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9月27日 I'M GOIN' TA HELL: Teaching My Kids the Fine Art of MockeryGod love the Walmart man.
You know, the old guy who is always there at the front, passing out buggies and plastering babies with smiley-face stickers? That poor lonely soul that seems to work every hour of the day, every day of the week...It is his life's mission to make friends with whosoever enter the hallowed automatic sliding glass doors.
God forbid you be in a hurry--the Walmart man will chase you down! "Ma'm! I need to give that young lady a sticker!"
Why? Will somebody think I'm trying to shoplift her?
"Yes, sireee bob. This little sweetheart needs a smiley face, don'tcha girly-girl? Would you like to hear me play my harmonica?"
Mia is afraid of the Walmart man. She doesn't want to talk to him and doesn't want him to talk to her. She won't look at him and will scream until I pick her up. She promptly buries her face in my shirt. This happens with or without the harmonica playing. But especially with.
I love that old man. I really do. As borderline-harrassing as he is, it doesn't feel right to walk into that store without a sticker or two. I encourage Mia to at least wave.
"Oh, well, there she goes! You like me, don'tcha? You are just AS SWEET AS YOU CAN BE!"
I strategically wait until he is busy going through someone's bag or annoying another baby to make a break for the door on our way out. This does not usually work but I will keep on trying. He shouts to us and catches up. "Bye sweetie!" And he grins an old man grin.
Mia, after making it safely to the car, will, mockingly, break into the same crazy grin and say, "I did NOT like that man's harmonica. How come he had a hole in his teeth?"
God love the Sam's Club man. You know, the old guy who checks your membership card before you go in and usually doesn't say two words to you other than "Thank you"? Mia is for some reason dying for this man to strike up a conversation with her. She waves.
"Well Hi!" He says in his incredibly country accent, which makes his "hi" sound much more like a "HAAAYAH."
Mia looks at him thoughtfully for a second and then responds with a sarcastic "HAAAYAH."
The man is unphased. Does he realize that a 3-year-old just made fun of him? No.
"What's your name little girl?"
"Peter Pan," Mia snorts.
"Well ain't that somethin'! Good-bye now!" The man smiles and moves on to the next person in line.
Mia shouts at him, "Well, BAAAAYAAH!"
Then she giggles to me as if to say, "Can you believe that guy?!"
I'm beginning to think the Walmart man may rethink trying to get her to open up to him.
9月25日 Don't Look at ME.This is nice: In a book I'm reading called Your Pregnancy Week by Week, by Dr. Glade B. Curtis, there is a lovely paragraph on Fetoscopy that says this:
"The test is done by placing a scope, like the one used in laparoscopy or arthroscopy, through the abdomen. The procedure is similar to amniocentesis, but the fetoscope is larger than the needle used for amniocentesis."
It goes on to describe the risks, advantages, disadvantages (but thankfully never the actual deed by detail). What is so hilarious (and enlightening in a certain way) about this particular section is that right smack dab in the middle of the paragraph is a highlighted box meant just for the husband:
"Dad Tip: Are you concerned about sex during pregnancy?..."
What the hell? Sex better not even cross Caleb's mind if I'm sitting there worrying to death about having a needle the size of a maglight shoved through my stomach.
On a non-pregnancy note but still very much family oriented, Cheyenne is going through yet another phase. This one has me slightly uneasy. Yesterday we went for one of our walks and through much prodding and prying she confided to me through tears that she's been eating lunch alone a lot this year, and that she doesn't have any really good friends anymore, except for one little girl who is not in her grade. I asked her what has changed since last year, and her only response is that all her old friends are different...and that for some reason by the time she gets through the lunch line, the girls she would normally sit with have already eaten and are scampering off to recess. My heart breaks for my child.
I was always a new kid everywhere I went so there were times I experienced the horror of sitting alone at lunch. But it was always during that awkward in-between new-kid stage and it never lasted long...I wasn't insanely popular but I always had my own group of close friends.
Yet here Cheyenne is, 6th grade, still in the same school with the same kids...the oddball out. She's brainy and quiet, and of course a little unsure of herself (who isn't at 11?) and can be very withdrawn at times. I've seen her in action with people she knows, and she can be very witty and funny...but she can also come off as a bit of a know-it-all. That's fine. Nobody's perfect.
She said that she never has time to play after school, which is true. At 4:00, when she finally gets home, she has a snack and chills out for a moment, does her homework, and attends to her 1 daily chore of poop-scooping. But the end of her daily routine, it's close to 6:00. Her friends in the neighborhood are out and about until I don't know what time of night, but I've tried to be adamant about having the family eat dinner together at 6:30, after which we all get showers and unwind. Bedtime is no later than 9:00. I never thought it was an unreasonable schedule but after yesterday I'm looking for ways to loosen it up a little bit, starting with picking her up from school instead of having her ride the bus. There's an extra 45 minutes added to her afternoon.
I honestly didn't know how to respond to the whole lunch alone situation as far as advice...I offered her a lame tip for making new friends (or keeping her old ones) that she wasn't buying and to tell you the truth I didn't fully believe it myself...what a difficult age she's at. Girls can be so brutal to each other...though I guess it's not just at 11.
If anyone else has advice for this sort of thing I'd love to hear it and then pass it off to Cheyenne as my own wisdom. Just so long as it's not lame.
9月24日 Ah, The Joys. The Absolute Joys.It's one of those days where I have to pick my meals according to how horrible they will taste coming back up.
Although I'm very dreadfully sick and quite possibly dying, I am in a good mood. After my husband treated me to a nice relaxing soak in the tub and a foot massage last night, I slept peacefully all night long.
...Until about 5:30 a.m. I don't know how to get through to the dogs; I'll take you out at midnight, at 2:00, maybe even at 4:00 a.m., but PLEASE, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, don't wait until it's close but not yet near time for me to actually wake up to start doing your pee-pee dance. After I let Smokey out, I just sort of floundered on the bed in that horrible, nauseated, gurgling sort of misery we all know as morning sickness. It's almost as if that little bastard wanted me to be awake and aware of it.
Today was the first time thus far in the process I wondered, "What have I gotten myself into?"
Cleaning--is out. Shopping--out. I can't even bring myself to even think about running to the gas station and picking up a 7-up...even though it sounds so refreshing right about now. I'm not moving. I've resigned myself to sipping ice water and laying pathetically on the couch, allowing Mia to watch and thoroughly enjoy the monstrosity that is "YO Gabba Gabba" all the way through. This show makes me even sicker.
My whole family knows, all my friends know now. It was wonderful to be able to call my parents in a moment of supreme happiness to tell them the news. I pointed this out to my dad--"Do you realize this is the first time I've announced a pregnancy and you aren't mad?"
He chuckled, "Welcome to Planned Parenthood, Toni."
I really do love my dad.
And Planned Parenthood's not so bad either, even with the puking.
Of course any kind of parenthood is pretty great. The adventure, the excitement, the entertainment and the constant surprises...planned or unplanned. It's all good. 9月21日 Grown-Up and PregnantSo. Here we are. Week 5, Day 4 of Pregnancy No. 3. I ought to have this whole process licked. Down. I should be cool, confident, and relaxed. And for the love of Pete I should be happy! Truth is I'm a bit of a wreck. I guess there's something to be said for being young and stupid--with my first 2 children I walked around without a care in the world, fully expecting everything to go right because, hey, it's me, and why wouldn't it? This time I have discovered what it means to worry...to truly worry...so much that I can't sleep at night...that I choke every time I try to take a breath...that I feel like puking whenever I think about money, travelling, trying to fit 3 kids in the backseat of the car, trying to fit 3 kids into 2 small bedrooms, labor, and oh, did I mention money? And LABOR? I've done this before. Don't I know what to expect? What's got me so freaked out this time? Maybe, just MAYBE, I am a grown-up. Yes, a grown-up. Only this knowledge doesn't spark near as much excitement as I dreamed it would when I was 5. As far as the pregnancy goes, things are still very good. Nothing out of the ordinary or of any concern going on. I'm sleepy, of course, and I'm getting migraines out the yin-yang, but that very well could be related to the endless turmoil my overactive brain is putting me through as discussed in the previous paragraphs. The only nausea I have stems from those migraines, so I can't yet say "Curse you, Caleb!" Or can I? And speaking of my husband, God bless his PRECIOUS HEART...He has warned me already that it's entirely too early in the game to play the pregnancy card with ANYTHING. "I'm hot," I will casually mention in the heat of the afternoon while just coming in from a walk in the blazing sun. "Oh, now don't even start that," He says. At 4:00 my batteries start to die. I will sit on the couch and sigh and yawn, and he will inevitably ask me (usually in annoyance) "What's the matter with you?" which is very quickly followed by a shift in tone and a sympathetic "Are you alright?" "I'm just tired, babe. Thanks." "Oh. Okay. So, what's for dinner?" I think he fails to understand that when I say "tired" what I mean is "I cannot possibly keep my eyes open for another second. I've never been more tired in my life. My boobs are killing me. It feels like someone is trying to rip them off of me every hour of every day. Every part of my body is achy and sluggish . I don't want to eat, let alone cook. I don't want to move ever again. I would go to bed right now and wake up at noon tomorrow if I could." But that still would not get the point across. I'm thinking about comparing my sleepiness to the feeling he must get whenever he watches TV after 9:00 at night. He CANNOT STAY AWAKE to save his life. Surely he could understand that. Wow. Did I make it through that entire blog without writing any cuss words? Impressive...I really must be a grown-up. Don't worry. I won't let it happen again. Give me a few more weeks and I'll have an entry full of them. 9月18日 Death of a TerrierPeople of the Suburbs: Your Pets are in Danger.
I have 3 big dogs. I know how difficult it can be, and in our case, how expensive and how grueling, BUT IT CAN BE DONE.
Keep your fucking dog in your fucking yard.
How hard is that?
No, really. You paid top dollar for that purebred piece of crap--now take care of it lest it get runned over. Accidentally, of course.
And if I happen to be walking in the neighborhood and I truck past your house, minding my own business, and your little ankle-biter comes out for the thousandth time this year and follows me half a mile down the road yapping its head off, threatening to rip my leg off, I will not be held responsible for what goes down next. I WILL KICK your 2 pound dog's teacup ass with my 50 pound leg. It will most likely die. That, or you will have to bottle feed it for the rest of its miserable days. Either way, it won't be chasing me again.
And if my dogs wake me up with their killer barks because they see your precious toy poodle running around in our yard in the dead of night, and if I let them outside so they'll shutup, your dog will be a tasty midnight snack. You will not see your dog again...although I'm not sure if that would bother you.
And if your dog is wandering around and saunters over to a birthday party 7 houses and 14 acres away, and if your dogs drinks my weight in pool water and decides to make a chew toy out of an unassuming 3-year-old's arm, I will pick it up and strangle it. And you will be thankful that three-year-old just happened to be someone else's three year old, because if she were mine, I would sue you for everything your have or ever will have.
And if your dog runs away, and you drive up my driveway in your big, black, menacing SUV, and you jump out and start yelling and screaming at what you think is your dog, know this: not one, not two, but three very large and very protective animals WILL attack you the moment you get within range (which is inside the boundaries of the electric fence, which, yes, we paid for AND installed to keep our pets in our yard). Did you think for a second that the dog sitting calmly in my garage might not actually be yours? There are 3.8 trillion black labs of sizeable girth available for your petting pleasure in this world. My Smokey is not one of them. Go find your own.
Better yet, let yours roam free. He'll be better off. 9月15日 Let's Get This Party StartedI knew it. Deep down, I knew it.
I knew it as soon as Mia made it through her first diaperless night completely dry.
I knew it as soon as I decided to indulge in a little Labor Day drink-a-thon.
I knew it as soon as I teared up during the end credits of "Harry and the Hendersons"...(but in all fairness to me, it's a heart-tugging family comedy that you'd have to be a cyborg not to be slightly emotional over. Have you ever really listened to Joe Cocker's "Love Lives On" in its entireity? Touching stuff.)
I knew it as soon as we spent half of our deductible on hormone testing--hormone testing that came back perfectly normal.
I've worked long and hard for this. And although a late period didn't clue me in right away, I figured it out. The sleepiness and fatigue that I thought was brought on by all the exercise and activity...the headaches that I thought for sure were caused by that all that damn fresh air. The non-coffee-craving mornings--oh my God--how is it that I don't want COFFEE? Could I be...?
Yes, friends. We're pregnant.
Expecting.
With Child.
In the Family Way.
Eating for 2.
Preggo.
Preggers.
Got a bun in the oven.
Knocked Up.
If you've got any more euphamisms I'd love to hear them. The dirtier, the funnier.
I bought a test on Thursday and took it immediately upon returning home from the grocery store. Mia recieved the brunt of my delight. I snatched her up and tossed her in the air and twirled her round and round all the while shrieking, "Yes YES Yes! Mommy's got a baby in her tummy! Yes YES Yes!!!"
Mia in turn held onto that information all day, so that while I was brainstorming for a clever way to tell Caleb, she was running around the house shouting "Mommy's got a baby in her tummy! Yes YES Yes! I can't believe it!"
I realized that maybe waiting to break the news over the weekend wasn't going to work out, no matter how much I insisted it was "our little secret." We ran out and bought 2 books--all about becoming a big sister. When we got back to the house, Caleb was there. Mia hugged him and didn't hesitate before whispering our secret in his ear. It took a few times repeating it, but when he looked at the books she wanted him to read, he got it.
I. Am. On. Cloud. Nine.
Caleb is too. We are flying high and that's on just the happiness alone. Granted, it's pretty early on and we've got a long way to go, but we waste no opportunity to celebrate this kind of occasion as long as we can. We are MILKING IT. Our entire extended circle of family, friends, family friends, aquaintances, business colleages, and even a few strangers were clued in within 24 hours. My mom heard the news before I was even done peeing on the stick.
I realize that getting this worked up is not neccessarily the wisest approach--4 weeks along still leaves a lot of time for something bad to go down--but I DON'T CARE. I am so stinkin' thrilled and so grateful and so excited that I can't even stand myself.
Will I become one of those people that starts blogging about nothing but pregnancy? You betch your sweet ass. Let's get this party started. 9月13日 Brian I've been thinking...thinking about people and their friends, and my lack thereof. I mean, I have a few. Caleb, of course, for one, and my sisters. And I feel as though they should be counted, even though they sort of HAVE to be my friends. Anyone else? Well...sadly my other friends were all killed in a tragic model-gasoline-fight.
Okay that never happened.
It's no secret that I don't like meeting new people. I don't like forced friendliness and conversations about weather followed by uncomfortable silences. I would rather my husband be my ambassador--go out into the world and bring me back some friends, already made and molded into just the sort of person I could hang out with whenever I felt like it.
I do, however, happen to have 2 people that I made best friends with on my own. All by myself. Alone.
Nikki, a girl I met in 5th grade, is someone I (usually) regularly e-mail or call. The last time we actually saw each other was July 1995--at least our hair was a little better at 15 than it was at 11. She visited me in Florida--came over to my house, swam in my pool, jammed out to the musical stylings of Hi-5 and After-7, and crushed on my friend, Brian, who I am actually writing this blog for. Nikki, you'll get your own entry one day. I promise.
Brian. Brian, Brian, Brian. I will never, as long as I live, forget the day I met that kid...We were 2 wretched and woebegone measly little freshmen, sitting on the front steps of the school after track practice, the only kids whose parents never picked them up before 6:00 p.m....and sometimes 6:30. January 1995. After days of silently sitting on those cold concrete steps, one of us finally cracked.
I'm pretty sure the conversation went a little like this:
ME: "Holy Crap, our parents SUCK."
HIM: (giggling a little) "Yeah."
ME: "I'm pretty sure my Dad forgets about me."
HIM: (smiling) "Yeah. Mine too."
HIM: "Maybe we should just split a cab."
ME: "What? No! Don't you know what goes on in cabs?"
HIM: (baffled and wide-eyed) "No...what?"
ME: "Well, for one thing they're the official vehicles of international diamond and ruby smugglers."
HIM: (baffled but not wide-eyed) "What?"
ME: "Well, why do you think cabbies never speak English?"
HIM: "You're crazy."
ME: "Yes. And they sometimes smuggle drugs too. You never know when you'll get taken down for a bust."
HIM: (smiling again) "What?"
ME: "You gotta be careful. I'll never take a cab. And I don't do so well with cops who get their German shepards hooked on drugs." HIM: "Cops don't do that!"
ME: "Yes, they do. Why do you think those dogs are so eager and crazy to sniff that stuff out?"
HIM: "You have a point."
ME: "Yes, I know. Of course I do. I'm glad you get that."
Sometime that afternoon our parents decided to pull up in their identical junky blue cars and take us home. We chitchatted everyday like that after practice. I liked Brian. He was quiet and he listened to me and I made him laugh. He made me laugh--hard. I liked his eyes--he'll hate me for this but they reminded me of a deer's eyes. I liked his brillo-pad hair. I liked his smile.
We were inseperable for the rest of our high school career--literally, inseperable. We never dated or kissed or anything like that back then, but he was there for me a million times more than anyone else ever was. When I was pregnant with Cheyenne, he rubbed my shoulders. He put his walkman headphones around my belly so the kid could listen to Tupac and Montel Jordan. He carried my books. Much to my dismay, he made sure I never got to drink a drop of my treasured Cherry Coke at lunch. When I fell behind in math from missing too much school due to morning sickness, he tutored me until I was vaguely caught up.
After Cheyenne was born, Brian was the one that came over and hung out. He read her books. He played her games. He ate whatever afterschool snack I cooked up, no matter how disgusting it was. He took me to our senior prom because he "couldn't picture that night going with anyone else but his best friend."
He was my very best friend in the whole wide world, and I loved him.
We obviously drifted apart a little bit over the years--I got married and moved off, he joined the Air Force and moved off...in 2001 we both wound up back in Pensacola. It was like old times, only grown up. Movies, weddings, parties, clubs, and of course, hanging out at my house eating my crappy cooking and playing with Cheyenne.
We toyed with the idea of being a real live actual couple...but it didn't work out. I was newly divorced and ready to party like a rockstar--he was a little put out that I wouldn't slow down long enough to so much as call him. At one point I was a straight up bitch and completely ditched him to go dancing with my new "girl" friends. In a pissed off huff, he dropped some Christmas presents at my house and told my dad to tell me to "have a nice life." Although we lived within 10 minutes of each other, we didn't talk for 6 months.
One spring day I decided to open the Christmas present Brian gave me. I cried when I saw it--a beautiful diamond bracelet. Brian had never, ever given me something girly, or pretty, or even remotely expensive. I cried harder. I missed my best friend. I wore the bracelet to work that day, thinking about Brian and wishing I had the nerve to call him up and apologize.
That very day, as I was slaving away at the hellhole the modern world knows as Dillards, who should come riding up the escalator but that damn Brian. I froze. Would he think I'd been wearing and enjoying his bracelet this entire time we'd been "not friends"? Did he still hate me? Did he think I hated him? His words were nothing less than something I would expect my very best in the whole wide world to say: "Toni, I leave in 3 days...but I can't stand it if I couldn't at least say good-bye."
And just like that, we were friends again. We went out to lunch and met again the next morning for breakfast. It seemed we had both gotten lives, real lives--made other friends, went to new places, tried new things--without leaning on each other. We'd even both dated strippers! We joked and laughed and I apologized...and he apologized, although to this day I don't really know what for.
Caleb reminds me of Brian, in certain ways. He gets me--he laughs at my jokes and puts up with my blonde moments. He's fun and patient and there for me no matter what. He makes me laugh and he doesn't take any bullshit. I knew he would like Brian and I knew Brian would like him.
Brian moved away again and we occasionally talked on the phone. When he visited family in Florida, he visited me too. I got married, and he got married. We still talk, when we remember to call each other. We e-mail, we joke. Neither of us are all that great about keeping in touch regularly, but that's what happens when you grow up, I guess. No matter where life takes either of us, Brian will always be someone I trust and respect, and he will always be my most best friend ever in the whole wide world. I know this because he wrote it on the back of his freshman picture that he gave to me one day in 9th grade. 9月12日 LapseIt's Wednesday--only Wednesday--when it feels like it really ought to be Friday. A work week is only 5 days long; this week might as well be like 100 days long. I'm so wore slap out--in a good way, though. I've gotten a lot done and I'm feeling very accomplished and proud.
I did make one minor goof yesterday--one of Caleb's dealer's called OUR HOUSE looking for him, which NEVER HAPPENS. The man actually went through the trouble of looking up our home number after he lost Caleb's business card...I thought it was an advertisement and almost hung up on the guy. It completely caught me off guard--I was half listening when he said "Well, my name is blah blah blah and I'm with blah blah blah and I need to blah blah blah and could you tell me how I could get in touch with your husband? And by the way, how are you liking it up here in Oklahoma?"
Huh? What was that last part?
"Well we actually love it up here in Oklahoma! And what was your name again, sir? Here's Caleb's cell phone number. Nice talking to you to. Bye-bye now."
Did I write down any vital information? No. Did I call Caleb immediately to tell him the man even called? No. What do I look like? Someone with common sense? Caleb was more than slightly pissed beyond belief. "This is our paycheck, Toni! Do you not realize that! Do you understand how upset I am? Use your brain! Ugggg! I'm going to have to call you back later before I say something really mean."
Oops.
Sorry.
But in all fairness I can't be expected to take actual messages and such. That's bound to start a trend, and next thing you know I'll be expected to do things like take out the trash and water the garden. What am I, some kind of triathlete?
Of course I'm kidding. And I sincerely hope I'm not the only straight-up space-cadet wife that failed to take an important message. My only saving grace in this instance is that the guy--whatever his name may be--seemed pretty fixated on getting in touch with Caleb. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that he'll call my husband today. Because if not, I just went from being in a little trouble to changing my name and moving to some obscure state, like, I don't know, Vermont, in order to escape the wrath of Caleb.
Instead of doing things like handling important phone calls from important businessmen, I've quite obviously been busy calligraphing, wiring, and carving things--and then taking pictures of it all and posting it for you lovely people to see. And yesterday, the weather was so freaking wonderful that we spent much of our time outside. We picniced, we took walks, bike rides, we swung and climbed trees. We even brushed Shadow. I opened all the windows to air out all the dog stink...I closed them at night, of course, but I still woke up with vicious headache--my guess is that it's from all the dust and hair and pollen being stirred around and blown up my sinuses. Stupid fresh air. 9月10日 Racing ThoughtsAnd today is September 10th.
Seriously.
Really.
Well, I was certainly a creative whirlwind this weekend. I worked on a mini-calligraphy-portfolio that I plan on sending to my mom so that she, too, can peddle my wares...I successfully designed and made two mousechairs and one mousetable, dripping only a minimal amount of Gorilla-glue onto my work table in the garage, which is allowed because it is my work table and it is in the garage. And, I got into a roll of wire and sculptured three shapes--a star, a heart, and a twisted little ball-looking-thing--that I will no doubt turn into Christmas ornaments with the addition of a few red ribbons.
And I'm spent.
I can't think about anything else but making stuff. I don't know what's come over me. Maybe this artistic surge is the mania before the depression. Which, if that's the case, maybe depression will bring about my Blue Period which will ultimately lead to fame and fortune...hopefully without death or loss of an ear.
I'm actually serious. Last time I went nuts I went through a very inspired time just before shit hit the fan. Plus, I noticed I've had a few spells where I can't seem to catch a deep breath...and then I feel like I'm choking and then I start to freak out. Another sign. And my thoughts are racing so much I can't seem to concentrate on anyone thing in particular. And so, knowing all this, I have been laying off the coke and beer, trying to get in at least an hour of good sweat-pouring exercise 4 times a week, and sleeping...not too late to bed, not too late to rise. Ice cold cups of water and a little yoga-booty-ballet during the day. I have faith that these things will all keep me emotionally squared away. I'm good. I got this.
I'm taking Cheyenne for a haircut this week. Her hair is almost down to her butt and it's looking pretty damn awful. I haven't told her my plans, because she's bound to lose it and throw a tantrum to keep every last centimeter of that ratty mop.
"Just a trim," I'll say.
"No, Mom! All the girls have long hair! Everyone else loves my hair!" she'll scream.
"Cheyenne, it looks like a breeding ground for small animals."
"Oh my God, Mom, you just want me to look ugly because you looked ugly when you were 11."
"That's not true, I was the shiz when I was 11."
"No you weren't--I've seen pictures and you were soooo lame."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yes, and trust me you had a bad haircut and no fashion sense. And pimples. And you ate everything in sight."
"I did not."
"Did too. Aunt Katie told me. She said you used to practically drink M&M's."
"Well that was M&M's. And excuse me, have you ever paid attention to the way you scarf down food?"
"I don't scarf down food--and besides, I'm skinny and I can do that if I want to."
"If you keep it up you won't be. And I didn't eat everything in sight. And my haircut was cute! Everyone else thought it was cool."
I am hoping we'll have an easier time getting such a silly thing as a little haircut. I don't want to have to resort to telling my child she's going to be fat. And I really don't want to have to admit how horrible my hair did actually look at 11. 1991--the tail end of the age of gravity-defying bangs and bad perms. Need I say more?
9月8日 CongratulationsWell, it's Saturday, it's raining, Caleb's working, and Mia's sitting on the bathroom floor under an open umbrella watching Cheyenne primp and preen for I-don't-know-what-occasion-I-just-want-to-look-pretty-today.
Nothing wrong with that. I'm looking pretty freakin' fabulous myself for no reason whatsoever.
I'm also somewhat energetic today. I've got a zillion brilliant artistic ideas that have been keeping me up at night and plan to act upon said ideas the second I get off this computer. Won't Caleb be pleased? He's as ready as I am to start pulling in some cash with my calligraphy and/or painting abilities. As long as it doesn't involve Gorilla glue...
Which unfortunately for him, it does.
Anyway, I write this blog because I found out yesterday through an undisclosed source (I'm not being secretive; I just wanted to use that phrase. You may well remember my tendency to file away and overuse certain sayings.) that my ex is getting re-married.
This is a good thing. I'm truly, truly excited for him. It's been a long time coming...I'm not at all surprised. Granted, this is the 3rd girl in like, 2 years that he's fallen head over heels in love with...so I can't neccessarily believe this is "the one" for him...maybe it's because I don't really believe in "ones" anymore. But from his, and Cheyenne's, descriptions, she sounds like a really wonderful person, and he sounds sure, and ready, and happy. Very happy.
Maybe I've felt a little guilty over the past few years, being blessed beyond belief and married to my absolute dream-husband. While he's spent time overseas in Germany and Iraq, flying through relationship after relationship, always searching for something that he's never actually been able to find, I've been sitting pretty in Oklahoma, without a care in the world, happy as a clam with a beautiful family and a house and land and dogs. And as much as he aggrivates me, I've deep, DEEP down always hoped the same for him.
A little under 2 years ago, he visited Cheyenne and we had a pretty big blow out...it wasn't so much an arguement between two people, though, as it was me just endlessly going off. For some reason he felt the need to complain about being lonely, and about feeling awkward around our family. I verbally bitch-slapped him with a two hour tirade that started with a "Don't even come to me with that bullshit" and ended with a big fat resounding "Fuck you in a goat's ass."
I felt like a psycho.
And I'm pretty sure he's avoided really talking to me ever since. Which I of course, completely deserve. Maybe it's good that we're not the best of friends. There was a time when I totally hated him. That gave way to a feeling of brotherly-love for the guy, which I then thought entitled me to the priviledge of saying whatever it was I felt like saying to him...and I went a little too far--no matter what the situation actually called for. As hard as it is for me to say...I'm sorry.
This entry is written in a general good will and is meant to be a congratulations message, if you will, to him. I'm glad he's reached a point in his life where he has the opportunity to be as happy as I have been. And I really wish him the best.
9月7日 Mousehouse MessesSeptember 7th?
Seriously?
Could you please press the REWIND button, on your remote? (You parents of Shane and David fans should appreciate that.)
I am obviously a little less than ready for fall. September is normally a little "grace period" for those of us who would rather ease into the cold weather rather than dive in head first. Temperatures seem to be gettting lower and lower every week. Sure, it's still in the 80's around here, but that's where it starts. What next? The 80's are gateway degrees...they lead to the 70's and then the 60's and then you're so far into it...you wake up and it's below freezing and you don't know where the time--spring, summer, or fall--went. And then you're late on your Christmas shopping and you have to get out in the bitter, cold, icy, snow and fight crowds and spend loads of money on bullshit no one will want anyway.
HOWEVER...that said, I do indeed look foward to all the fall colors...gonna hit up a few state parks for some hiking...drink a little hot chocolate without sweating...and cover up with a cozy blanket when Caleb and I step outside at night to stargaze.
Yep. Definitely looking foward to that. I guess September 7th isn't so bad after all. And as much as I complain, I actually do love Christmas.
I've been goofing off a little bit with my--I mean, MIA'S--mousehouse. I installed custom shelving--doesn't that sound nice? I actually broke off the little wooden cap on a tiki torch, cut it in half length-wise, and gorilla glued it against one of the mousehouse walls. So it's more like a rounded table thingy. I also managed to gorilla glue my hands and legs before spilling a terrific glob onto the pristine white concrete of our back porch. Caleb was none too happy with me, not even when I showed him what a magnificent job I did with the table. Did he not think it was special enough to warrant such a mess? I added on a swingy ladder made of sticks and wire so the mice could climb to the 2nd story bedroom with ease...and then I spilled more gorilla glue. But of course, not on purpose.
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