first two types of people on the above list, you have two choices: take it or leave it. Literally. Either put up with it or walk away from it, but whichever you choose, shut up about it. No one besides your mother, sister, or best friend is going to care about what he did anyway, and spouting off to the public at large only makes YOU look like the fool, not him. If you must vent, (and we all must from time to time), there's a time and a place for it, and that's in a private conversation with your therapist, mother, sister, or best friend.

If you've been (or are currently with) one of the latter two types of people on said list, you have no business dragging their name through the mud to begin with. If you publicly shred someone's character with falsehoods, you'd best expect the same fate yourself.

I don't really empathize with either party in this guy's lawsuit (they both seem childish and vengeful), but I do hope it brings about the end of such blast-your-ex forums as the one she posted on. It's bad enough when people take to facebook to rip someone apart, but at least that's (usually) limited to a select group of people, and not searchable on a major search engine. Just because the tabloids get away with defaming someone's character (and they don't always get away with it-they lose plenty of lawsuits themselves) doesn't mean you will. Even if what you write is true, it still makes you look petty for making it public, not to mention the revenge acts that might follow.

I know, politicians and Charlie Sheen tear people apart publicly all the time. But before you're tempted to follow their shining examples, remember what the majority of people think about them. And ask yourself if that's how you really want to be seen as well.

Why yes, I'll take some of that...

2012-01-13T04:45:00.000-08:00

Today's forecast: partly sunny, 87 degrees.

....oh wait, that's Turks and Caicos, where I wish I was today. Where I actually am, there's a 4 degree wind chill.

Looking at the weather for tropical vacation spots is like watching weather porn.

Obviously.

2012-01-12T17:07:00.000-08:00

I could have told you that.

Please, my fellow ladies, don't prove it wrong.

So, yeah.

2012-01-07T08:34:00.000-08:00

I don't have anything important to discuss; I just felt that since it's been so long since I wrote a blog post, I should at least write something and stick it up.

We went to Oklahoma for Christmas and had a pretty good time. I can never decide which I miss more, Tulsa or Norman; I'm always sad to leave either of them.

While I was there, I tried on bridesmaids dresses for my sister's wedding. She's decided to go with short, strapless ones. Which admittedly I like, but these arms and legs of mine have some serious toning to do. Argh. Soldier wrote our weight loss goals on our bathroom mirror so that it literally stares us in the face several times a day.

Because I plan on wearing some kick-ass heels with that dress and I want to look awesome.

Uh-oh

2011-12-14T12:09:00.000-08:00

There are 11 days until Christmas. I have 2/3 of my gift-buying, wrapping, house-cleaning, and ordering left to do.

Please excuse me while I have a panic attack.

Resuming regular programming....at some point.

Awesome

2011-12-06T07:45:00.001-08:00

Don't you just love it when you thought you were going to have to buy something a little pricey because you thought you didn't have it, and decided not to do a certain project that you really wanted to do because you couldn't afford to buy the pricey thing and still get Christmas presents for your family, and then discover while unpacking your Christmas decorations that you actually had the exact thing you needed for the project after all because you bought it two years ago on a whim that you might use it someday?

I do.

Here's the finished project:

It's a Christmas window!

It took me forty-five minutes and a broken glass ornament, and when I asked Soldier (whose other name is Scrooge, by the way) how he liked it, he said "hrm."

Shamelessly seeking recognition for my efforts,
Soonerchick

Unpleasant Surprises

2011-12-03T10:05:00.001-08:00

This morning my boys were in their first Christmas parade. Their scout pack had a "float" they decorated and rode on for the small-town parade (which didn't even have a Santa Claus! How can you have a Christmas parade without Santa Claus?) so after waking up at the exact time we were supposed to meet our pack to drive to the fairgrounds, I drove like a bat out of hell and made it there in time to...wait.

And wait. Sigh.

But we did eventually get going, and the baby even got to ride on the float with his brothers, which he loved.

The part I did not love was having to walk alongside.

When I was in Christmas parades as a kid, the only people who got to ride on a "float" were the Shriners with their strange little hats with tassels. All us kids walked. And what did our parents and siblings do while we walked? Yes, that's right: stood on the side of the street with the rest of the spectators and waved and cheered for us when we went by.

So naturally that's what I thought the baby and I would be doing. I even contemplated bringing a folding chair so we wouldn't have to stand through the whole parade.

Some of the moms rode in the Suburban towing the trailer. Some of the dads rode on the trailer with the boys.

And the rest of us walked. Oy.

It wasn't that long, about four miles, which isn't bad if I'm out walking the track. But I don't like cold. Or having to constantly shout "Merry Christmas!" and various Christmas carols. I'm not really fond of waving, either, although at least I was wearing a sweatshirt, so my un-toned arms didn't flap around while I was Miss-America-ing at the spectators and bending down to pick up candy that had been thrown in the street by previous floats to give to kids on the side of the street.

It was the boys' first Christmas parade, and they had a good time. The best part for me was seeing several Shetland ponies dressed in reindeer antlers and pulling little carts disguised as sleighs, and some undeniably beautiful whippets dressed in their Christmas best.

Next year, however, I'm claiming a spot in the vehicle. I'm sure the exercise did me good, but I can think of other (warmer) ways to lose this weight.

Tomorrow

2011-12-01T06:57:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow I won't have time to post because it will be 10th birthday of my oldest baby. Yes, that's right folks, this child who continues to amaze and impress and terrify me will be a DECADE old. I'm pretty sure it hasn't really been ten years, because the memory of holding him a week after his birth in the rocking chair at 2 a.m. in the dim living room lit only by the glow of Christmas lights, is still strikingly clear and vivid.

But nevertheless, he contends that he will be, in fact, ten years old, and after consulting the evidence (his birth certificate), I must, sadly, agree that he is no longer a child and more of a pre-teen, who happens to be reading books at an 8th-grade-level at (almost) ten years old. Yeah. Not kidding.

So I'm off to hunt down a cake (my past attempts at decorating them have not been what one would call successful so I'm leaving it to the pros this year), decorations, presents, cards, candles, and....my youth.

Thankful entries #29 and 30

2011-11-30T08:31:00.001-08:00

Man. Today I'm thankful that after today, I can end this self-imposed period of daily thankfulness. I'm thankful for a lot of things on a daily basis, but writing posts about them is becoming somewhat of a chore.

Yesterday, I was thankful that I had enough random ingredients laying around that I was able to put together a completely unplanned meal that I could throw in a crock-pot at noon and not have to cook dinner after coming in late from a meeting. I think this may be the first time this has ever happened in my house. It wasn't the best dinner I've ever had, but it certainly wasn't the worst, and may end up being a go-to meal for busy nights.

Today's entries are brought to you by the letter Q, for no other reason that I can think of other that that it's the letter my baby is studying in preschool this week. My imagination done run dry this morning.

Thankful entries #26-28

2011-11-28T07:18:00.001-08:00

Over the weekend, I was thankful for Clorox, white vinegar, and baking soda. These three things are pretty much all I use to clean my house. Which is what I spent the weekend doing.

So this morning I am thankful for a clean house.

Except for the playroom, which looks like Toys-R-Us exploded in it. But it conveniently has a door which I can shut to help me ignore the mess.

Today's entries are brought to you by the number 9, the amount of trash bags currently waiting in the bin for pick-up.

Thankful entries #24 and 25

2011-11-25T08:20:00.001-08:00

I cooked and cleaned my way through the day yesterday, so no blog posting even entered my head.

But I stayed up late last night doing some research, and I am very thankful I did, because I stumbled upon some information I had previously missed, and some other information I had forgotten about.

Soldier and I have a bit of OCD regarding our ancestry and family heritage. We have extensive family trees and have done so many hours of research it makes your eyes bleed after awhile. We are committed to finding out everything we can about everyone we are possibly related to; my ultimate plan is to put it all in book form someday, to be preserved for future generations, so they can simply read it and then go focus on more important things, like saving the world. Inevitably, when doing genealogical research, cemeteries become quite an important and useful tool. So much so that now, whenever we see a cemetery that looks old, we pull over to go check it out. Our kids think we're mentally ill; they go wherever we go, which means they end up coming with us on all these cemetery hunts, and they could not think of anything less fun. We make a point to go somewhere or do something fun for them on the same day, so they don't feel too bitter about it, but I have a feeling this is what they will someday tell their children and grandchildren: "Mom and dad used to drag us all over the country looking for dead people, all the freaking time." But when the price to go to Busch Gardens is a two hour visit to a historical church and cemetery, they're usually ok with it.

Last night I discovered that I have another set of who-knows-how-many-great-greats-grandparents buried not too far from where we currently live. I had once found this information, but had forgotten about it while researching other branches of the family. Not only that, I also discovered some photos that some generous soul has posted online of some of those family members. For a genealogical researcher, photos are like discovering gold.

I also received a package yesterday from my father, of things that had belonged to his parents. His mother died some time ago, and his father is in a nursing home, so the family cleaned out the house, took what they wanted to keep, and sold/donated the rest. My dad had several things in his lot that had been marked for me, and among the various china figurines and tea towels were two pocketwatches.

This is a big deal for two reasons: #1. I love pocketwatches. #2. These pocketwatches had originally belonged to my great-grandfather. They don't work anymore, of course (the winding mechanism is broken of both of them), but what a thing to hold in my hands! I was beyond thrilled. If photos are like gold, actual possessions are like winning the ultimate genealogical lottery. It just doesn't get better than that.

Today's entries are brought to you by the letters "OMG" which is exactly how I felt last night.

it's my birthday and I'll age if I want to...

2011-11-23T06:05:00.001-08:00

My birthday was this week. I turned 25 this year. I've been 21 for the past decade, but I felt that since my precious firstborn child is turning ten very shortly, it wouldn't be appropriate for me to claim the age of 21 anymore. So I will be 25 for the next couple of years, until my baby sister turns 25, at which point I will automatically become only one year older than her in any given year. Hopefully, she will subscribe to my 'birthday math' when she turns 28, so we can both stay in our late 20's well into our 80's, at which point we may both have to claim the age of 50 to avoid looking too ridiculous.

My birth ruined Thanksgiving for my mother the year I was born; everyone else in the family went off and had it without her (and me) and she had to eat hospital food instead. I'm not sure she's ever forgiven them all for that, but luckily she doesn't hold it against me.

However, I do have seven days of thanks to give, so in honor of my birthday, I am thankful for people who have shaped my life:

My mother, who has made such a success of her professional life that even Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel look lazy next to her accomplishments. And she looks marvelous for her age, which gives me hope for my own future.

My grandmother, who I am named for, and who has given me so many gifts, not least that of my family heritage, which I would know nothing of if she had not taken the time to pester her grandparents about it decades ago.

My second-grade teacher, who was the first left-handed person I ever encountered besides me, and who taught me how to tie my shoes, hold scissors, and write in something resembling legible penmanship.

My husband, for so many reasons that listing them would take me months and you'd get tired of hearing about it.

My oldest son, the unwitting guinea pig of my parenting skills. So far, he has thrived, which means I must be doing something right.

My middle son, who is the most unique individual I have ever met in my entire life. Sometimes Soldier and I just look at him, then look at each other, and shake our heads. This kid is going to grow up to be an actor, an athlete, and a comedian, not to mention beloved by women the world over. He's also the only one of my kids who looks even remotely like me, which, as a parent, you have to admit is pretty endearing.

My baby, who has already demonstrated at age four that he is smarter than his father, and possibly, even me.

Today's thankful entries are brought to you by the number 5, which is how many days my kids have off for the holiday this week, and the number 0, which is how much patience I will have left by the end of today.

Thankful entry #16

2011-11-16T06:29:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I had a flat tire. Not just any ol' flat tire, where you notice, hey, my tire looks a little low. Think I'll go put some fix-a-flat in it and air it up. Nossir. It was fine when I took the older two to school and less than an hour later, it was absolutely flat. As in, the wheel was touching the driveway, with only a thin smidgen of rubber between it and the concrete.

Now, I have changed a tire before. On a little bitty Saturn. Where the spare was convienently located under a flap of carpet in the trunk along with the jack and the bolt-unscrewer-thingy. (Yes, I'm all about technical terms.) And the tire was roughly the size and weight of a dirt bike tire.

But I am singularly incapable of changing a tire on my big ol' truck. First of all, I can't even unscrew the bolts on the wheel. I could wallop He-Man with the strength in my legs and back, but my arms are weak and puny. Second, the spare is located rather inconveniently underneath the vehicle, bolted to the chassis. Notsomuch within my realm of capabilities. Third, I can't even lift the tire itself.

I called Soldier, who had been anticipating a long day at work following his four-day weekend. Two hours into his day of trying to get caught up, he gets a phone call from his lovely wife, who informs him that the truck has a tire flatter than a possum who's been run over by three cement mixers.

So, today I am thankful for my Soldier, for many reasons, but not least because he came home and saved my lovely butt. Yes, I do have triple-A, but Soldier is so much better looking than those guys, plus he gave me his car to take the baby to preschool, and then took me to lunch while he had the tire replaced. I love this man.

Today's entry is brought to you by the number 4:45, which is the time my clock stopped at this morning. Finding out it's really 6:38 when you think you have two more hours to sleep is not the most pleasant way to start the day.

Apologies and thankful entries #s 10-15

2011-11-15T06:05:00.001-08:00

Heh. Well, you know how it happens. Soldier has four days off and I forget that I even HAVE a blog.

Sorry about that. To all two of you who follow me semi-religiously.

Anyway, back to regularly scheduled programming.

It looks like I have five days' worth of thanks to give, so heeeeeeeeeeere we go.

I am thankful that I did not have to walk the crazy dog for four days.

I am thankful that Soldier and I share the same strange interests, like looking at old cemeteries and playing with model trains.

I am thankful that I got to play Dungeons and Dragons with all of the human males in my house for the first time ever. It was entertaining. I'm not sure how the game is really supposed to be played, but when you play it with a two elementary school kids and preschooler, there's a lot of sound effects and shouting over each other and pouting. My baby even rescued me from the bad guy who was holding me hostage.

I am thankful that I get to show my kids pieces of history, instead of just having them read it out of a book. We try to visit historical sites as much as we can, not only for the educational context, but also because Soldier and I are kind of history buffs. This weekend we went to Lincoln's Birthplace and Boyhood Home here in Kentucky.

I am thankful that I got to spend yesterday afternoon on a date with Soldier.

Today's entries are brought to you by the letter P, for pumpkin pie, peanut butter, and pretzels, for which I am also thankful.

Thankful entry #9

2011-11-10T07:10:00.000-08:00

Today I am thankful (and shocked) that Soldier took the dog out to pee before he left for work. Let me just be very clear: this never happens. He never takes the dog out on a workday. Weekends, days off: yes. Workdays: never.

It's not just because I don't like having to get out in the cold morning air (or rain, or snow, or whathaveyou.) This dog is a maniac. He is a German Shepherd (read: big dog) with some severe form of canine ADHD and is almost stronger than I am. He's hurt my arms and back on more than one occasion yanking so hard on his leash. He's almost to the point of being totally uncontrollable. I despise having to walk this dog. I have to do it in the mornings and again at noon during the workweek, and 3 times a day when Soldier is gone. I don't hate the dog. But I hate having to walk him.

Today's entry is brought to you by the number 1, which is most likely the number of times this phenomenon will ever occur.

Thankful entries # 7 and 8

2011-11-09T07:36:00.000-08:00

Man. I can't seem to get it together enough to post an entry every day.

Anyway, yesterday I was thankful for macaroni and cheese. The kind you bake in the oven, with the really thick, creamy cheesy-ness and the bread crumbs on top. With a tall glass of milk.

Admit it. Now you want some. You're welcome.

Today I'm thankful I have boys. I was thinking about this while taking them to school this morning: girls are so much more high-maintenance than boys. Boys don't cry at the drop of a hat. Boys don't have hissy fits if their clothes don't match (they don't even know when their clothes don't match.) Boys don't have hair that must be brushed and styled. Boys don't have 48,000 accessories to keep track of. Boys don't have 86 pairs of shoes. Boys don't have to be taught how to wear makeup, bras, or tampons. Boys don't have hormonal mood swings when they're three. Boys don't have unrealistic notions that they're going to grow up to be princesses, and thus, feel as though they should be treated as such their entire childhoods. Boys aren't (generally) manipulative and passive-aggressive when they don't get their way. Boys don't request glamour shots, want to wear your high heels and jewelry, or dress like strippers to attract the attention of the opposite sex.

My boys may be messy, unmatched, dirty, loud, argumentative, stubborn, aggressive, and able to eat everything in the grocery store and still be hungry, but I'll take that every day of the week over typical girl behavior. I used to think I wanted a daughter. But God knew better and I'm thankful He did, because as it turns out, I'm not a fan of girls after they reach the age of three. I have met a few so far that I think are precious and darling, but they are in the indescribably small minority. I only hope that I can get over this deep-seated aversion before my boys graduate high school and start bringing girls they want to marry home to see me.

Today's entries are brought to you by the symbol ***** for the atrocities I was screaming inside my own head while the baby was screaming "I want my treasure chest! Mom! I waaaaaant my treaaaaaaasure chessssst!" the entire way to school this morning. (How is it possible that this child never outgrew the terrible twos? He's four. When will the tantrums end? Well, at least he's not whining, like a girl.)

Thankful entry #6

2011-11-08T04:50:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know it's late. But with yet another earthquake in OK yesterday, along with high winds from a wanna-be tornado (yes, only in Oklahoma, people), I was a little distracted last night. This crap has got to stop.

Yesterday I was thankful for lunch at a new Mexican place in the city, with Soldier; I've been wanting to try it for months now and it was the best lunch I've had in about a year. Definitely will be going back.

This entry is brought to you by the number 25, which is how much gas money it cost to get me to said restaurant and back home. But it was so worth it.

Thankful entry #6

2011-11-06T06:27:00.000-08:00

Today I'm thankful for having a long conversation with my sister over the phone and google chat, about her wedding and various other subjects. This is significant because growing up, we were never close. She is nearly nine years younger than me and almost the exact opposite in terms of looks and personality. But as she's grown up and become an adult, we find more and more similarities in ourselves. We still don't talk often (we're both busy these days) but when we do, it's heartening to discover those ties.

Today's entry is brought to you by the letter E, for the earthquake that happened as I was talking to her on the phone last night. This was the second major earthquake to hit Oklahoma in 24 hours. Last year at about this same time, another large earthquake hit our hometown, where our house is, right after we'd moved. Now, I'm sure the land there misses us living on it and all, but these tantrums it's throwing have got to stop. There are several fault lines in Oklahoma, but they're usually inactive and largely unnoticeable even when they do shift. None of us who live there ever thought we'd need earthquake riders on our homeowners' insurance, but you can bet I'll be calling my company first thing on Monday to add it. No word yet on our house, but no structural damage has been reported by people who live by it, so I hope it's ok.

Thankful entries 4 and 5

2011-11-05T12:05:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I realize I didn't post anything yesterday. For the two of you who read this blog, I am deeply and sincerely sorry.

But I'm making up for it today.

Yesterday I was thankful that Soldier got back from his conference. Bonus points that the boys and I got done with the school carnival at about the same time so we all got to eat dinner together.

Today, I am thankful for outerwear sales. I had the unfortunate experience of having to take all three boys winter-wear shopping at the same time, but the fact that I saved over $120 and spent less than $100 for 3 winter coats, heavy-duty gloves, and double-layered knit caps makes me thankful indeed, even if it did entail a few "Go to hell and take your kids with you" looks from other shoppers.

Today's entry is brought to you by the letters O and U; here's hoping we beat the crap out of Texas A&M today.

Thankful entry #3

2011-11-03T17:52:00.000-07:00

Today's entry: I am thankful for cranberry-pomegranate juice. And Starbucks red velvet whoopie pies.

Today's entry is brought to you by the number 24, which is how many pounds I still have left to lose.

Thankful entry #2

2011-11-02T15:56:00.000-07:00

Today I am thankful for preschool, which allowed me to go to the grocery store, the bank, and the rec center without my suddenly-tantrum-predisposed four-year-old. I love this kid forever, but his five full-body, full-throttle-decibel tantrums in the course of two days have left me on the verge of throwing one myself.

Today's entry is brought to you by the number 1982, which is where it appeared the woman I saw in the store today was still living, with her threadbare poufy crinkled neon-pink-and-green warm-up suit, keds, and peroxide hair.

Trend of the Month

2011-11-01T18:29:00.000-07:00

Since everybody's doin' it, and I like to be part of the popular crowd, I'm going to write at least one thing every day this month that I am thankful for.

Today's entry: toilets that flush.

This entry is brought to you by the letter F, which is what I utter every time I remember that the toilet in my master bathroom does not flush at the moment. We are waiting on the owner to call a plumber to fix the leaky seal in the tank, which ran up our water bill over twice the amount it usually is, so Soldier turned the water off at the base so it wouldn't run til it gets fixed.

Status update

2011-11-01T07:05:00.000-07:00

Five (5) of the ten (10) lbs I lost over the last two weeks has now returned, thanks to Halloween.

Today I am going to the rec center to pick up my new gym pass for the month, because obviously, I'm going to need it.

Today I also have to go grocery shopping. Diet lettuce, diet celery, diet kale....

No, no, just kidding. I don't eat green vegetables.

How is this fair?

2011-10-28T14:21:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah, I know that life's not fair. But listen.

When you allow the kids to wear their costumes to school for Halloween, but then forbid them to bring any toy weapons, wear masks or face paint or hats, and then have a costume contest, you perpetuate an extreme bias against the boys. Because if you allow makeup, but not face paint, only the girls will have faces that match their costumes. If you allow headbands and tiaras but not masks and hats, only the girls will have headwear that matches their costumes. If you allow sparkly batons and magic wands but not plastic swords and obviously fake guns, only the girls will have props that match their costumes. And without fail, girls are the ones who win the costume contests at school. And I have to listen to "But Mom, I never even had a chance. I couldn't wear my mask or helmet or bring my ray-blaster," and "Mom, it's not fair. You couldn't even tell what I was supposed to be without my face paint and sword/hatchet/mace."

And they're absolutely right. If you're going to forbid certain costumes or parts of costumes, then don't have a freaking costume contest.

I swear, I get more and more irritated at PC-ness all the time. This nation is feminizing its boys, and this is just another manifestation of it. I don't want my boys to grow up thinking that weapons are evil. I want them to grow up knowing when, where and how to use weapons should a legitimate need ever arise to do so when they're adults. I don't want my boys growing up to believe that fairies and princesses are better than soldiers and cowboys. Every character has its place, and those fairies are going to grow up to marry those cowboys, and they're going to expect those cowboys to know how to use a gun when a rattlesnake coils up on the back porch. I don't want my boys to grow up thinking that only girls are allowed to play dress-up, when there are so many great firefighter, soldier, cowboy, alien, Darth Vader, Buzz Lightyear, and Superman costumes out there. Those girls aren't going to want some pansy-ass who can't fix anything or lift anything or pay for anything when they grow up. No, they're going to want the knight in shining armor on a white stallion who is capable of rescuing anyone and solving any problem with confidence. So why can't that knight-in-shining-armor-to-be wear his helmet and carry his plastic sword to kindergarten on Halloween, when the princess he will marry someday gets to wear her fancy dress, plastic high heels, and tiara and carry her sceptor all over school?

Tell me this is a joke. Please.

2011-10-26T08:21:00.000-07:00

This has got to be one of the most absurd things I've ever seen.

I'm all for animal rights in regards to prevention of abuse and neglect. But this is not only going off the deep end, it's doing a cannonball into a crowded pool. In other words, a stupid idea that will make some people laugh and some people angry.

I love my pets and consider them part of my family, but I have never afforded them the same level of status as the humans I live with. That would be absurd. This lawsuit hinges on the belief that animals should be afforded the same protection and rights as minor children or wards of the state - that is, those who are deemed incapable of making their own decisions and/or caring for themselves. That alone ought to get it thrown out of court. This is not about animal abuse or neglect. The entire point of the suit is to have animals legally recognized as having human rights.

I've yet to find a single shred of logic in any of PETA's arguments here. (Of course, I'd be hard-pressed to find a single shred of logic in most things PETA does.) If the world ever gets to the point where animals are recognized as having the same rights as humans, we will have a real-life Planet of the Apes on our hands.

We do have a responsibility to care for the animals we own, and not abandon, abuse, or neglect them. We also have a responsibility to not treat feral animals cruelly, or hunt them for sport. But I don't believe the very issue of animals in captivity is abusive, nor do I believe the issue of animals working in captivity is equal to slavery in any way. Animals have worked for humans for centuries. A few examples include sled dogs, herding dogs, oxen, horses, elephants and camels. Is there really a difference between pulling a sled or a plow and jumping out of the water or waving a flipper? Both are trained, perform on demand, and rewarded when the task is done. They are fed, groomed, and receive medical attention. Frankly, the only resemblance to slavery I can see is the "perform on demand" part, which is what you do yourself every day when you go to work. So what these animals really have is a job, one where they are trained to complete a task that is within their capabilities to perform, rewarded for completion of that task, and provided steady nourishment and medical care. By contrast, in the wild they must find and sometimes fight for sustenance and suffer physical ailments, some excruciatingly painful and fatal, with no real purpose except to repeatedly reproduce (which can be harmful enough to the females, to say nothing of the impact on the environment of overpopulation.) In captivity, at least, reproduction is controlled to prevent overpopulation, or in some cases, to sustain that very population from demise.

I also do not believe that zoos are institutions of torture, nor do I believe that hunting (for food) and/or eating meat perpetuates animal cruelty, but those are discussions for another time. Back to the topic at hand:

Animals are not, and should not be, eligible to belong to the status of humanity. The end.

Fed Up

2011-10-24T13:16:00.001-07:00

This week was fall break; we spent the first half in Virginia having fun. We spent the second half in Kentucky, being lazy and then driving to Cincinatti yesterday to go to the Lego store. Today is the last day of fall break and we spent all morning at the dentist, which launched me headfirst back into school-scouts-choir-chess-club-pta-mode, which I despise.

My kids like their activities, so I don't want to be a Grinch and make them stop participating. I have limited them to two at a time because that is as far as my sanity will stretch without snapping. They are in Scouts year-round, choir and chess club during the school year, and sports in the summer. Against my better judgement, I also accepted the position of PTA VP of Programs at the baby's preschool this year. I was told this involved writing and copying a newsletter for distribution once a month, which sounded simple enough.

I should have known better. I did know better. And I accepted anyway, because I figured, hey, it's just a preschool. What could there really be to do for PTA in freakin' preschool?

The preschool my older two went to back home didn't even have a PTA. Why not? Because it wasn't necessary.  The kids aren't even old enough yet to care about school carnivals and dances and canned food drives and book fairs and fundraisers and Super Kids Day. They just like to go to school like the "big kids" and color pictures and learn their letters and colors and shapes and have snack. The most I ever had to do there was throw a birthday party for them once a year and show up occasionally to help supervise a holiday fete or two. I never had to devise games or make food to bring or decorate the school or handprint 110 kids in one afternoon. I never had to spend entire DAYS at school writing up, copying, sorting, and distributing reminder notes for every insignificant stupid thing, plus the newsletter. I was never expected to sell chocolate bars that nobody likes or raid my own pantry for food for school parties.

I have to say, after being in this PTA officer position for three months now, I still don't see the point of having a PTA in preschool. Everything we do could be done by the teachers and their assistants. The only thing I could see needing parent volunteers for is the book fair, which is four days long. At my kids' old preschool, the teachers and admins handled the selling and distribution of school t-shirts, holiday parties and special events like graduation. They asked for parent volunteers to help with the one field trip per year, and to throw the kid a birthday celebration at school if you so chose. Other than that, you dropped your little grunion off at the door and the teacher walked them out to your car at the end of the day. Oh yeah, and the day was five and a half  hours long, five days a week, just one hour shorter than a regular elementary school day, so you could actually get something accomplished while the kid was there, like holding down a regular job or getting a master's degree. Out here, they only go for three hours, four days a week, which is just slightly longer than mothers-day-out. I know some parents are going to argue, but it's preschool. They shouldn't be subjected to the rigors of a full school day before first grade.

And to that I say hooey.  My older two did just fine. There was a period of adjustment, for a week or so, and then they were just fine. Better than fine, because they got to spend a large chunk of their day playing games, doing art projects, playing on the playground, learning their letters and shapes and numbers and even Spanish, for crying out loud, and then they got to come home and tell Mommy all about it. And Mommy got to take a desperately needed nap with the new baby and work on a term paper and clean up the kitchen and go to the grocery store without dodging preschoolers underfoot. And at the end of the day, everyone was mentally stable and mostly pleased with their accomplishments.

Here, I have three hours per day, four days a week to accomplish grown-up tasks like doctor appointments, exercise, grocery shopping, errand running, and house cleaning. Of those 12 hours per week, at least six of them are spent doing work up at the preschool. Thank God I got that master's degree out of the way back home, because I would never have time to study with the schedule I have now.

It's not just school, however. Scouts is just as guilty. Last year they demanded that every parent solicit donations for the end-of-year banquet, whether you wanted to or not. They even distributed two cards to each family with the name, address, and item requested from each business. I was appalled. Look, if you don't want to do the dirty work associated with coordination donations for the banquet, then don't join the committee for it. But certainly don't tell me and the other parents that it's our job. I signed my kids up and paid the fees for you to be the Leader, not me. I don't mind helping now and then, but I am repulsed by the fact that you require it of me, let alone that I detest solicitation in general. I was in Camp Fire for ten years growing up, and never once were any of the parents asked, much less required, to assist with anything. Look, I love my kids, but I don't want to spend my free time working with other people's kids. If I did, I would have signed up to be Leader.

For decades, schools and teachers have begged for parent volunteers to help them manage all the tasks that go into providing our kids with an education. My mother taught school for decades until moving into administration, so I lived, breathed, and ate "school" way more than the average kid. All the work to be done in a school setting is not unfamiliar to me, but that doesn't mean I like doing it, especially if I'm not getting paid. I don't mind showing up for parties and bringing food or treats; I don't mind going on field trips with my kids; I don't mind taking them to school early or picking them up late for chess club or lego club or choir. But I don't like decorating the classroom or opening milk cartons at lunch or cleaning up easels and tables after fingerpainting and play-doh time. I don't like standing in front of a copier for an hour or two, copying, sorting, and distributing newsletters, reminder notes, permission slips, and t-shirt order forms. The way I see it, that's the teachers' and admins' job.  I realize that schools are mostly government-funded, and as such, don't always have the resources necessary to do or buy everything they want for the kids. And although I don't love it, I don't generally mind doing fundraising to help out with the financial burden. But somewhere along the line, someone decided stay at home moms didn't have enough to do, so they could come up to school and do the drudgery work the teachers didn't want to do. And before all you teachers out there jump on me at once about how you don't have time to do those things, and that's why you rely on parents to help out, let me ask you something. If all this 'drudgery-work' is part of your job, why don't you have time to do it? Why is the "I don't have time" excuse considered valid? It's certainly not considered valid in any other profession. How long do you think you would have a job if you told your customers you didn't have time to make their product presentation look nice? Or if you told your patients you didn't have time to update their files with notes about their condition? Or if you told your clients you didn't have time to file the paperwork so their legal case is going to be drawn-out indefinitely? But that's exactly what teachers expect nowadays. They rely on, nay, expect, PTA moms and parent volunteers to do the work they don't want to or don't "have time" to do so they can focus on "being better teachers."

Are you kidding me? Should I then ask you to write up your own patient notes so I can spend that time "being a better doctor?" Should I ask you to write your own briefs for your case so I can spend that time "being a better attorney?" Should I ask you to pick up the copies of my charts for my presentation to you for your ad campaign so I can spend that time "being a better consultant?"

I don't blame the teachers for starting this trend, however. I blame the mothers. Those mothers who couldn't find anything else to do with their time, so they decided to be helpful and see if their kid's teacher or school needed any busy work done for them. That's great, for those who want to do it. But schools and teachers have come to rely on that help so much over the generations that now they just request and expect it. If you have a full-time job outside the home, you're given a pass for actually being at school during the day, but you better be there for any evening activities that occur, lest you be accused of not taking an interest in your child's education. In my experience, though, the PTA moms are the worst enforcers; they police the other parents' volunteer participation like prison guards at labor camps.

I am putting my foot down to this outrageous nonsense. If you want to donate your time and money to print copious reminder notes, coordinate multiple parties throughout the year, plan field trips or other outings, organize fundraisers, dream up ways for kids to earn badges and awards, decorate teacher's rooms, put together charity drives, and run yourself ragged trying to look like (or be) Super-PTA-Mom or Super-Den-Mother, then knock yourself out. Because you're sure not doing it for the kids, no matter what you say. You're doing it to prove to yourself that you're not nearly as worthless as you feel sitting at home all day with no job and no talents or interests of your own to pursue. The kids don't care about 3/4 of the crap you insist on perpetuating. They want a party at Christmas and maybe a school carnival once a year. Scouts is a little more involved, but a couple of camp-outs and an hour-long meeting once a week to earn a badge is sufficient. The rest is gravy.

From this day forward, I am not taking on any other volunteer chairperson, officer, or coordinator responsibilities for the foreseeable future. It has gotten to the point where I have become angry and bitter about it, and that is my signal to stop. I will not make my kids give up their activities, but I am going to leave it up to others to do the jobs they signed themselves up for. I will not volunteer unless I feel there is a direct benefit to myself or my own kids. If this makes me a Grinch, so be it. My family and myself come first.

A History Lesson: St Luke's Church

2011-10-21T10:27:00.000-07:00

St. Luke's Church is a National Shrine or National Historical Landmark, depending on what source you're reading from. It's not much to look at, just an old brick church with a graveyard around it, nothing terribly exciting unless, like me, you've got a significant ancestral link to it.

My ancestors went to and lived near this church when they first came to American back in the 1600's, so I really wanted to see it. History lesson: It's the oldest standing church in America, having been established around 1632 or so. (It most likely predates that by about 10 years or so, but the original vestry books were buried in a horsehair trunk, and therefore rotted away, for years, so a conclusive date can't be established.) My ancestors were there when the church began, so of course their records there are lost in the original vestry books, but we know they were members there, and may have been involved in its administration as well. They are not buried in the surrounding graveyard, which didn't come into use til about 20 years later. They were most likely buried on their own land (the tradition at that time), which means their graves are probably lost to time and nature's encroachment. At any rate, I didn't have time on this trip to figure out precisely where their land was located, or who owns it now, or ask if there are any known graves on it. We did, however, take a tour of the church, learned about it's history and significance, and meandered around the graveyard. There is an old gravel path along the edge of the cemetery that was part of an Indian trail route, which pre-dates the church by who knows how many years. Despite the fact that the Indian Massacre of 1622 (a massacre by Indians, not of them) occured all around it, the church as an institution survived. It would most likely have been a simple wooden structure at that time, however; the brick building that stands today was built sometime in the 1630's.

The inside of the church as it would have appeared in the 17th century, with the exception of the pews. At that time, it is likely that all the pews would have had high backs, not the low ones pictures here. Families sat together and might have had their own pew which they constructed themselves, so the pews may not have been uniform in size and structure. The stained glass windows up front came from Germany and were originally inscribed with German words; those words were taken out and replaced with the names of men prominent to the early English settlers when the windows were installed here. The stained glass windows on the side walls denote families of the area. Mine is not depicted, probably because they had moved on by the point that the side windows were constructed; the original windows were plain clear diamond-shaped pieces of glass set in lead cams.

The pulpit has three tiers; in this picture you can see that the bottom one was a short step above the floor, the middle one another step above that, with a Bible on a stand, and the top had its own short staircase, which is where the preacher would stand (or the magistrate, when court was in session.) The octagonal structure above the top tier was an actual sounding board, used to reflect the speaker's voice out over the pews instead of ascending directly into the ceiling.

Another history lesson: there would have been several hourglasses set up on the pulpit, much like preachers today set their watch on it to keep track of time. The reason was completely different, however: they were there not to make sure the preacher stayed within the allotted time for the message, but to make sure he preached long enough. How long was long enough? Three to four hours. And that was just the sermon. The entire service usually lasted 6-8 hours; in other words, you spent an entire work day sitting in a hard wooden (and sometimes very hot or cold) pew with your immediate family, listening to someone proclaim hellfire and damnation. I can't even imagine sitting through that myself, let alone with several children. My kids can't sit still through an hour-long church service; six to eight hours and I would have killed all of us.

There was only one door to the church. It looks a bit confusing from the outside. As you can tell, it is a door within a door; the smaller inner door with the handle was used for everyday, common usage such as church, court, and ceremonies like weddings, etc. The larger outer door can only be opened from the inside. Why?

Because it was only used in times of military occupation, in order to let in horses and large pieces of weaponry. The church was twice militarily occupied, once during the American Revolution and again during the Civil War. Once the outer door was closed, it afforded fairly good protection, since it could not be opened from the outside; the smaller inner door was easier to defend. The walls of the church are three feet thick of Flemish-bonded brick, enabling it to serve as a fort when necessary.

There are four people buried within the church itself; two of these graves are marked by marble slabs in front of the chancel altar. One of those two has been exhumed for examination and not yet returned. The other is still there, under the marble slab inlaid on the floor. Yet another person is buried in an unmarked grave beneath the baptismal font at the back of the church, just to the left of the door ins the picture above. I don't know where the fourth person is buried; the docent didn't tell us and I forgot to ask. It is, however, another unmarked grave within the church.

I didn't get a picture of it, but there is a creek that runs alongside the cemetery surrounding the church. It is fairly small and shallow now due to damming further upstream, but in the 17th and 18th centuries it was a prime water route for transportation of goods inland. So the church not only served as a place of worship and a fortress, but also a commercial transport post.

Monticello and Charlottesville

2011-10-21T07:54:00.000-07:00

Soldier had to be in Charlottesville for a class this week (which is the whole reason we went on this trip anyway) so the boys and I stayed there for a few days before coming back home.

Let me just say: I love Charlottesville.

It's a college town, on the small side, but big enough to have a Chipotle and some decent shopping. (And isn't that all that really matters?) Anyway, it's quaint and charming and easily walkable/bikeable, with historical sites on the side. Most of the houses are on the older side; I'm sure there are newer ones somewhere, but we kept fairly close to the middle of town, which is largely old. There are three presidents' homes in the area: Madison, Jefferson, and Monroe. We only had time to see Jefferson's Monticello. You aren't allowed to take pictures inside the house itself, and the boys were rushing me through the outside parts, so I don't have any pictures to share.

There are stables, the kitchen, wine and beer cellars, and various other "dependencies" as Jefferson called them, underneath the house. It's not really a basement, as it's exposed to the outdoors (it's really on ground level and the house is built above it), but I imagine it would be plenty dark and shadowy at night. I wish I had taken pictures of the kitchen, because at first glance I couldn't tell that it WAS one. First of all, it wasn't in the actual house. If you think about it, I guess this makes sense, because when you're cooking with a wood or coal stove, it gets pretty sooty and smoky, not the kind of thing you want to see and smell inside your house. I was equally taken aback to see that the only things in the kitchen were shelves for the dishes and cookware, a hearth, and a long, multi-burner brick stove. It was considered the most advanced and best-equipped kitchen of its time. Again, upon further consideration, I have to admit that the absence of a sink, oven, and icebox, all of which I would have expected to see, was probably in line with the technology of the period. Sinks require plumbing, which still hadn't been invented yet, along with ovens. There was an icehouse, however, on the opposite side of the house, so I still don't know why there was no place to store cold foods in the kitchen if there was ample ice to do so.

Monticellowas a little underwhelming in some respects. I though it would be a lot bigger than it was. I suppose back in the 1800's it wasconsidered enormous, but it really isn't that much bigger than the house we'recurrently in (which, while large, isn't a mansion by any means.) We didn't tourthe gardens, which were no doubt impressive, but we didn't have time. The house was interesting; I wish we couldhave poked through it more but of course you aren't allowed to touch anythingand are required to stay with your group, which means no exploring narrowhallways or nooks and crannies. I wasimpressed by all the scientific and mathematical things Jeffersonworked on, and the way the family lived back then. The tour guide was a very round man who likedto think that if he didn't know the answer to something, it wasn't importantanyway, which was mildly annoying. Soldier tried to take him up on the contentious point of theJefferson/Hemings issue, but the mansimply stated what "their" position was, and wouldn't consider anyothers. I personally don't contend thefact that Jefferson fathered her children (she had six, by the way), but I foundit ridiculous that historians have tried to imply that thetwo of them loved each other and had a consensual relationship. Anyone with even a shred of knowledge aboutslave culture at the time, however, would understand the concept of forcedconsent. Thomas Jefferson's wife diedrelatively young. He never remarried, instead bringing his daughter and her family to live with him at Monticelloand help run the place. Sally Hemings'was 3/4 white herself, very light-skinned, good-looking, and was also thehalf-sister of Jefferson's wife. Yes, the half-sister of his wife. Sally's mother was a concubine ofMartha Jefferson's father, so it's not a stretch to assume that Sally herselfwas Jefferson's concubine. (A concubine is someone who is involved in anongoing, marraige-like relationship with a man whom she cannot marry, usuallybecause of social status.) So to recap:Sally was his wife's sister AND his personal property, to do whatever hepleased with. I really do not think thatSally loved Jefferson or that he loved her, ashistorians have tried to imply. When youare literally the property of a master and he controls every aspect of yourlife, including whether you live or die, you are probably going to go alongwith whatever he does to you, whether you like it or not. I think it was more a situation of him beingwidowed and wanting sex, she was white enough and even his deceased wife'ssister, (therefore he was attracted to her, presumably) and thus he chose her to literally be his sexslave. I think it is also significantthat he freed the children he had by her, but did not free her. Supposedly this is because she first becamepregnant while in Paris, and refused toaccompany him back to Americaunless he freed her children. That ispossible, but I think it is more likely that he freed their childrenbecause they were HIS, and they were 7/8 white, which at that time meant they were entitledto live as free persons if their masters acquiesed. I do not thinkthat, as a slave, even a pretty, white-looking one, she would have been in aposition to issue an ultimatum like that to her master. She undoubtedly not only knew he controlledher fate, but was also at least a little intimidated by him - he was, afterall, wealthy and incredibly intelligent, not to mention persuasive. So if hefreed her children, why not her? Because if she was free, she could leave, andpresumably, wouldn't be so readily available for sex at his whim. Makes perfect sense to me. But historians like to gloss over theparticulars and just say they had a "relationship." Well, sure. But it was a slave/master relationship, not necessarily a love affair.

Since I have no pictures of either Charlottesville or Monticello, here is one I took of the Virginia countryside, right off the highway. Much of rural Virginia looks like this.

Sand + water = fun

2011-10-21T06:43:00.000-07:00

I still don't understand how I came to grow up in land-locked Oklahoma. I am indisputably a water baby. I love the water. I grew up going to pools and lakes, but the ocean is just so powerful that I am still entranced by it every time I see it. I even went to sailing camp for three years in a row as a kid, with my best friend. I remember going to Hawaii with my parents when I was 7 and being amazed at the clarity of the water. It was like liquid glass, sparkling and completely clear. That was my first brush with the ocean and I've been drawn to it ever since.

The beach was fun. We went to Virginia Beach, which is soft and sandy, like beaches should be. It was quite uncrowded, being fall and late afternoon, so we had a great spot. The oldest two had never been, and the baby didn't remember it from a couple of years ago, so itwas like a whole new experience for them all. We did all the "beach" things: play in the ocean, dig in thesand, find shells. Horseback riders trotted past occasionally, and seagulls darted in and out. We got there kind oflate so we only stayed for a couple of hours, but really, that was enough.

Just as we were talking about getting ready to leave, Soldier spotted a dolphin not too far from us. So we stayed and watched awhile longer and it obligingly jumped up several more times, along with a friend. I tried to get pictures of them but my little camera has no telephoto lens and thus cannot focus 500 feet out over the ocean. We left at sunset and drove through a tunnelthat went through the ocean, which would have been a smidge unnerving foranyone afraid of the water. But we thought it was nifty.

My middle son decided it was necessary to chase a seagull. At some point, I'm sure, the next time he goes to the beach, he will get pooped on.

Because all I have is a point-and-shoot camera, I could just barely capture this incredibly cool sailing ship at sunset. I desperately wish I had a telephoto lens because this would have been going up in a frame if I'd been able to get a closer shot.

I'm back

2011-10-20T20:29:00.000-07:00

Busch Gardens - check. Monticello - check. St Luke's Church - check. The ocean - check.

*10 bonus points if you know what state I visited*

I had less than 24 hours to plan for, pack for, and prepare for said trip. But no way was I going to turn it down when it was offered to me at the last minute. I've wanted to go out there for awhile.

I'm going to break this up into several posts over the next few days because I have pictures to share and it makes each post that much longer. I promise, I'm not going to share all of them. Don't run screaming just yet.

So I'll start with Busch Gardens.

Busch Gardens was purely awesome. They had it all done up for Halloween, complete with costumed characters (think Freddy Krueger, not Mickey Mouse) walking around scaring people. Throughout the park, speakers played eerie Halloween music, and everything was decorated with dark roses (some of which had eyeballs) and creepy ivy, cobwebs, mummies that truly looked real, spiders, skeletons, ghosts, gory limbs, 3-D monsters, etc.

We could not have picked at better time to visit than we did. The boys were freaked out from time to time, but I have to say, the overall experience was fantastic. The only ride we really had to wait in line for (for over an hour and a half - argh) was The Curse of DarKastle, which is a Haunted Mansion - type ride, except in 4-D movie format.

The two older boys hid their eyes the entire time, and we didn't even attempt to take the baby on it (we did child-swap at the loading point) but Soldier and I liked it. Was it worth the hour and a half wait? Well, if, like us, you've never seen it before, then probably. But I wouldn't wait that long to see it again. Because if you know what's coming, it kind of takes away the suspense. It's still a good ride, though; I would probably wait 30 minutes next time, but no more than that.

Brr.

2011-10-20T11:18:00.001-07:00

Man. It was summer when I left. I was gone for five days and came back to winter. For the record, I am not a fan of winter. I'm working on a post about our trip; it'll be up shortly.

Addiction

2011-10-13T06:57:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else found Pinterest to be as addictive as crack? Because I sure have.

Truth:

2011-10-05T07:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life just sucks. You can philosophize about it all you want, drag out every theory in the book about why life is fair or not fair or why it should or should not be fair or unfair or whether fairness is even logical or illogical or relative to life in general at all, but the bottom line is, sometimes life just sucks and contemplating why just makes it suck even worse. There's no need to go into particulars about who, what, when, where, or how; it's just been one of those days for too many days in a row and I've lost my patience. Back to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whenever I get out of this mood.

En Francais

2011-10-03T07:10:00.001-07:00

This has got to be one of the most intriguing things I've ever seen. It's a little too modern in its decor for me, but the whole conceptualization and realization of it is just amazing. I think it would be perfect for a college student, or more specifically, a succession of college students studying abroad for a semester or two. It's cheap, in the middle of the city, but still functional and aesthetically pleasing, and has light and space. I am inspired.

As a side note, I was pleasantly surprised to find I could understand about 70% of the French, which I haven't spoken for 12 years now. There's on-screen translation for those who aren't francophiles, so don't worry.

Ho boy.

2011-09-26T07:51:00.000-07:00

My little sister's getting married.

My mother officially has to admit that her precious angel baby is now an adult (even though she's 23 and in med school and has been an "adult" for quite some time now.)

By 23, I was married and had a kid. Now I'm, ahem, not 23 and have three kids. And 25 pounds of padding on my delicate bones.

I have til Christmas to lose those 25 pounds of padding, which is when I will be fitted for my pink dress. I shall NOT be the fat chick at my sister's wedding.

Thus, commence daily 5 mile runs, 30 reps of squats, and arm weights.

I don't understand

2011-09-23T07:37:00.000-07:00

Why do people go camping?

I don't see the logic involved. Why would you forego technological advancements like beds, walls, screened windows and doors, indoor plumbing, electrical appliances, and general comfort to engage in barbarian practices like sleeping on the cold, hard (and sometimes wet) ground with bugs and rodents crawling all over you, gathering wood and scraps to start fires with flint, eating soggy food, being attacked by swarms of mosquitos and biting flies, all in the name of "fun" or "experience"? Especially in the rain. Uck.

Is it some kind of primal desire to relate to cavemen? Is there a measure of "toughness" to prove? It's not like this is Outward Bound.

I've camped before, since you ask. In a tent. On the ground. In the rain.

I prefer to do my camping in a cabin with indoor plumbing and screened windows and doors, and cook in a kitchen or kitchenette with a stove/oven, sink, and fridge. Sure, let's take a nature hike, go fishing, canoeing, horseback riding, skip some stones in the lake, make s'mores over the campfire, but at the end of the day (and sometimes in the middle, too), I like to sleep in a bed with walls separating me from the bears, wolves, and mountain lions that frequent most of the rural US; take a shower in a place with walls and a door that locks; prepare food without gathering fuel for the fire and waiting for it to light, then flare up, then settle down to cook; and get away from flying insects who think I'm their next meal.

I don't mind experiencing nature; heck, "nature" is about five feet from our back porch out here. I like fishing, swimming, canoeing, horseback riding and nature hikes. We've got woods, flowers, plants, deer, squirrels, chipmunks, birds, frogs, and all manner of insects right out the window. Which can be quite charming, as long as I can come inside and get away from it whenever I want. I guess that's the main issue I have with camping: I don't mind being outside and "nature-y" as long as I don't have to STAY outside. I like to have the option.

I was a Camp Fire Girl. I went to day camp and resident (overnight) camp every year til high school. But Camp Fire girls, in the midst of communing with nature, realized that the great indoors is where most humans like to sleep, cook, eat, and bathe, so we stayed in cabins with indoor plumbing and ate in a lodge with a commercial kitchen. It worked out nicely. I loved going to camp. No peeing in the woods...or worse yet, porta-potties. No, we took care of our business in bathrooms with doors that locked and toilets that flushed. We ate with plates and forks and napkins, on tables, sitting in chairs. We slept in bunk beds with real mattresses, in buidings with wood floors and indoor fireplaces. Camp Fire girls know how to camp. We do it right.

My boys are going camping this weekend for scouts for the first time. Luckily, Soldier is staying overnight with the older two outside while the baby and I come back home to sleep. (The lake is not too far from our house, so it's not that far for me to drive back and forth.) If my boys stay in scouts though, i think it's not a bad investment for me to buy a camper with its own bathroom and kitchenette. Maybe other people are suckers for punishment, but I see no reason to rough it if I don't have to. I'm a Camp Fire girl.

Maybe I should just go Independant

2011-09-19T12:14:00.000-07:00

I've not really paid much attention to the presidental hopefuls thus far, being recently distracted with the dangers of arsenic in the apple juice, dental x-rays, and UV dryers in nail salons. But sheltered as I am from politics lately, I nevertheless found my jaw on the floor the other day after reading a certain candidate's views on a particular vaccine.

It's impossible for me to really get behind any of the Republican candidates vying for election in the primaries this time around. Rick Perry is too evangelical for me; I have my own relationship with God and I like it, thanks. Don't shove your religion in my face. Besides, he's too much the sterotypical politician-in-bed-with-xyz-corporation for me to approve of his rationale for certain decisions (can we say "financial interest in the legal requirement of certain pharmaceuticals?") Mitt Romney's Mormon affiliation does no favors for him in my book. Again, the whole religion card is overplayed. Why does this race center so much around religion? It's like a face-off between mormons and evangelicals. It's entertaining to watch, much like gladiators in the Coliseum, but I don't really care to place bets or choose sides. Besides, I was under the impression that our founders created this nation to have a "separation of church and state," meaning that religion should not dictate the government nor be dictated by it. But because each of these men have religious friends in rich places, religion is bound to be a cornerstone of their canpaigns.

And then there's Michele Bachmann, who makes me ashamed to be a Republican. Holy screaming weasels, can someone please close her mouth with duct tape before she spews any more ignorant absurdities? In her most recent gaffe, she claimed on national television that the HPV vaccine causes mental retardation. Lunacy at it's finest, folks. She and Jenny McCarthy (best known for her obnoxious farts on MTV and spewing false claims that a. vaccines cause autism and b. she "healed" her autistic son) must be BFF's. I'm not going to get into the nitty gritty details of how wrong Bachmann is (you can go here to read all about it) but this is not the first time she has unwittingly verbalized such nonsense. She has also claimed, among other absurdities, that the US "could potentially virtually wipe out unemployment" by doing away with minimum wage, and implored the public to "make a covenant, to slit our wrists, be blood brothers," in combatting the so-called health care reform the Democrats are trying to pass. The last comment alone makes me wonder if perhaps she is not unfamiliar with these types of coven-like rituals.

I am interested to know how she thinks removing minimum wage entirely would wipe out unemployment. When pressed by good ol' George on Good Morning America, she failed to provide any sort of evidence at all to back up this claim. Hey, I'm not saying I agree or disagree (I'm no economist) but if you're going to show up with that placard on your platform, you'd better have some well-respected professional research behind it. Likewise on the vaccine issue.

I am not a fan of government-mandated health insurance either, but I don't think encouraging people to slit their wrists is the right metaphor to use in a stance against it. Maybe I'm just TOO conservative that way; I prefer not to engage in suicidal rituals. And the only covenant I feel comfortable with is the one I signed with my husband on our wedding day.

Her former chief of staff, Ron Carey, has admitted that she has quite the "impulsive nature" and "doesn’t use her staff well." He related to Anderson Cooper that it’s really difficult to prep her and help her kind of back-check before she goes out speaking;" some people may consider this the kind of comment to be expected from a frenemy, but I think the truth in his statements is obvious.

Frankly, I don't want a President with an impulsive nature who prefers to speak off-the-cuff without consulting the facts first. Just think of the horrendous ramifications of a President who angers the head of state (whose alliance the US may be desperate to obtain) at a foreign state dinner by making an impulsive remark intended as a compliment but taken as an insult in that culture? Or one who orders my husband off to war without any sort of logical justification whatsoever, just because she overheard a remark taken out of context on Jerry Springer or other such intelligent media? Government officials have advisors for a reason. If you don't personally have all the answers, you'd better surround yourself with people who do, and check in with them more than just occasionally to make sure you're not making an ass of yourself and/or compromising the entire country in some form or another.

This is looking to be a tough call for me; I'm really not thrilled with any of the specimens offered by my political party, but I'm less thrilled with the Democratic platform, so there's no chance of me defecting that direction. Maybe it's time to just declare myself Independant and leave the Coliseum for good.

Are you kidding me?

2011-08-09T12:37:00.000-07:00

What I really want to tell my renters:

Look, I know it's hot. Half the country has been and continues to be under an extreme heat wave this summer. But it's August - do you really think it's going to magically get cooler? August is the hottest month out of the year for most of the U.S. I am so sick of hearing people whine and complain about how hot it is. The fact is that you have air conditioning, and yet you still sit and bitch about how hot you are. I am terribly sorry that ONE room on the farthest side of the house from the condenser/blower is not cooling well enough to your liking, but when the temp is 109 degrees F outside, you should be huddled around the fridge anyway. There is nothing I can do about ONE room not cooling as well as the rest. The REST of the house is cool enough for you, and the air is BLOWING in that ONE room, so the problem is OBVIOUSLY that THAT ONE ROOM is too far from the A/C to cool adequately in this extreme heat. I am not replacing the air conditioner simply because you are from Maryland and you want to live in a frozen cave in the middle of Oklahoma. If you really want to cool off, try dropping 150+ pounds of the lard that pads your spoiled little bones. And don't call me again about this issue.

Sincerely,
Your landlord

Tip O' The Day

2011-07-08T17:37:00.000-07:00

Do not allow your seven-year-old child to open cereal bags. Ever.

Because this is what will happen:

This has been a Public Service Announcement.

AAAAAAAACCCCKKKKKK!!!!!!

2011-07-07T20:05:00.000-07:00

Sorry. That was just me screaming because while getting my baby in the bathtub tonight I discovered an itty-bitty tiny TICK on his chest.

As any good Camp Fire girl who has ever been to camp knows, the tiny ones are the worst, the most likely to carry Lyme disease. Living out in the country we find ticks everywhere - just the other day I picked one off the cat that was nearly the size of a blueberry, it was so overgorged. But those are big ticks. This one was tiny, almost the size of the period at the end of this sentence.

And it was EMBEDDED in MY BABY. (Ok, he's four years old, but he's my baby.) I have no mercy for anything that even thinks of threatening my kids, and this thing had chewed its way into my precious baby's chest and was sucking away on him. I wasn't just going to kill this tick, I was going to make it wish it and it's entire ancestral line had never been created by God.

The main roadblock was that I COULD NOT FIND TWEEZERS. Anywhere. Not in the bathroom. Not in the first aid buckets. Not in the hall closet. Not in the junk drawer.

I would have sold my soul for tweezers at that moment. Luckily I did manage to find some while maniacally dumping out the entire contents of the Caboodle I keep stashed full of random crap under the bathroom sink (yes, I am a child of the 80's and I still have it - what's your problem?). Gold ones, nonetheless. Though I did stop for just the smallest fraction of a nanosecond to wonder why anyone ever thought tweezers needed to appear gold-plated (and I have no idea whatsoever where they came from, along with most of the rest of the stuff in that Caboodle), I firmly clamped down on the blood-sucker and pulled it out, mouthparts and all. The baby and I examined it waving its legs and chewing mandibles in mid-air, and then I laid it on a lovely harsh cold pallet of drenched alcohol pads while I cleaned my baby's bite and deposited him in the warm bath.

Then I made waterboarding and SERE training look like Club Med. When it was finally over, Mr Tick lay lifeless between two more drenched alcohol pads inside the suffocating confines of a sealed baggie, where he's going to stay for at least two weeks until I can be certain that my baby will not suffer any effects of the bite.

I may even hang him up on the back porch as an example for all his family and friends to see.

I am Mama Bear, hear me roar: Don't mess with my kids. Nothing will stop me from destroying any semblance of life you have left.

Helpful Hint

2011-06-06T05:27:00.000-07:00

I'm no fashion maven, but....

Dear young mom at unnamed mexican restaurant yesterday,

By the looks of your child, you apparently just had a baby about 3 months or so ago and you are obviously trying to get your sexyback (though a bit misguided on an outing with said infant and your hubby), but please exchange your too-short, too-tight, strapless shortie-one-piece-shortset that looks like you stole it off a five year old (on whom it would be overwhelmingly more appropriate) for something a bit less desperately-clawing-at-the-last-vestiges-of-teenage-hood-ish. The sky-high wedge platform sandals aren't helping matters. Next time, try a simple, pretty, strappy sundress with some embellished flip-flops, mmmkay? And please make an attempt to at least acknowledge the sweet little baby girl you have with you instead of shoveling in the chips and salsa while your poor baby-daddy handles every last bit of baby-care, from carrying to holding to feeding to cleaning up. Look, I know new-motherhood can be tiring, and we'd all like the daddy to take more responsibility for baby-care (and heck, this may even be the only time you get out of the house and you want to enjoy it) but acting like an indifferent baby-sitter when you are obviously the baby's mother won't win you any points in the attractiveness department. Embrace your title as baby-mama, especially when the baby is with you; it will give you a smidge more credibility as the mother of said child, and you won't look like such a two-dollar hooker who had the misfortune to get knocked up.

Thanks doll. Love,
Soonerchick

*The sad thing about it was that she really was a pretty young lady, and from the neck up, she looked great - tasteful hair and makeup and jewelry. But from the neck-down, she looked like her 13-yr-old sister had dressed her, and basically ignoring her baby made me dislike her even more.

Concessions-R-Us

2011-05-12T09:03:00.000-07:00

Well, actually, it SHOULD say "Concessions-R-Me". Because I was the ONLY ONE working there last night. Grr.

Here's Why: Our Little League here in Nowheresville, KY is run by the most inept, incompetent, uncaring morons that I have ever seen. One of the by-products of this is that they say they "can't afford" to pay someone to man the concession stand during games, (to which I said "then where did all of my money go? Because it wasn't to the coaches or field staff, who are all volunteers") so they require parents to volunteer to man it instead. You are required to write them a check for $50 (in addition to all the other registration fees, which are also sky-high) when you sign your kid up, and if you complete your time in purgatory at the concession stand, they supposedly tear it up and don't cash it at the end of the season. If you don't serve your time, they cash it. They figure, and rightly so, that most people don't want to waste $50, so they'll do their time. However, I don't see how this $ is helping MY kids, since these checks aren't cashed until AFTER the season is over. So if you don't work, you've just subsidized next year's league.

So I signed up and dutifully showed up last evening to fulfill my first required shift (you have to do two) and found a locked concession stand. Another woman, who was supposed to distribute shirts (that were also inside the stand) to another team showed up about ten minutes after I did and wanted to know why it wasn't open. I told her I didn't have a key or any way to contact anyone who did. So, well-connected as she was, she called the league director, who just happened to be in the next town (20 min away) at ANOTHER field with his family. She finally managed to get ahold of some parks and rec guy who showed up 30 min later with a key (you know, 30 min AFTER the games had already begun and people were circling me like sharks wanting to know why the stand wasn't open.)

While we were waiting, I noticed I was the only one who had apparently shown up to work. Which would not have been such a big deal if I had known ANYTHING at all about where the food and drinks were, how much to charge, how to work the ancient cash register, what to prepare the food with, how to shut everything down and close and lock up, etc. I conveyed this apprehension to the other woman waiting with me, and she said she would show me where everything was and how to run it before she left.

Apparently this meant she would get the hot dogs ready and take off, because that's what she did. Since I was swamped with hillbilly rednecks wanting snacks and drinks for the first 45 minutes, all I could basically do was throw their money in the direction of the cash register and hand out food in return. I actually told people we were out of sunflower seeds and peanuts because I couldn't find them. (As it turned out, they were in a bucket on the floor. You know, because that's where food belongs: on the floor.) After the initial rush died down, I sorted out the money into the register and hunted down the rest of the items for sale. Things were going relatively spiffy until two teeneage umpires came in and held up their time cards and said "Where do we put these?" Uh, well, um, how about where you usually put them?" Their response? "We don't know where they are supposed to go." I decided to skip the rest of the conversation about how they've been doing this job for over a month now and SERIOUSLY, have they never turned in a time card?, while they stared at me blankly, so I just took the cards and told them I'd take care of it. Ten minutes later, a severely overweight man comes in wanting to know where the first aid supplies were. (My thought: we have first aid supplies? What do I look like, a paramedic?) I finally found a file cabinet labeled "ice packs" so I handed him one and said "good luck."

When I decided to close up shop for the night, I discovered there was no way to wash out the hot dog pan except for hot water, so I turned it up full blast and poured the hottest water possible into it over and over, hoping to at least kill whatever germs might be in it by sheer heat alone, since there was no scrubbing item or soap in sight, except the hand soap by one of the sinks. I put up all the food, cleaned up the area in general, and turned off the hot plate. I closed out the register, put everything in the cash bag, wrote a note telling the manager which three items they were nearly out of, and stuck the two umpires' time cards on top. I locked the window and door behind me, shut it, then realized I hadn't remembered to check the ice cream chest to make sure it was closed. Nice. So if all the ice cream treats are melted when I go back tonight for my second (and last) shift, I will basically be the most hated person in town. However, in my defense, it would serve the managers right for being such *unprintable words* as to not bother showing up to open it, then leaving me there by my clueless self.

Oh, and I discovered the schedule sitting on a counter near the register. Guess who was supposed to show up and work the stand with me last night? That's right, the leaders (husband and wife) of my sons' Cub Scout pack. Wow. Way to display those leadership and responsibility qualities there. I'm so impressed.

There are two different ladies schedule to work with me tonight. I have a feeling I'll be by myself again, except this time, at least, I have the phone number of the man with the key.

Why I Will Celebrate

2011-05-02T15:47:00.000-07:00

There has been a lot of talk over the past 24 hours about how we, as American citizens, should not be celebrating the death of the terrorist who, without provocation, slaughtered thousands of people, both civilian and military. The reasons for this non-celebratory attitude differ: some people are afraid of terrorist retaliation if they see us having a nation-wide shindig, some people are pacifists and dislike any and all conflict regardless of the justification, and some people feel we should be like Jesus and mourn the loss of a life, no matter how vile it was nor how much intentional destruction it caused.

I am not one of those people.

Here are the facts: 1. American military forces executed a man guilty of multiple premeditated, unprovoked mass murders. 2. They did so in face-to-face combat. 3. Bin Laden knew who killed him, why they killed him, and was caught entirely off-guard when it occured.

Those facts are indisputable, so let's address the various theories of non-celebratory behavior put forth by these nincompoops.

Any terrorist cells loyal to Bin Laden will want revenge for the death of their leader. Whether or not we engage in celebratory behavior will neither encourage nor dissuade them from that position. If you really believe it will, you have the reasoning capabilities of a two-year-old who thinks that screaming at the night sky will cause it to turn to daylight again. Just as there is no correlation between screaming and sunrise, so is there no correlation between celebratory behavior and terrorist actions. Terrorists have a callous disregard for all forms of life and will do what they will do regardless of the state of the rest of the world.

The pacifists will remain unmotivated no matter what happens. A true pacifist will not condone or participate in any type of conflict or combative behavior, preferring instead to sit idly by, wringing their hands while wishing everyone would just love one another and sing Kumbayah. Unfortunately for pacifists, however, terrorists tend to be unreasonable people and are thus entirely unmoved by displays of pacifism. The main trouble with pacifism, though, is that it consists entirely of people who refuse to stand up for their own beliefs, refuse to protect what they hold dear, refuse to take action against those people or circumstances who would seek to do harm. The very root word of pacifism, passive, means to submit without resistance. And I cannot condone an ideology that consists of sitting idly by and submitting to the the machinations of an evil madman without resistance. Call me a warmonger if you wish.

And now we come to the question of What Would Jesus Do? Well, you can quote Bible verses at me all day long and into the night, but when people begin using Bibilical passages as a means to justify pacifism, I tend to give them the same consideration as I would Jim Bakker, who as you'll recall, used Bible verses as a means to justify personal financial gain. While I do agree that it is admirable, and Godly, to forgive your enemies and wish for their conversion and redemption, I also believe that allowing the continued massacre of innocent people puts their blood on YOUR hands as well. After all, you are either for it or against it. There is no middle ground when it comes to the question of the taking of human life. I stand resolute that we as Americans should, and have a responsibility to, do everything in our power to protect our families and fellow citizens from reigns of terror.

Osama Bin Laden's assasination is unquestionably a good thing. No, it will not bring back the dead. It will not erase the pain felt by their families and friends, and it will not reverse the horrific events that have transpired over the past ten years. It may or may not bring "closure" to people; that psychological term cannot be narrowed to a precise definition or composition; it is brought about differently for everyone.

What it DOES do, however, is bring justice. If you intentionally decide to end the life of another human being without their consent (or at least a morally and legally reasonable justification), we in the civilized free world deem than unpardonable, and the payment for such an atrocity is the relinquishment of your own life and freedoms. Should you decide not to comply, you will be summarily executed. And when you happen to have planned, encouraged, and brought about the entirely unprovoked murders of thousands of people, your death will be met with much revelry and relief. That much is certain.

So I WILL celebrate...because his death means he can no longer orchestrate the senseless deaths of others. I WILL celebrate...the defeat of evil in this world. I WILL celebrate...because I am proud that American forces were the ones who removed this vile cancer from among the living. And I will celebrate without fear of retaliation, because I refuse to give any terrorists the satisfaction of my fear.

Observations

2011-04-08T06:11:00.000-07:00

Today I saw an old man, no younger than 70, mowing his yard in shorty-shorts and a button-down shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders.

Thoughts:
1. Oh. My. Gosh. This person needs "What not to Wear" like a fish needs water.
2. I hope he's not dressed that way in some misguided attempt to get a tan or impress the ladies, because frankly, 70 year olds don't need tans and if he couldn't attract the ladies before, it's not gonna happen now.
3. I would've thought only a gay man would wear shorty-shorts. But this man obviously isn't gay, because no gay man (even a drag queen) with even a shred of self-respect would wear such a repulsive outfit.
4. Now I need my eyes sanitized.

Observations

2011-04-04T06:00:00.001-07:00

This is the first of a series on this blog that I'm going to call "Observations." These are things I notice at random that I feel like sharing my thoughts on, for whatever reason. They'll pop up every now and then.

Today's installment regards turkey vultures. If you've never seen a turkey vulture, let me preface this by saying that these are the most repulsive birds on the planet. They look exactly like the bastard child of a turkey and a vulture, hence the name, and out here in Kentucky, not a day goes by that you don't see at least two or three of them circling up in the air.

I took my younger two to the playground today while we waited for my oldest's baseball practice to end. I happened to look up at a turkey vulture circling the playground area and the first thought that immediately popped into my head was "If I had a gun with me, I'd drop that sucker." Pure reflex.

Thoughts: I have never actually wished death on any animal. There are some animals I don't like very much, but I've never had thoughts of killing them. I'm too soft-hearted for that. Or at least, I was. The realization that such a heartless and emotion-free thought was my initial gut reaction to that bird was a smidge startling. But I didn't (and still don't) feel guilty, because the very reason I had that thought was because I felt my kids were threatened. Now, I know that turkey vultures don't attack live anythings, let alone people, but these are huge birds, and when they circle low (and it was VERY low) over my babies, my reflexive reaction is immediate and absolute annihilation. I turn into a rabid militant with a vicious attitude problem if I sense any harm about to befall my children.

Lesson: Anyone or anything that even so much as has passing thoughts about threatening me or my kids in any way, shape, or form had better be prepared for certain, immediate death. I don't give a rat's butt who you are and I'll leave your smelly carcass to rot where it falls. I take no prisoners when it comes to my family.

Food I Miss

2011-03-31T13:55:00.000-07:00

Because food and thereby, restaurants, tend to be regional, I knew when we came out here that I would be sacrificing some of my beloved culinary addictions. Since I'm hungry and in a sentimental mood today, I'm going to share a list of some of the centers of my food universe that I no longer get to frequent. I do try, however, to eat at every single one of them when I'm home to make up for it.

Ted's Cafe Escondido: The best chips and tortillas I have ever had. The rest of their food is pretty good too. They also have a great lunch menu with very reasonable prices. This is an absolute can't-miss when I'm home.

El Chico: Not the best or most authentic mexican food on the planet, but the main draw here is that they also serve Kraft mac and cheese and corndogs, so the kids will actually eat without whining that there's nothing they like. Prices are also quite reasonable, and their queso is fairly good.

Chipotle: I like that you can see it as they make it, it tastes great, it's pretty fresh, and again, affordable. I like to get the soft-shell tacos. The closest one is an hour away, which beats 10 hours, but is still too far to go frequently.

Tarahumara's: a family-run joint with the absolute fastest service anywhere. On Earth. One time I had my food within five minutes (and it was perfectly cooked, too.) I don't think I've ever not cleaned my entire plate when I've been here. It's so good I literally can't stop eating til it's empty.

Poblano Grill: this chain opened up about six months before we moved, and I immediately became a fan. Apparently lots of other people feel the same, based on the ratings.

Taco Bueno: (sensing a theme yet?) Again, not the best or most authentic, but for fast food mexican, it's fresher and better than most. Excellent for when you're broke but still want good food. I've yet to meet anyone who doesn't like Bueno.

Pei Wei: the cheaper, faster version of PF Chang's. Marvelous Asian food and a great variety at reasonable prices (unlike Chang's itself.) Another can't-miss.

Johnny Carino's: My favorite Italian place ev-ah. Their bread is awesome, their food is awesome, their service is awesome, their atmosphere is awesome. Soldier Boy and I ate our first meal together here. Again, there is one about an hour away, but that's a lot of fuel just to go out to eat.

Braum's: this is THE place for ice cream at home. My favorite is cherry limeade sherbet. They're probably also just as well known for their burgers, which are big and delicious.

To be fair, there are a couple of new places out here that I have become attached to; I will probably miss them when we leave, but not enough to want to stay out here. They are:

Hungry Howie's Pizza: the pizza itself is fairly good for an inexpensive carry-out/delivery-only place, but the flavored crust is the big deal here. There's something like six different flavors to choose from and all the ones I've tried have been great. The kids love it too.

Longhorn Steakhouse: on the pricey side, but no more than Carino's or Ted's. It has a real "Texas" vibe to it, but then again, if it didn't, I couldn't consider it a real steakhouse. Good steaks, good bread, good sides. They have coupons, too, which is unusual for a steakhouse, but endears me to them even more.

And we all know how important coupons have become to me recently.

Couponing the paycheck away

2011-03-31T07:39:00.000-07:00

I've always been a casual coupon user. If I notice a good one, for something I've been wanting to try, I'll try to remember to bring it with me to the store. Fuel prices of late, however, have catapulted the need for $ cutbacks anywhere I can make them. To that end, I have turned the furnace down 3 degrees and tried to consolidate all my errands to one or two days a week. Which means I have to stay home the other five. Which is driving me insane.

So yesterday I decided it was time to jump back into the coupon pool and see what I came up with. I regularly subscribe to Groupon and Living Social, but the problem with those is that you have to pay up front before you can use the coupon or discount. And they're usually for things like restaurants, carpet cleaning, entertainment, or spas/salons. When you're scraping nickels out of the car seats to put fuel in your truck, like me, you tend not to have extraneous cash to fritter away on such luxuries like a flippin' haircut, although I've needed one for over 9 months now, and we haven't seen a movie in a theater in over a year, and we can't afford to eat at most of those art-house restaurants anyway and even if we could, they're not usually ones that welcome kids and since we can't afford a babysitter we stick to places like McAlisters that offer two free kids meals with an adult entree purchase Monday-Thursday.

Although I will admit that both of those services offer some damn good deals if you can afford to shell out up front.

One of my husband's friends routinely posts on facebook (hereafter known as FB on this blog) about her coupon savings. She's bought every grocery item you can imagine for nearly free, at least once. She uses a website back at home that consolidates coupons from every possible source and lists them out neatly so that you can pick and choose what you want and then print them out. However, since I'm half a continent away from home, I can't use most of them, so I have to hunt for my own. I dream of the day I can go to Target or Wal-Mart and walk out with six bags of groceries, having paid something like $20 for all of it.

I'm not there yet. Mostly because the majority of the coupons I encounter are not for things I use. I realize that this is because the whole purpose of coupons, from the manufacturer's perspective, is to entice the customer to try their product, and they don't need to entice people to buy things they are already buying anyway, but frankly, I don't care about the manufacturers. I care about me and my family and feeding all of us on a thrice-daily basis.

So far, all the coupons I've cut out and printed off amount to about a $7 savings on my grocery bill this paycheck. Not enough, sonny boy. Where are the coupons for milk, eggs, rice, taco shells, sliced bread, shredded cheese, butter, or trash bags? Come on, give me something I can really use. I don't give a rat's butt about .75 off a box of Claritin, which I don't use anyway because it doesn't work. I want to save a dollar or two off milk, which is almost $4 a gallon. It's almost cheaper to have your own cow.

While I'm on the subject, why is it that healthier foods are always so much more expensive anyway? If Michelle Obama wants us to eat healthier, why doesn't she introduce some REAL eating-habit-changing legislation, like requiring healthy foods to be priced half as much as the crap that's bad for you? I'll be honest, a lot of people buy soda (or "pop", as we call it where I'm from) because a two-liter costs $1.09 versus a gallon of juice that costs $4.50. That family-size box of Froot Loops costs less that the paperback-novel size box of Kashi granola. If it means the difference between eating and not eating, I'm gonna go for the Froot Loops. Is the point of Whole Foods and other stores like it simply to drive home the insinuation that only the wealthy should be allowed to eat healthy? Is this just really (literally) Survival of The Fittest based on economic scale?

I've already switched to store brands for a lot of things like paper towels, kleenex, toilet paper, baggies, trash bags, and a host of other non-food items. I tend to be more of a snob about food, though; I've tried the store brand spaghettios and they suck. Milk is milk no matter what label is on it, though, so it's one of the few things I'll go generic on, food-wise.

I've "liked" a page on FB that is all about couponing, in a effort to pick up some more deals here and there. And although it costs $2, I'm gonna go buy a Sunday paper this weekend since the P&G coupon section is supposed to be in it. I hope it's not a waste of $2, because I can feed myself lunch at McD's with that much. Or buy half a gallon of gas.

Things I'm Thankful For, Part One

2011-03-30T06:33:00.000-07:00

You know those fun-filled all-night sleepovers with your kids where they're up projectile vomiting every thirty minutes and you have to change the kid's bedding and clothes so many times that you run out of clean bedding and clothes and the unbalanced washer is bouncing all over the laundry room (which happens to be across the hall from your bedroom) all night trying to keep up with the growing mountain of crap you keep throwing at it? We had one in our bedroom last night.

This was a few days after taking Soldier Boy to the ER one evening for the same thing. Apparently all the boys in this house have been trading this virus back and forth for about a week now. I'm hoping it's one of those "y-chromosome" viruses that doesn't affect the mother, because I can't afford to be sick while they are. Frankly, I can't afford to be sick ever.

Despite the roughly hour and a half or so of sleep that Soldier Boy and I got, I have to say that I am thankful for a few things, at least.

1. Soldier Boy was actually HOME to help with the mess. I did not have to hold the baby, clean the baby, change the baby's sheets, and urge him to drink some water all by myself. After three years of doing it myself, having the help made it almost easy. Almost.

2. Said baby (who is nearly four, by the way) does not sleep in our bed anymore. This is a fairly recent development, having occurred only about six months ago when we moved. (Don't judge me, he's the baby and everyone knows that by the time you've been schooled by several kids in nighttime battles, you just give in and let them sleep wherever they want so everyone can get some rest.) Thus, now when he gets sick, it's in his own bed and does not destroy ours. Toddler bed sheets are a lot easier to rip off and throw in the washing machine than queen-size ones. Moreover, we don't have to smell his vomit-scented breath in our faces or take a shower because he's thrown up all over US.

3. I am still a stay at home mom at this moment. This will be changing soon, but nights like last night make me grateful that I don't have to fake sick calling into work. Or worse, be threatened with involuntary termination if I don't go in, and cry and scream and sob in a desperate manner to find a non-psychotic person to come stay with the contagious baby so I can go to work and sulk and pout and feel guilty all day, all in the name of staying Employed.

4. The baby, although he is in his own bed, still sleeps in our room. We have been devising ways to evict him from our bedroom and out to his own room for awhile, but I just haven't had the balls to do it yet, because he sleeps pretty much peacefully in our room and I don't want to have to get up seventeen times every night to walk to the other end of the house to cover him back up, reassure him that it's not the end of the world, or help him to the bathroom. When he's sick, it is particularly convenient that he is in our room, because he's less than five feet from me and I can get to him quickly before he drags the vomit-covered blankie and jammies across the carpet and down the hall, crying and spewing. If he were in his own room, not only would I have to clean up THAT mess, but I would also have to bring him in bed with us so I could keep a close eye on him while he's sick, and then you're right back to the whole sick-baby-destroying-your-bed-and-breathing-vomit-breath-on-you scenario again. With him in OUR room, but in his OWN bed, it's the best of both worlds when he's sick.

5. It's a gray rainy day outside, so I don't feel like I should be out running errands or getting some exercise or being outside in general. Everyone knows that it's better to be sick (or nurse a sick person) when the weather is also sickly. That way, you don't feel like you're missing out on much.

6. I have a washing machine. I can't tell you how important this is when you have a sick kid. The washing machine is my favorite appliance pretty much all the time. I'm fond of the fridge, the oven, and the microwave as well, but dragging loads of smelly, messy clothes to a laundromat and 'washing' them in some equally dirty-looking machine that Bubba's wife probably used to wash the chicken shit out of his coveralls and skid marks out of his Hanes makes me want to simultaneously throttle someone and bathe myself in bleach. Thus, I (heart) my washing machine. Which I now have to go put another load of vomit blankets into.

Working Out?

2010-08-20T18:05:00.000-07:00

*Please use your imagination and work with me on the 'picturing' part of this post as I have not yet figured out why my computer has no drawing program.*

I am on a quest. I desire toned, shapely legs and a firmer back end. I've given up on my stomach due to the gestating-induced diastasis of my last pregnancy, and my arms and upper back are already fairly well toned from picking up at least one toddler nearly every day for the last eight and a half years. So I'm left with this.

(picture a well-toned top half and flabby bottom half here)

This does not agree with the mental version of my body.

(picture Jessica Rabbit here)

In an effort to make reality conform to fantasy, I have begun a workout devised from the pages of a magazine focusing on "GLUTES!", several exercises I found online, and one that my husband suggested, which I have morphed into some sort of lower-body fitness routine, since I can afford neither gym nor personal trainer.

First, I have begun "power-walking" every other day. The reason I walk is that I cannot run. Well, I can sprint like a rabid kangaroo on meth if one of my kids is in danger but beyond that, I'm basically worthless when it comes to running. The bouncing motion wreaks havoc on that lovely aforementioned diastasis and frankly, it hurts my boobs even when they're tightly encased in a sports bra and puts me at risk for a severe butt injury, as it flaps along behind me, out of control. (More on butt injuries later.) So I walk as fast as I can without passing out, all the while clenching my butt cheeks, since that is also recommended to "engage" those muscle groups. Since I live in what has become quite possibly the hottest spot on Earth this year, the outdoor temp reaches 90+ at roughly 6 am each day; thus, I try to get this ordeal out of the way as early as possible.

On the days that I don't walk, I do this mish-mash of a routine that I've slapped together. First, a few stretches - down, up, over, under, across, and whatever other directions I can contort myself into. One of the stretches involves sitting with one ankle crossed over the other knee and leaning forward until you "feel the burn" in the backs of your legs and your lower butt. This is to help prevent butt injury. Let's stop right there.

Butt injury? Really? It is possible to injure your butt? Doing what, exactly? I admit I'm not the foremost authority on anatomical injuries (that would be my sister, the med student, or as my mother would call her, the GOOD child) but I am hard-pressed to come up with a way that the butt could sustain injury unless someone hit you there with something hard and sharp. I suppose if you clench your butt tight enough for long enough and try to long-jump in that position, you could possibly pull a muscle, so for safety's sake, just in case I should ever feel insane enough to attempt such a stunt, I keep doing this stretch and it's variations (lying on the floor and standing on one leg.)

Then I grab my girlie weights and do squats with them, which is supposed to tone my shoulders and butt and legs, all at once. This is billed as "the only butt exercise you'll ever need!" In two weeks, this exercise alone promises to provide me with broader shoulders and shapelier derriere, thus leading to something resembling an hourglass figure, or in my mind, Jessica Rabbit.

(picture me as Jessica Rabbit here)

Then I do one-legged bridges, something called seesaw moves, a sideways bicycle move, and a move obviously stolen from yoga and simply re-named for the purpose, a bird-dog. These promise to tone my butt, thighs, the backs of my legs, and strengthen my lower back muscles.

Then I do something suggested by my husband, "kick-backs," which seems to be something he must have learned at boot camp for JAGs, designed to make you want to sue someone.

I finish with that seventh-level-of-hell move called the Lunge. I call it the seventh level of hell because it is the seventh thing I do and by that point my legs are exhaused and sore and ready to collapse. If I did the squats last, they would be the seventh level of hell. It doesn't really matter, so I just do one first and the other last. I use my girlie weights for both, mostly so my arms don't flail all over the place.

I'm a week and half into this "routine." I haven't noticed any change yet, other than the constant burn in my thighs every time I move them. Nearly all these exercises require 15 reps per set, and 2-3 sets per workout; I've finally worked up to the 15 reps, but one set of each is all I've been able to manage. By the time I get to the seventh level of hell move, the muscles in my thighs and the backs of my legs are collapsing with each rep. I keep inspecting my backside for progress but so far have achieved no results. After another week, however, I should have killer sexy thighs rivaling those of fitness models; judging by the constant throbbing in them, something must be getting a workout.

My husband is coming home in two weeks for a few days and says he'll be the judge of my progress. I laugh in the face of progress. If he dares tell me I've made none, my killer sexy thighs will take. him. out.

KA-POW!

2010-08-16T10:07:00.000-07:00

Have you ever tried to rent out your house? I mean the actual house you are actually living in at the time, because you can't move out to ANOTHER house until you find a renter for your current one?

No?

It's a thrill and a half.

First, you go out and purchase FOR RENT signs to stick in your yard among all the dead grass from the incestuous, unrelenting Mojave Desert heat wave that has attacked this part of the state for OVER A MONTH. Then you staple-gun another one to your back fence since you live next to a "major" road. Then you thank God that your husband bought said staple gun last year to put up Christmas lights because were it not for that, you would be forced to resort to trying (and failing) to nail the damn thing up.

Then you go inside and take approximately 4,563 pictures from every concievable angle of the inside your house, and two from the outside. Then you narrow them down to 5 and post them, along with an alarmingly exciting and upbeat description of your house, to include every possible positive detail that anyone could ever hope to know about any kind of house-like structure, on a rental property website. Then you sit back and wait for the offers to come pouring in like oil into the gulf.

The first few days go well. No less than two people have heard about/seen your house and want to see it. So you move on to the next step, which is to immediately panic upon the realization that you have no application for them to fill out if indeed they are interested, because you have never been a landlord before and have no idea where to find such a form. You Google "rental forms" and hit upon 546 sites related to the subject, 544 of which require that you pay a registration fee to access their precious forms, which must have been drawn up by Donald Trump himself for the amount of the registration fee required to utilize them. You finally hit upon a site which boasts "FREE!" membership for 30 days, figure you won't need it for longer than 30 days, register, and print off a rental application.

Then you look around your house and realize that it is completely trashed and smells like the inside of a cat litterbox mixed with putrified used gym towels and sour milk, and your potential renters are coming in two hours.

At this point, if you're like me, you run around in circles screaming your fool head off at everyone and everything possible to hurry and help get this place cleaned up or we're all gonna die! Chaos ensues.

Then you realize that you do not want your children present for such an inquisition (which is what it feels like) but that you have failed to make necessary arrangements for childcare, so you run over to your neighbor's house and beg and plead her to keep them for you for a few minutes, looking all the while like a rabid squirrel on crack because in the midst of all this mayhem, you have forgotten to take a shower. She mercifully agrees, so you then dash home and use half a container of deodorant and brush your teeth and twist your hair back into a sloppy bun (because there's no time to brush it) and fumigate the house with the air freshener you bought over a year ago.

Then you sit and wait.

And wait.

After fifteen minutes go by, you finally call the people, who halfheartedly apologize and say they got lost. They'll be here in ten minutes. Ok, fine.

They show up, they walk around, they love it, they want it, they'll take it. Problem is, they want it, like, TODAY. No can do, my good people, I need a week to move and another to get the new carpet in, since I'm not foolish enough to install it while my children and cats and dogs are actually still LIVING on it.

They take the app and leave and you never hear from them again.

Repeat entire process three times.

Never hear back from anyone.

Get discouraged. Get tired of frantically deep-cleaning house every time someone wants to see it, which is apporximately every other day. Wear out neighbors' good will for watching your wild children free of charge for 30+ minutes at a time.

Finally someone calls back and wants to know how quickly they can move in. They sound serious, so you drive around to Home Depot and Lowe's with all your monkeys howling and careening off in various directions, to find out exactly how quickly they can get new carpet installed. Call husband, who now must put together a lease. Call potential renters back, who decide they need to think about it.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Make appointments to show the house to more people, who never show up and don't bother to call to tell you this. So you call them back and leave barely-civil messages for them telling them how much you appreciate them and their cowardly actions, after you've busted your butt cleaning and cleaning and cleaning and farming your children out time after time, all for nothing.

Get bitter.

Decide you are never buying another house again for as long as you live because this is utter bullshit.

Sacrifice

2010-06-02T18:38:00.000-07:00

These are words from Col. Steven A. Arrington:

"I will never say military spouses are better or worse than other spouses. But I will say there is a difference. And I will say that our country asks more of military spouses than is asked of other spouses. And I will say, without hesitation, that military spouses pay just as high a price for freedom as do their active-duty husbands or wives. Perhaps the price they pay is even higher. They do what they have to do, bound together not only by blood or friendship, but with a shared spirit whose origin is in the very essence of what love truly is. Dying in service to our country is not nearly as hard as loving someone who has died in service to our country, and having to live without them.
God bless our military spouses for all they freely give. And God bless America."

Sometimes I get overwhelmed with all I have to do, since I do everything by myself when my husband's gone. I wonder how other wives can handle everything with such grace when I feel like my head is going to explode if one more kid yells. And then I remember: they are not doing it alone. They have husbands who help, give them a break at the end of the day, or take the kids so the mom can have some time to herself or a night with friends once a week or month. They live near family who will take said kids overnight so Mommy and Daddy can have some grown-up time. They don't move every couple of years. Their kids stay in the same school system more than a few years at a time. They don't keep stacks of plastic tubs and cardboard boxes in their garages in preparation for perpetual relocation. They get to share graduations, birthdays, 4th of July fireworks, and goodnight kisses with their husbands all the time.

But they also don't get to see their husbands in uniform. Military uniform, which any woman knows is an immediate turn-on. Their kids don't have their dads' medals in their top dresser drawers. They don't know the joy of that 2 am phone call from a war zone overseas. Their wedding pictures show a man in a suit or tux, not full military dress. They don't get to cut their wedding cake with a saber. They don't share the instant bond with other military wives upon meeting them for the first time. And they don't know the supreme joy, the heart-racing excitement, and the relief that bubbles up into tears at seeing their husband come towards them, home from an overseas deployment.

Women who have friends that are military wives exclaim about tax-free shopping at the commissary and PX, free health care, and housing allowances. They don't understand that these are not "freebies"; they are "compensation," as Amy J. Fetzer's mother said. Compensation for your husband being shot at, compensation for all the missed holidays, birthdays, and events, compensation for the sacrifice of a "normal" life so that your husband may serve and protect this country while you do everything else.

I embrace, at least metaphorically, every military wife I meet. Because I know she has gone through it too, and maybe more than me. Rank or branch matters not; we all share the same sacrifice, the same frustrations, the same joys, the same heartaches. We've all held our husbands' dog tags in our palms, with the chain wrapped around our fingers, with tears in our eyes. This is our exclusive sisterhood, our sorority. Our dues are the sacrifice of precious time with our husbands; our community service is the help and support we give to each other; our parties are coming-home receptions and potluck suppers; our formal events are military balls and dinings-in. Our degrees, from the school of military life, are in concentrations such as single-parenting, home and car repair, peer counseling, time and resource management, red-tape navigation, and career adaptation. Patience and flexibility are not virtues here; they are required attributes. It is not an easy life; those who must be coddled and spoiled need not apply, and those who are don't last long. We wear only the rank of military spouse, each of us of equal importance and due equal respect.

Before I was married to my soldier, before I'd even met him or had any inkling that I would be a military wife myself, I attended an interment at Arlington National Cemetary. The deceased soldier was a family member whom I didn't really know that well, but the awe of the venue and ceremony did not escape me. I saw not only the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but also watched the changing of the guard. It is among the most somber moments I have ever born witness to. We've all see the pictures of the rows upon rows of tombstones, uniform in shape, size and color (we are all of the same importance in death), but to actually stand there and follow them with your eyes out to the horizon inspires a reverance like no other. I have been present at funerals of military servicemembers where taps are blown and the flag is ceremoniously presented to the widow or next of kin, but, at Arlington, to watch the horse-drawn caisson followed by the riderless horse with empty, backward-facing boots defies description. It is slow and measured, carried out with utmost dignity and respect, and agonizingly heartrending to watch. The riderless horse is the powerful image of the soldier who will never again return home; I cried, and still cry, for their widows, their children, their parents, their comrades, their friends. Life cut short but honorably served is the inescapable theme there, and you cannot help but draw your breath.

I am glad I was able to witness it all both while I was an adult and able to remember it, and before I met my soldier. I could not watch that procession now without breaking down into unabating sobs. I can't even watch war movies anymore without my husband's arms around me. He's inspired by them; I am terrified. Military wives cannot even watch news of war or attacks without inevitably turning silent. They are thinking one of two things: thank God that's not my husband or is my husband in that hell? (Of course, they might also be thinking is the husband of someone I know in that hell?)

My husband is stateside now, and those fears, for the moment, have abated. But there are those ladies for whom they are just beginning, or beginning again, and to them I send out my encouragement and support. We are all in this together.

Been awhile....

2010-04-21T18:02:00.001-07:00

Wow. It's been over a month since I've written something on here last.

Let's see....what's happened? Well, my beloved Charlie died. He had FIV and feline leukemia, and was healthy as a horse (well, a healthy horse, that is) for the almost four years that I had him. Until a week before he died, that is. And then it went very quickly. My other cats, selfish and jealous creatures that they are, battled like...well, like cats, for the extra amount of attention that had previously been Charlie's. And being the sucker that I am, I over-indulged them to the point that they've started ignoring me again. Ingrates.

My husband moved out to Kentucky for his job, so I'm alone again. And not happy about it. What's it like to get to live with your husband? To eat dinner together every night? To sleep in the same bed all the time? Baseball season is especially cruel for me; I watch all these dads at practices and games coaching the boys, or just yelling at them from the sidelines, and I think, I wish my husband were here to do that. Eventually, and by that I mean sometime before he retires, we may get to live together.

Some people's goals include mountain climbing, losing weight, or traveling the globe. Mine is to live with my husband. I have simple dreams.

My middle son started t-ball. It's quite entertaining; I'd forgotten how cute the little ones can be. My oldest has been playing for several years now and the kids his age are getting competitive. For the little ones, though, it's all about how dramatic one can be while running, sliding, and catching the ball, (and if you can manage to fall down and lie on your back for a few minutes with your feet in the air and a play-dead expression on your face, it amps up the "fun" factor by about 90%), and the drinks and snacks afterwards are really the only reason they all show up anyway.

I have thrown away four kitchen garbage bags full of nothing but trash from my older sons' room. And when I say trash, I'm not talking about broken toys, games with lost pieces, or Easter basket grass. No, I mean literal trash: empty chip bags, candy and gum wrappers, cracker sleeves, tiny shreds of paper, ripped school papers, all manner of crumbs and petrified food, and so on. The food and food-packaging is what really blows my mind, since they are both fully aware of the threat of certain death that comes from taking food to their room. We actually had a lock on the pantry at one point; they broke it. Now, my boys are not obese or even teenagers; they are elementary-school-age boys who seriously eat twice as much as me when they're not even hungry. I am going broke just feeding and clothing them now; I cannot even imagine how dire the situation will be in five more years. I can, however, see the day in the not-too-distant future when our family will have to order the party-package-special when we have pizza for dinner; one for each boy (minimum), and one for my husband and I. I'm not sure I can afford the tip for that much food, let alone the food itself.

But I digress.

I have donated approximately 18,976 things to various charities while cleaning out and packing my house for the impending move, which, the way it's looking, could take another two months, along with the rest of my sanity and the only nerve I have left. The good news is that I have significantly reduced the amount of crap we are moving with us; this is important indeed, since we must stay under a weight requirement for the military to pay for this move. I have also given away/sold almost all of the large baby gear (car seat, stroller, swing), but I am steadfastly holding onto the crib and pack & play, since getting rid of everything is the most surefire way to find yourself unexpectedly pregnant. Believe me when I say that we are done procreating, but despite the finality of that statement, I am absolutely not going to tempt fate on this one. My rational excuses for holding onto the afore-mentioned items is that a. the crib converts into a headboard and footboard for a full-size bed, b. I might have a friend/relative over someday who needs a place to lay her sleeping baby down while visiting, and c. both store almost flat. Laugh if you must, but I am not getting rid of these two items. EVER.

I went to my mother's house for Easter, which both she and the boys loved. Eggs were dyed, hidden, and broken, and her weenie dog assisted the boys in all three endeavors. Much fun and mayhem was had.

I guess that's about it. I'll try to keep up with this on a more regular basis for the two of you that read it on a semi-regular basis.

Toodles for now,
Soonerchick

Team USA

2010-02-21T21:24:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again. Well, that time of year, every four years, again.

Yes, folks, it's the time when I get all fired up and decide to become an Olympic athlete.

I get so inspired by these people, I want to be them. Well, not literally; I want to be myself, but do what they are doing. They make it look so easy that I'm nearly certain that with a few months of practice, I can become almost as good as they are, and earn myself a spot on Team USA at the next go-round.

The fact that I cannot run 100 yards without falling over in utter muscular fatigue means nothing. Absolutely nothing. Completely beside the point. If I want to be a speed skater or a ski cross skier, or a bobsledder, what's to stop me?

(I'll tell you though, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to be on the skeleton team. Because the likelihood that you will end up one is just too great.)

I do like watching the figure skaters, but it's not something I have really ever aspired to be. I'm tall, and they're not. It's pretty much that simple. So I just admire them and applaud.

Curling seems to be something I could handle; you don't have to be young, or short, or particularly limber, and while I seem to fit the demographic for women curlers, I'm not sure I could get too excited about participating. Even just watching it isn't very enthralling; I do understand the point of the sport and how it is played (thanks to a quick Google search), but I just plain don't really care. I need adrenaline, people!

Hence skiing, speed skating, and bobsledding. I am not a fan of slow. I cannot slow down, take it easy, be mild, or chill out. More, more, faster, faster! I have an inner speed demon that is simply begging -nay, howling- to be released. Impatience is my middle name. I don't like to wait on anything or anyone. I nearly have siezures when I'm near the middle or back of an airplane and have to wait on all the incompetent idiots in front of me to disembark before I can haul ass outta there. Not because I don't like planes, but because I don't like to wait. I don't care how long you take as long as you let me go by first. I get some kind of psychotic natural high from being first, the fastest, leaving everyone else in the dust. I'm sure there's a complex psychological explanation for this (maybe being the oldest child has something to do with it) but really, I just like to be fast.

But it's not just about being fast. Oh no, I have to be good, too. Artistically sound. Graceful, smooth, confident. I don't want to slide across the finish line on my side, legs flying and arms clutching at thin air. I want to swoosh in with arms held high, fists pumping in the air, the smile of victory gracing my visage.

Fast, however, is the key term here. Everything else is just details. Important details, to be sure, but details all the same.

As soon as I can decide on my sport, I'll start training. I've got four years, you know. Since, in my perfect physical condition (don't everyone hurt yourselves laughing), it should only take a few months, I've got some time. Might as well treat myself to a s'more while I assume the resting position in front of my tv to assess my future competition.

Gotta prep, you know.

"I don't know how you do it"

2010-02-15T19:21:00.003-08:00

A lot of people have expressed pity for me over the past several years. Not because I'm drop-dead gorgeous and can't go to the grocery store without being ogled by men, adored by women, and mobbed by paparazzi, but because I'm an Army wife. By virtue of that, my husband is often gone. Sometimes it's for one day, sometimes it's for six weeks, sometimes thirteen months. But the point is, the task of getting myself and three little boys through each day falls to me, and me alone, more often than not. On any given day, we have school, sports, homework, three meals, snacks, some inevitable cartoon watching, laundry, dishes, various injuries, cat vomit, large smelly dogs, clogged toilets, dead batteries, bills to pay, missed deadlines, barely-made-it-by-the-skin-of-our-teeth deadlines, messes, hissy fits, and other such atrocities that take away from our joy. And I manage it all.

I know women who cannot plunge a toilet. Cannot comprehend the thought of taking a preschooler and a toddler to an entire season of the older brother's baseball games without their husband or other trusted child-watcher there to help. Cannot physically handle the sight of blood when their child's fingers get smashed at school and fingernails are ripped off. Cannot clean up vomit or poop. Have little or no idea how to pay bills or do their taxes. Have never stayed anywhere, even in their own homes, without another adult there just to make them feel safe. Assume the position of helplessness when their fence falls down or their basement floods or their car won't start or a spider crawls across the floor. Can't fathom moving more than 20 miles from their parents or their hometown.

These women say to me: "I don't know how you do it. I couldn't do it." (what they're really thinking is that I must be crazy.) And I never know how to respond to this. It's clear that they're trying to compliment me, no matter how left-handedly. But I always feel both insulted and disgusted instead. Insulted because they seem to be implying that, thank God, they have a husband who takes care of all their dirty work and bills and emergencies for them so they don't have to miss a lunch date or break a nail; disgusted because it seems to be that any wife, mother, or otherwise competent adult should be able to handle most of these situations anyway, without constantly relying on their husband or parents to do any heavy lifting that may be required. I have no patience for women who can't take care of themselves or their kids without daily assistance. These women whine and cry when their husbands leave for two or three days for a business trip, loudly wailing about how they can't handle all the stress of being left alone, "it's so lonely," "I just can't go 24 hours a day without a break for me," "he better make this up to me," and so on and so forth. These women make me wish there was a "How to handle common situations and take care of yourself in life" test that must be passed before you can be declared competent to have children or any other life form that must rely on you for assistance and care.

Yes, it is lonely. Heartbreakingly lonely. Crying-with-the-kids-when-you-see-them-crying lonely. Desperately lonely. Lonely enough to make you wonder just how much postage it would require for you to mail yourself to wherever he is at that moment. I know lonely, my dears. I start getting teary-eyed when my husband starts packing, and heaven help us all if the baby starts crying, because I'm crying right along with him. I call my friends and cry about how empty my bed is, how bare the bathroom counter looks, how quiet the house is without him. The first night (or day) is always the hardest. But after that, unless he's been gone several weeks or more at a time, (or 13 months), and you're lucky to hear from him once every couple of days, don't tell me about how lonely you are. Go clean something. It does wonders in the way of distraction. If your housekeeper has already shined the place (we should all be so blessed), go sort out your kids' Legos by color, shape, and size - or come to my house. I've got more than enough housework to keep you busy; you'll forget all about your loneliness while scrubbing my kitchen floor.

And a break for you? All right, granted, when you signed up for this mom gig, you probably didn't envision having sole responsibility for the little bundle(s) of joy all day, every day (and all night as well). And I admit that I take my breaks. I try to have at least several hours in a row at least one day out of the week when it's all about me; I can read a book, take a nap, take myself to lunch, watch tv not aimed for a target audience of ages 5 and under. And I do arrange for a babysitter now and then, usually when I'm going someplace where it's considered inappropriate for three little hooligans to run around creating mayhem and wreaking havoc, like at the ob/gyn's office, or a parent-teacher conference, or if my son's baseball game runs past the little ones' bedtimes, since I can't physically carry a sleeping toddler and preschooler at the same time, along with lawn chairs, all the way from the field to the car. Sometimes the wait in the dr's office is the only "me time" you may get that day, and my only advice is to bring along a book or magazine or your iphone and enjoy the relatively quiet time to yourself. I once brought my ipod to a late baseball game, plugged myself in, and paused it only when my son was at bat. I got a few condescending looks, to be sure, but that was the only "me time" I was going to get that week, and I was going to enjoy it. I wasn't there to watch the other parents' kids, anyway, so as long as I paid attention whenever my own son took center stage, I just couldn't work up any guilt. Yes, you may not get your weekly massage, you may miss your favorite soap operas (or grown-up tv altogether), and your friends may have to do without the blessing of your presence at your favorite lunch joint or book club, but surely your mama must have told you that life isn't a bed of roses all the time. If not, well, I'm here to tell you now.

He better make it up to you? Hand me my smelling salts, please, or I may break something.

Look, if he's out party-hearty-ing, or cheating on you, or abandoning you altogether for no justifiable reason, then yes, I would agree. But if he's genuinely working, fighting a war, rustling cattle or climbing all over an offshore rig, or the like, and would rather be home with you and the kids, then your demands just don't hold water with me, my dears. Some husbands won't make it up to you because they're scum; they don't notice all the hard work you're doing or the sacrifices you're making, and they wouldn't care even if they did. In that case, you may want to reconsider just why you're with this guy, anyway. But a decent husband will recognize that hard work and those sacrifices, (even if you have to point them out to him), and will do what he can make it up to you on his own, anyway, without your threats. I am on call 24/7 unless my husband is home or I'm visiting my mother; it's just my default state. I'm used to it. If I were to be resentful of it all the time, I would be miserable all the time. Are there times when I am resentful? Of course. When my husband went bowling or played volleyball or ogled, ahem, watched nearly-nude cheerleaders entertain him and his buddies during his off-duty hours while deployed, I will admit to a certain geyser or three of resentment. And there are definitely times when I feel overwhelmed beyond measure, taken for granted, and underappreciated. But when my husband presents me with spa days, diamond earrings, roses, date nights when he's home, and other things that show me he's listening to what I like and want, I positively radiate excitement. And when he spends time playing baseball with the boys, taking them fishing, teaching them strategy board games, waging Transformer battles, watching movies, playing blocks or trucks or Legos, or staying up with them until they fall asleep, I am reminded of what a great dad he is to them, which makes me love him all the more.

So here's what I say to those women who "don't know how I do it": I'm an Army wife. This is the life I chose, with my eyes open. I do it because that's what's required of me as a military wife. Sometimes it's blissful, sometimes it's heartbreaking, but isn't that life in general? So please, the next time you're astounded by how I manage it all, don't mutter "I don't know how you do it;" rather, thank me and my kids for the sacrifice of our time with our soldier while he's away, so that you can enjoy the freedoms and protection that you do. It's not just servicemembers who serve.

Back to Reality

2010-02-07T19:01:00.000-08:00

Soldier Boy, the baby, and I just got back from a whirlwind of a weekend trip out to the west coast for an Army Family Event. It involved airplanes (which I love), places I have never eaten before (which turned out to be great), and reimbursement of all travel expenses (which simply cannot be beat).

To begin at the beginning, I love to go places. If I stay put for too long I get antsy and start itching to go, somewhere, anywhere, just to inject a little flav-ah into things. This can be accomplished by something as simple as a one-day excursion, even; I just have to get out and go. I am not a sedentary person. I've traveled by plane, train, and automobile, but my favorite by far is air travel. There's just something about airports, even just the thought of them, that gets my senses tingling. I become a rabbit, sitting up on its haunches, paws up in front of its chest, nose up in the air, sniffing maniacally: "airport? airplanes? going places?"

It's comical at best. Even luggage excites me.

And getting to go places with Soldier Boy is even better (!)

We took the baby with us because he's still in pull-ups and is the most labor-intensive of all the boys, but he's a veteran air traveler, so the only problem we had was desperately trying to keep track of all the tools in his Handy Manny toolbox that he insisted on bringing. Then we had a little issue with the incompetent morons at United Airlines (yes, I will name names here, don't think I won't) who apparently couldn't figure out how to actually open enough gates to allow their passengers to disembark, so we sat in the plane, ON THE GROUND, for more than 45 minutes, while they played spin the bottle to decide which of their 47 planes sitting on the tarmac would actually get to taxi to what was apparently their only manned gate. (Hint: it wasn't ours). We ended up missing our connecting flight by over an hour, were told we would automatically be re-booked on the next flight to that location, then were told that not only had they not re-booked us, but that the next flight was full, and that next flight after THAT wouldn't leave until 10:30 pm. And this was at 1:30 in the afternoon. Absolute madness. We ended up switching airlines, which meant we had to go down to baggage claim to get our checked bags, take a bus back to the other side of the airport to the terminal, go back through security, and wait another two hours to get on our new flight. I have a headache just thinking about it.

The hotel we stayed at the first night was, ahem, not quite up to par with what I consider Doubletree Hotel standards, and happened to be located smack in the middle of what was apparently the industrial district; our complimentary toiletries included two sets of earplugs (I kid you not) to help block the deafening noise from the train tracks two blocks away. We decided to switch hotels for the next night, but when we checked out, discovered we had been smacked with an "early check-out fee" of $50. After some ranting and raving on my part, they eventually agreed to drop the unjustifiable charge and we all went on our merry way to a Marriott property (which we prefer anyway), and spent a very pleasant night. On hold.

We had learned that there was a possibility of inclement weather at home the next day or so, and in light of Soldier Boy's mandatory travel for work on Monday, and the massive delay we experienced on the way TO our West-Coast Weekend, decided to try to move our return flight up in order to get home sooner. To do this, we had to call the travel agency (whom we're required to use for this type of travel) and request the change. Problem was, the entire Mid-west and East coast were getting pummeled by a winter storm that was (go figure) affecting air travel, and the agency was swamped with calls from everyone and their aunt's cousin's grandma's uncle trying to find a way out of that particular mess. We sat on hold for over two hours before anyone even picked up the line. Fortunately, we did actually reach a semi-competent individual who was able to accomodate us, and made it home, on time, with luggage complete and intact.

But other than that...

No, really, it was fun, I promise. We ate at In-N-Out Burger and Round Table Pizza, neither of which I'd ever had before, and both of which I loved. We ate at Panda Express, which we have here in OK, but which I'd never eaten at before either, and of whose Orange Chicken I immediately became a fan. We got upgraded on our rental car and ended up with a Sebring that smelled brand-spankin' new, and if you think that didn't make me happy beyond words, you'd best quit thinkin' now. I love new-car smell. And no, the air-freshener-new-car-scent doesn't cut it; it has to be actual new-car smell straight from the factory, ma'am. And it was.

Soldier Boy's question to me on our way home: "Was it worth it?"

Yessir, soldier. Yessir. I love going places, and most of all, with you. It makes me happy.

Meet Charlie

2010-02-03T09:36:00.000-08:00

This is Charlie. And he is every bit as big as he looks. Although he doesn't look very big in this picture. But I can promise you that he weighs more than my chocolate lab, and his belly actually sways from side to side when he walks.

A few things about Charlie:

Charlie is - ahem- hefty.

Charlie loves my baby. Loves him. He will wait for my baby to lie down, and will then lie down right beside him. He will follow him around the house and rub around his legs. This becomes problematic at times, as Charlie and my baby are approximately the same weight and my baby's legs just aren't quite long enough to step around the cat. You can guess the outcome.

Charlie belonged to someone else long before us. They left, left him behind, then tried to come back six months later and claim him. I told them not on my life. You abandon your animal, I adopt it, it's mine. Get lost, neglectful losers.

Charlie also developed a habit of sleeping on our bed while Soldier Boy was deployed for 13 months. This was not a problem at the time, but Soldier Boy, despite being a cat person, does not like them on his bed. So when he came home, Charlie took note and stayed off. (The other two cats didn't get the memo and have to be disgracefully escorted out every night.) However, Charlie is quite astute; when Soldier Boy left yesterday, he again took note. And this morning I woke up to a very large orange cat nestled up beside my feet.

He's quite charming, that Charlie. Even if he does weigh 5,682 pounds. And snores.