Or even just a little warm; enough to be uncomfortable, even if not enough to make you say anything outloud?
Is it the same thing(s) as me?
Is it testimonials about Marie Kondo on facebook?
Is it teenagers?
Is it feeling like a complete failure-of-a-mother, even though you KNOW that is so passe, because now we're all feeling super upbeat, and realizing that failure is a GOOD thing?
Is it that Blogger doesn't automagically put a little accent line over the 'e' in passe like Siri certainly would, bless her?
Is it Instagramers who you are afraid are sowing seeds of doubt and desperation into the hearts of women by making them believe they must casually buy an ugly $270 sweater on a whim for an apple-picking excursion with their family, and needing to tell allthewomeneverywhere NOT TO BELIEVE IT?
Or do you not get annoyed?
Are you one of those rare humans who can find the unannoying in everything?
Do you see everything as an opportunity for growth and perspective and love?
And the worst part (okay, that is only a figure of speech; obviously the WORST part is the pain and debilitation) is that I don't have a cool story.
EVERYONE and their monkey's uncle, when faced with the information that you are now crippled by a back injury, immediately asks,
"How did you hurt it?!"
And they do it with a little gleam in their eye, like they expect a juicy, interesting story.
And every time, I feel a tiny moment of panic as I go through this process in my mind:
Oh no! I have nothing interesting to offer!
Stupid Back. WHY couldn't you get hurt in some unique, death-defying or, at the VERY least, respectable way like you're supposed to?!
Maybe I should lie.
Can I think of something fascinating and brilliant before this pause grows uncomfortable and suspicious?
No.
Shoot.
Guess I'll just make this person wish they had never asked.
Like always.
Thanks a lot, Back.
And I shrug and say, "I don't know. It wasn't any one thing."
and watch as the listener looks around for someone with a much more considerate back. Someone whose back understands its role in social interactions; a back that goes out with a bang and a flourish. A human with a purpose-driven back; a back that makes goals and knows how to achieve them.
And not me and my dumb ol' boring bulging disk that can't be bothered to have even an ounce of dramatic flair.
The other night we wanted to watch a show together as a family.
Which usually means a cooking show.
Which reminds me: we watched a show about America's obsession with cooking shows. The host's opinion was that the reason we love watching other people cook is because we, as a society, have moved away from cooking, but it is still such a fundamental part of our lives that we crave the comfort and familiarity and love we associate with cooking.
Meh.
I think it's just because cooking shows are the only shows we can watch with our little kids without being bombarded with profanity and nudity.
At least that's why WE watch them.
Anyway, I got a show going and then stepped into the kitchen to finish cleaning up dinner (which I cooked, thank you very much TV personality!).
Five minutes later, I went in to join the family, and they had switched over to a science show.
I asked Ty why, and he told me that the cooking show had used the "F word" four times in the first few minutes! Well I never...!
Anyway, we watched a science experiment show instead.
It wasn't the greatest, but Sylas was enthralled.
The guy on the show had all sorts of ways to make things catch fire or explode, which just happen to be Sylas' favorite things in the world right now. Besides shooting guns.
I grew increasingly uneasy.
But it was his,
"Dad, if I put suchandsuch and soandso together, would it explode like that?"
that made Ty and I glance at each other and bust into nervous giggles.
Do you ever watch your child do something hard that you would/could never do, do it well, and just feel your heart grow eleventy-five times stronger with hope and faith that everything is going to be okay?
That is how I feel.
Especially since I was a nervous wreck (I vascilated between wanting to cry and wanting to jump out of a window) because I hadn't seen Saylor practice anything, or been to any of the many meetings and trainings she attended. This was all her.
ALL. HER.
ALLLLLLLLLLLL.
HERRRRRRRRRRR.
She does not overshare (we are lucky to get two words/day out of her. no exaggeration.), so I had no idea what they were (supposed to be) learning or doing. All texts and instructions were hers alone, and I was completely out of the loop every night. Most nights I didn't even know where she was, and would text her and get a short response, "DYW". (Distinguished Young Women Scholarship Program)
(*returning home*
Me: So what did you do?
Saylor: Oh, you know. Just practiced. Good night!")
And guys, she never practiced her actual talent performance.
And she has never danced a step in her life.
And there were three dance numbers.
(And I have never attended one of these events before, and there were no parents allowed at dress rehearsals or back stage, so I was literally clueless)
Can you imagine how scared that made me?
(a pox on my decision to wear a Hand Wash Only shirt on such a sweat-filled night! Nice knowing you, shirt. See you in the afterlife. Which is when, I can only assume, I will finally get around to washing all my hand-washables...)
And then she was awesome. And hilarious. And unflappable.
And the stage hand, you guys.
THE STAGE HAND who saw the easel falling (we discovered later that the chain that extends to hold it up was tangled, so when the guys set it up, it was already super unstable, dang it) and ran as fast as he could behind the stage to the other side to try to save the day, but got there too late and still sacrificed his body to do all he could to help. I want to bawl every time I think of him. God bless him, wherever he is!
And then, she told me, all the girls were like, "Oh, Saylor! Are you all riiiiiiight?!", expecting her to cry after her talent went awry, and she was like, "What do you mean?! That was AWESOME!!" cause she had so much fun.
I have a bad mothering habit of assuming my kids are like me, and have the same weaknesses, and expecting less of them than I should.
It is strange and beautiful to realize that your child is perfectly capable of navigating things without your (overbearing and) constant supervison/control.
I am allowing myself a few days to feel excessively, punch-drunk proud.
Beware.
(and also be aware, because we were not until it was too late, that the spot light made it impossible to see what she painted, *sad face*, but that she is going to finish it and refine it, now that she has longer than 90 seconds, and it will be for sale soon)
I do not like them, and yet I feel forced to put them in this house because we build to sell, and a house in this price range must have granite.
(you wouldn't believe how many buyers we lost over the granite-less state of our last house)
(by the way, I loved my inexpensive laminate countertops with a love that rivals the top three love stories you can think of right now)
And I know what you're thinking:
"Then do quartz! Or quartzite! Or marble!
Shut it. You don't think I've thought of that? Give me a little credit, people.
Those are MORE EXPENSIVE than granite. By quite a bit, actually.
I tried to talk myself into some gorgeous quartz, but THAT PRICE! I could buy a new car (granted, the cars I buy are not fancy, but still)! And like I said, we build to sell, so I don't want to invest my life-savings on countertops that I don't get to enjoy. On the other hand, you might be saying to yourself, "If you're not living there long-term, why not just suck it up and put some cheap, ugly granite in that sucker?" Well, we build to sell, but we also realize that the market doesn't care about our plans. The last time we built to sell, we lived there eight years. I cannot look at spotty, dotty, gold-swirled granite for eight years. I just can't.
Especially when it's (let's stop beating around the bush here and tell it like it is) REALLY expensive! I mean, really. It freaks me out that granite is my "inexpensive" option! When did we start thinking it is okay to spend that kind of cash on countertops?! It feels a little (lot) wasteful to me. Do people in Africa even have countertops?
Bleh.
Anyway, back to the story:
So today I went to the third granite yard in as many months, and fell in love.
It really happened, you guys! I never thought I could feel that way about granite. I might see, just a tiny bit, what all the fuss is about.
(not really - I could have found a lovely laminate in so much less time and with so much less anguish)
I made them put my name on it and everything!
I am feeling so encouraged and excited.
If I can find true love in a granite yard, there really might be a friendly solution to all global issues!
Probably not, but I have hope!
Now I wait for the bid to come back...
(but even if it's too much, at least I know I can find something I don't detest)
We planned to do it every two years until we had a house paid off.
It was really exciting and fun and stressful and horrible. And we decided we never wanted to do it again.
So we waited 8 years until, on a whim (and a very rough, very low, very inaccurate estimate from The Builder), we decided to build again.
That was almost 4 months ago.
It is really exciting and fun and stressful and horrible. Again.
Today I had to go talk to The Builder. I didn't want to because I was very super frustrated, I had a headache, and I hadn't gotten enough sleep. I knew I would't be able to keep my cool. I took some deep breaths, took a bite of fried chicken (cause the rest of it, like everything else today, fell on the floor) and drove over.
When I got there, The Builder told me that Ty called to warn him I was on my way and that I wasn't feeling particularly charitable, so to keep the conversation clear of certain topics.
I was a little offended at the insinuation that I can't fight my own battles, or that I need someone to rescue me, but as I left The Builder with these parting words,
"I'm going to go take a nap before I kill the whole world,"
I realized that I DO need rescuing. Often. And I should just be grateful there is someone out there who realizes it before I do.
Did you think because I only post twice/year lately, that I would forego my Halloween post?
Don't kid yourself.
Count Fauxhawk Dracula
Owl (I know the feathers look like leaves. Get over it.)
Black-fanged Dracula with an owl on his shoulder - don't worry, just dressing up as Dracula was enough to send his over-active imagination into a tail-spin of nightmares and wanting to sleep with BOTH sisters (instead of just the one he shares a room with). Sigh. This is why we usually make him dress up like a pirate.
Fawn (thank goodness for windstorms that bring all the tumbleweeds to my yard - I've got enough for a whole herd of deer!)
Halloween 2014 was so ideal, that at one point I opened my front door, took one look, and exclaimed, "Ty, come see this: WE LIVE IN A MOVIE!" and teared-up. No joke. The sunset was perfection, the weather was a dream, the hay ride wagon was loading up for another turn around the subdivision (complete with festive music), all the neighbors were strolling around, laughing and talking, with their exceptionally cute little costumed children, and it was just too much exquisiteness to take in. If your child happened to be in the group who came up my walk at that precise moment, and came home with tales of the weird lady who was passing out tear-stained candy, now you know it was me.
And now you know that I am really, truly serious about my love for Halloween.
I saw something the other evening that I can't stop thinking about.
It was the mudflap girl (you know the one, right?).
With deer (or elk? I don't really know the difference, nor would a delineation make any difference in this instance) antlers.
On the rear window of a truck. Twice.
And, if that's not disturbing enough to make your brow wrinkle in bewilderment (So, you like to combine your porn with hunting? Or your hunting with porn? Or you are hunting girls? Or you wish girls were more like deer? Or deer were more like girls? Or you just really, REALLY like deer?),
the other side of the window was one of those "In Loving Memory of..." deals. Wow. Who wouldn't want to be memorialized (on a truck!) next to a deer-horned mudflap girl? What an honor to know that the man who cares so deeply about silhouettes of naked half male deer/half female human will never forget you. I'm sure his deceased grandmother is smiling down at him and his charming (and thoroughly confusing) male chauvinism.
It struck me as such an odd combination of respect and disrespect, levity and weight,
what and huh, that I've been pondering ever since: who owns this vehicle?
The most generous theory I've come up with so far is
An astoundingly insensitive manlike human who doesn't think about anything for longer than 2 seconds at a time.
And, I'm about 98.3% sure he's single, ladies, so....
Yeah. Steer clear.
I don't know if he's looking to shoot you or just treat you like a piece of meat, but probably it's best to give him a wide berth.
And maybe a disdainful look, just so he knows you disapprove.
Vladimir says, "Real men shoot deer/elk and respect women. Not that you have to shoot animals to be a real man, it's just that real men know the difference between animals and women, and do not behave like animals themselves. And when real men wish to pay tribute to someone..." I had to cut him off. You know how he gets when he's passionate about a subject. Ol' Vlad and his soap box rants!
I spent the week in Florida. Land of oranges and humidity. You know the one.
And here are some of the things I learned within a two mile radius of our hotel (including Tampa General Hospital, a dirty bullet-proof Dominoes Pizza, and Walmart, which is all I saw) that I will go ahead and generalize:
#1. My hair and skin are big fans of Florida. Big, moisturized, extra curly fans.
#2. Florida does summer right. None of this 60 degrees at the end of June crap.
#3. Florida is too far away, so I will most likely never visit again.
#4. Florida's Walmarts carry canned boiled peanuts ('boled' peanuts to all my Southern-accented family). Which makes me wild with envy and righteous indignation.
#5. Florida treats white guys named Tyrone like royalty. If royalty is treated with long bouts of laughter and disbelief, nonsensical ribbing, and free pizza.
#6. Florida has the cutest little lizards. I never thought I would use 'cute' to describe a reptile, but that's what Florida does to you! It's magical, I tell you!
#7. The left side of Florida looks like this in the evening:
#8. Then the lights come on, and the right side looks like this:
#9. The parathyroid surgeons in Florida don't mess around. They diagnose your husband with one tumor, and then they find two! The operation takes 15 minutes, because Florida parathyroid surgeons are awesome. And brilliant. And hilarious. Kind of like me, but with scrubs, lots of money, and high-tech patented-by-them surgical tools. No wonder so many people live in Florida!
(I took this picture of a picture in the hospital waiting room - #7&1/2. Florida hospitals have gorgeous photographs of places you'll never see in person)
#10. Florida makes all your hopes and dreams come true, very painfully (Ty is officially cured of hyperparathyroidism). And now the exciting (which is a nice way of saying excruciating) road to recovery begins. In Idaho. Land of wind and potatoes. You know the one.
A house that took me 16 hours to clean should take home-buyers longer than 15 minutes to look through.
I'd be willing to sign a petition stating as much.
Or lock them in and force them to notice every detail until they make my swollen, aching feet feel justified.
I've drafted a letter to be posted on my front door for next time:
Dear House Looker,
Oh, you think you've seen all you need to see? Bull crap. Now get down on your hands and knees and really appreciate those clean floors! Don't even take them for granted. Most days they are sticky. And there are usually stray pieces of popcorn under the stove.
See that garage? It didn't vacuum itself, unless that's what will make you want to buy this house, in which case, it did.
What's that? You just peeked into the storage room without so much as a moment of silence to remember the hours lost in its organization? For shame!
In 15 minutes, there's no WAY you could possibly understand the amount of blood, sweat, tears, and yelling that went into getting all children's rooms clean, straight, and vacuumed ON THE SAME DAY.
Yeah. As in simultaneously clean. Those are not words I string together casually. Or ever. So you'd better recognize.
I really do deserve some sort of medal. Or trophy. Or vacation.
At the very least, you could buy my freaking house.
Do you ever realize you haven't taken a single picture this season, and have to dig one out from last season?
Dear Soccer Coaches,
I appreciate all you do. Heaven knows I couldn't do it. Mostly because even after 12 years of attending games I still do not understand the rules, and because I have an aversion to objects flying toward my face. At any rate, I know it's a thankless job that your wife probably signed you up to do without your permission. My hat is off to you and your donation of time and patience.
However, let me address one minor thing you all eventually do: the kids vs. parents practice and/or game. It is the worst. I dread it more than anything else I have found dreadful about adulthood. I do not want to play soccer. With you, with other parents, with my own kid. That's why I pay good money to the local league - so my kid(s) can have someone else to play with. If I wanted and/or knew how to play soccer, I would never invest so much time and money in driving them to and from multiple practices and games; I'd just stay home. I have a backyard, you know. And driving around just happens to be my least favorite thing in the world. Besides playing soccer with other parents and our children.
I know what you're thinking: "But it's so much fun for the kids!"
I don't care. There are a lot of things that are fun for kids. I can't speak for anyone else's children, but mine have plenty of opportunities for fun. We don't have to do them all. And what happened to their being on a soccer team counting as fun enough?
Tell you what: just as soon as I want to play soccer, I'll go ahead and let you know. Until then, let me sit in my car with my book during practice, the way God intended. Just accept my thank you note and Jamba Juice gift card at season's end, and let's leave the soccer playing to the kids.
They were all found on the same sheet of paper. On my coffee table.
In Samera's first-grade handwriting.
I asked her what they were.
She replied,
"Oh, they're just some words I'm practicing."
"For school?" I asked.
"No, just for fun. I found them in the dictionary."
"At school?" I asked.
"No. Our dictionary."
Now here are six things you should know:
#1. I didn't know we still had a dictionary.
#2. I'll have to ask Samera where it is. So I can look up these words.
#3. Samera is a bizarre, wonderful creature.
#4. If I could get a picture that truly represented (overrepresented?) the color of her eyes, I would move Heaven and Earth. I swear they are reddish-brown.
#5. This picture makes me inordinately happy, as it is the first time I have looked at her and seen a family resemblance.
#6. She dresses up like this and pretends to be The Helping Fairy, and will cheerfully ask me what I need her to do, and then do it, never breaking character. Everyone should have a Mera.
(because if I don't add a picture, one is randomly assigned by Facebook, and that bugs me)
Round here, we have a little running joke that's not very funny.
See, sometimes I get really irritated. And irritable (I know it's hard to believe, but try).
And itchy. Usually my legs and arms and back. And neck.
Literally, itchy.
It's bizarre, and I would really love for someone else to tell me they get itchy, too, because it would make me feel normal.
Whatever. I get itchy. I don't know if it's the itchiness that causes my frustrated mood, or the frustration that causes the itchiness, but it is not fun.
I feel overwhelmed and overstimulated and grouchy.
And it comes-on without warning. Today it was toward the end of church. Great morning, great day, and then BAM. Suddenly everyone was extra annoying. Suddenly I couldn't be nice to my kids. Suddenly I just wanted to tell everyone to cook their own dang dinner. Suddenly I wanted to get out. I don't even know what that means, but it's what I wanted: Away. Out. Gone.
Anyway, Ty thinks it's super funny that "itchy" just happens to rhyme/resemble/be almost-the-same-
as a word that we don't use in our household that describes pretty accurately the way I act when I am, literally, itchy.
So he likes to play it up. Over and over. And laugh.
Which is good.
Because it distracts me from being mad.
But not tonight. Tonight I just want to be itchy in peace.
REWARD!!! I will reward you a $100 gas card if you find this white 1998 Dodge 2500 ext cab 4x4 truck that was stolen from my car lot this last weekend. A couple of identifying factors are the running boards, diamond plated tool box, and the clearance lights (lights mounted on the roof of truck). Contact me for any information. Please share this post!
I don't think there's anything wrong with humbling oneself by abstaining from some luxury or vice for 40 days. In fact, I recommend it. Even though it is not required of my religion, I find that it is a good way to focus on my Savior in the weeks leading up to Easter. Plus, let's face it, I'm not so good with working on goals, but 40 days seems doable, so it's a perfect excuse to practice something I've been meaning to get around to.
And so, I am sharing with you my fabulous idea for this year:
What if we all give something up together? Cause we all get by with a little help from our friends.
What if we all give up negative body talk for 40 days?
What if we stop saying, "Oh, I really shouldn't", every time someone offers us a cookie, and just enjoy the dang cookie?
What if we quit thinking about how we look, and notice - with all our energy - the beauty around us?
What's in it for me? Joy. Relief. Peace. Actual living.
What's in it for you? Joy. Relief.Peace. Actual living.
And not pissing me off with all your incessant, banal talk of calories and fat and weight and body complaints and comparisons.
Now, I've never run a marathon, so I guess I cannot say with 100% accuracy, but I'm just guessing that no one wants to smell like one.
First it says 'sport fresh scent', and just in case that wasn't all you ever wanted in a deodorant, it then specifies, 'marathon fresh scent'. As if marathon is just one variety of all the sport scents out there.
I wonder, does marathon smell different than, say, tennis? What about bowling? Does bowling have a bold note of stale cigarette smoke? Cause if we're going to get technical, I believe that would only be fitting.
I could really have fun with this. Why am I not in charge of deodorant scents?
I just found my life-long ambition.
Also, this was on the clearance aisle, if you can imagine.
I have a blank-canvas-of-a-room that I am planning to turn into an office/craft room.
It needs to function in about 4,730 different ways:
Sewing (including ironing), computer/bill-paying/filing/boring stuff I don't want to do or think about, painting (so a large rug is definitely in order), scrap booking (in case I ever decide to do that again), random crafting, and general everything-besides-cooking-ness.
Oh, and I want a cozy place to read, which can double as a place for my kids to sit and chat with me while I work.
Enter: window seat.
I have had a thing for window seats since I was a kid, and I will have one if it kills me.
And the design of my office.
I am having a hard time making the room function the way I need it to with the window seat in place.
But I am hell-bent on that dang window seat! So don't even try to talk me out of it.
But it would be super helpful if you could at the very least decide on a color scheme and style for me, and tell me that it's all going to be ok (and that I'm pretty and smart and amazing).
I think it's the least you could do after your failure with the shower curtain.
p.s. If you applied for the sister-in-law position, please know that I am in the process of getting your information to the proper authorities. If you like well-managed time and promptness, being a Shuman probably isn't your thing. Otherwise, keep being patient. I'll let you know by the end of this week what the word on the street is.
