Building Rome - Part 1

I don’t like going through my possessions. It’s like a slow steady torture. Gathering and sorting, each item evaluated for worth and placed in a pile. There are only three answers, keep, donate, or toss, but the questions are endless. Are you good enough to keep? I only need one; maybe this one is better? Could someone else use this? What is this? Why the hell do I have this piece of crap? It’s a game of decisions and choices that I don’t like to play.

But play I did. While others were still coming down from their turkey and pumpkin pie fix, I was in what used to be my bedroom, now junk holder until we get the closets done, going through the boxes of crap that have been accumulating for the last thirteen years. I shredded until the shredder started smoking, and I filled huge Rubbermaid crates full of stuff for Goodwill and I tossed out trash bags full of former treasures that are now landfill filler. It was painful, but in a good way.

Over the weekend I slowly worked my through the weird fashions and poor decorating choices of my early adulthood. Then the nursing bras, childproofing devices, and ready to assemble furniture of early motherhood came under attack. I tossed and donated my way through the first three years of homeschooling. When I got done there was still a lot of crap. A whole lot of crap. I guess Rome wasn’t built in a day.

To Be Continued

Repeat Offender

I’ve already thanked her once, but I’m more than happy to do it again. The her I’m talking about is Mamazilla and I have loved her since the day I clicked through to one of her blog posts and read the sentence, “Shut up and eat your turkey pot pie.” Not everyone can get away with a sentence like that.

It was no surprise to me that she was given both the Thinking and Rockin’ Blogger award. When you open one of her posts you might laugh, you might cry, you might run into the kitchen and add razors and shaving cream to your shopping list. She’s multi-purpose like that.

I was surprised when she decided to pass on her Rockin’ Thinking Blogger awards to me. I write about growing ‘taters in trash cans, misadventures at The Olive Garden, and squirrel poop. She may have been drunk when she made the list.

Even if she was drunk, I still very much appreciate the award and I am happy to add them to my non-existent ever-growing collection of blog awards. Thank you, Mamazilla. You are rockin’.

I’ll pass on my awards as follows:

Thinkingly Rockin’ : Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (Think about it, Harrr.)

Rockinly Thinking : ParentalTech  (Would be more rockin’ with a few 80’s metal band posts ;)

Thinkable Rockin’ness I Think : Davezilla (I think he’s related to Mamazilla, but I’m not sure)

Rockin’ Artistic Thinking: Ghost Co.  (Just ‘cause I like his blog and never told him)

And of course everyone else that is thinking, rocking, or both.  Except RTK.  He can’t have one because he doesn’t have good humor judgement skills. 

Free Lollipop With Comment

I woke up this morning when my oldest crawled into bed with me for a snuggle. It’s been a while since she’s done that. I’ve missed it. Twenty minutes later the youngest came in and joined us. It’s been even longer since I’ve had both of them with me. For a few minutes they were my babies again, it felt nice. It felt like the world was a better place.

I was very sad when my youngest stopped waking up at 3am and crawling in bed with us. I enjoyed a more restful sleep and my disposition seemed to improve when the dark circles disappeared, but I missed that little body all nice and safe in my arms.

We slowly woke up and the morning gab-fest started. Somehow we got on the topic of tattoos. There is a shop downtown called Sorry Mom Tattoos and they think that is the best name for a tattoo shop ever. When we are down there I always ask them if they want a tattoo. A big red heart with mom written in the middle is my usual suggestion. They think I’m insane.

“They poke you with needles mom!” They shout. Then they run by screaming NO! I wonder what the shop owner thinks. I just walk by smiling and pretending not to notice. Denial is a large part of successful parenting.

“What would you name your shop?” I asked.

The youngest would simply call her shop Tattoo, but it would be a fancy sign. My oldest, she had a different idea. She would name her tattoo shop Free Lollipop with Tattoo. I hugged her tight and giggled. Poor thing, it seems like she inherited her mom’s sense of humor.

Think of Me

Twenty-five has many different faces. I see yours, searching and wanting, trying desperately to get it right. You set off to a new city, a new life. Praying for turbulence. Wishing for comfort. Wanting to find yourself. Wanting to find a love that allows, without exception, the tenderness you feel and fear. I hope you get all of this.  I hope you get even more. 

My Birthday wish for you is simple. Don’t wait in the desert for the sun to rise. The sun will be there tomorrow.

When the time is right, and that day will come, I hope that you will wake with a small hand on your shoulder and a tiny voice enticing you:

Look. It’s so beautiful outside.

You wake from a restless sleep filled with memories of what was and wishes for what could be.  In every direction you look, it will be beautiful. You’ll find a reason to wait for the sunrise.

Then I hope, for just a second, you will think of me.

Have a Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.

Mother Mocker

Last night,

I mocked the world.

Tonight,

The world

mocks me back.

It’s alright.

Really.

I have a

sense of humor.

Usually.

:)

Paint the Moon

Don’t waste your time eating overpriced pizza with someone who would never consider you’d want to deface the moon. It’s better to sit behind an old gas station and smoke stale cigarettes with a boy that makes you think you can.

That’s a few of the sentences that have been in my head for a few months now. I can’t seem to make them any better. I don’t know how to punctuate them. I’m not sure they make any sense to anyone except me. I don’t know what to do with them and they won’t go away.

If you want to deface the moon, do not eat overpriced pizza with a man that would never consider it possible. You would do better behind an old gas station, smoking stale cigarettes, with a boy that believes the moon is within your reach.

A little better? No.  Aghh, Good enough. I suppose that’s the moral of the story.

Now for the story:

I was on my way to meet him for a first date. He was older than I was, but it was all right. My mom’s friend had set it up and he was from a good family. (By good I mean rich. I don’t want anyone to get confused because I was all moral when I started.) He wanted to go to the pizza place - the expensive one, not the good one. I was fine with that.

It could have been a nice date. We could have had a reasonably good meal and nice conversation, but that didn’t happen. He went and asked me what I was going to major in when I went to college. I told him I wasn’t sure, but I was considering architecture. He then informed me that there weren’t many good female architects. I informed him that maybe it was time for one. He laughed and made a comment about designing pink buildings. I think he thought he was funny. Maybe he would have been if I was actually studying architecture, or I was old enough to be sure about myself, or he was someone I trusted, but none of these things were true. I don’t think he realized how lucky he was my parents raised me to not make scenes in restaurants.

Let’s just say the date didn’t get better from there and I was happy to leave.

I stopped for gas on my way home. There was an old gas station just off the main road. I stopped there often because Kevin worked there. He was a friend that I trusted and he knew how to be funny. They weren’t busy, so we went behind the station to smoke a cigarette. The owner didn’t care if we smoked, but we had to pretend we didn’t want to be seen. That is a common theme that runs through small town living. As long as you are trying to hide it, it’s alright. If you flaunt it in peoples faces then they have to act upset. I’ve never understood it, but I played by the rules. We all did.

I asked Kevin what he was going to do when he got out of school. I already knew he was going to work on cars. That’s all he ever wanted to do, even when we were little. I tried to blow smoke rings and choked on the smoke. Feeling a little green, I sat down beside a pile of old tires and very quietly told him I was thinking about being an architect.

“You’d be a great architect.” He told me. “You’d build the tallest building in New York. Then you’d climb to the top and spray paint the moon.”

I sat there and giggled. “Do you think I should paint it pink?” I asked him.

He laughed like I was telling a joke, then he Elvis sneered me. We’d spent many hours of our childhood learning to do that. I sneered back. We spent a few minutes flicking ashes at each other. Then his boss started yelling and I had to go.

He left work that day to be with his girlfriend, soon to be his wife, and shortly after that the mother of his children. I went home and sat alone in a dark room and looked out the window. I was trying to decide what color I wanted to paint the moon. I finally decided I liked it just the way it was.

I Might Not Make The Cut

To the tune of Star Spangled Banner but for no apparent reason change to Away in the Manger in verse two; then I’m not sure what happens.

Ohh say I can see the bottom of the laundry pile.
My empty sink is making me smile.
The kids are all taught and the dogs have been fed.
I might even go make my bed.

I can make bread and I can make cheese
I can read a book, whatever I please.
Except I can’t ‘cuss’ and I can’t write about sex.
Because homeschool blog award will take offense.

Don’t look at my art
There might be a breast
I think my tomato post
Might not pass the test.

I’ll be disqualified if I make you think.
I’ll have to leave if I want to drink.
If I write about love it better be of God
If I want to impress I have to be a snob.

So please stay with me while I type out my list.
I am very busy I’ll tell you about this.
If you get bored then that is too bad.
I’ll follow the rules. I don’t want to make them mad.

*** Insert needle being dragged across record sound here ***

Sorry about that. I went temporarily insane after reading the rules and regulations for entry into the homeschool blog awards.

Last time I checked the people who homeschool their children are supposed to be adults. Adults are capable of reading many different views and opinions without compromising their own beliefs. Adults are capable of reading a few four-letter words without being overcome by Satan. Adults can make up their own minds about what they choose to read. They can vote or not vote for a blog as they choose. They can decide for themselves if a blogger is ‘mean’. Unless some fussbudget with a personal agenda chooses to disqualify blogs based on their own narrow-minded view of purity and correctness. Then I think maybe you are running a contest for pre-schoolers. 

Change the name.  I’m a homeschooler and your awards don’t represent me or any of the other homeschool blogs I read. 

Sing it with me! To the tune of Teletubbies:

Homeschool Blog Awards.
Homeschool Blog Awards.
Bible Thumpers, Ditsy, Blah Blah, Poo!
Amen! Amen!

Holy Cow, Satan is after me again. Run!

This post was approved by my husband as all posts by godly women should be.  Now, where’s my plumbing supply line.  My kids are getting on my nerves.

Gotten - Digital Image

“But I lost the thread there, and dozed off to slumber, thinking about what a pity it was that men with such superb strength — strength enabling them to stand up cased in cruelly burdensome iron and drenched with perspiration, and hack and batter and bang each other for six hours on a stretch — should not have been born at a time when they could put it to some useful purpose.

Take a jackass, for instance: a jackass has that kind of strength, and puts it to a useful purpose, and is valuable to this world because he is a jackass; but a nobleman is not valuable because he is a jackass. It is a mixture that is always ineffectual, and should never have been attempted in the first place. And yet, once you start a mistake, the trouble is done and you never know what is going to come of it.“

- A Connecticut Yankee by Mark Twain

No Other Word

One of the problems with living near Washington D.C. is the Redskin fans. They are weird. Weirder than the average fan some would say. They get on my nerves and they have gotten on my nerves since I was a child. Everywhere you look, Redskin stickers, flags, shirts, underwear, and umbrellas. It gets old. The attitude gets old as well. I know people who will actually take Monday off from work because they are too upset about the Redskins loosing on Sunday.

Worse yet, we can’t go out to eat when they play because the restaurant will be full of fans. They are loud and obnoxious. This isn’t a problem. The problem comes when the Redskins screw up and the loud sounds of disbelief and disgust echo through the restaurant. That’s when my children, who have been properly trained from an early age, will yell, ‘Yes! The Redskins screwed up!’ Then my husband gets that wild look. He’s wondering how many drunken rednecks I’m going to have to distract, with my naked breasts, just so he and the kids can make it safely out the door. It’s just crazy.

I don’t want you to get me wrong. I like football and I love hockey. I can understand the enthusiasm and raw passion that goes into rooting for your favorite team. I once had something of a religious experience when I snuck into sat in the front seat at a hockey game. The sound of hard male bodies crashing into the glass, the sweat flying off the heads of fervent players, the cool air from the ice mixing with the heat of anticipation was… Ok, maybe religion had nothing to do with it. Still, I understand.

Even with a great deal of understanding I couldn’t help myself when, just a few minutes ago, the Jets returned the opening kickoff for a touchdown against the Redskins, and I laughed with glee. Glee, I tell you. There is just no other word for it.

Peanut Absurdity

My daughter is allergic to peanuts and tree nuts. When we sort through the Halloween candy we are looking for peanuts not razor blades. Razor blades don’t scare me in the least. The possibility of hidden peanuts strikes fear into my heart. I always feel a little bad for her; we usually end up taking away about half her candy. She’s good about it and her sister is more than happy to share her non-peanut loot. It all works out.

The truth be told, there is something else I feel bad about. It’s the joy I feel when I take the peanut candy bag back to my room and search for my favorite nutty treats. Snickers! Almond Joy! Peanut bars!

Peanut bars? Yup, they are a traditional treat from the Old Dominion. They are like peanut brittle with a little less brittle. They are like taffy without all the chewy. Mostly, they are just good. I haven’t had one in ages. I wanted one.

I made sure the kids were occupied and snuck back to my room. The bar was cleverly hidden in the palm of my hand. Quietly I closed my door. I looked around to make sure the shades were down. Then I sat down on my bed and got ready to open the wrapper. That’s when I saw the warning.

Excuse me but, WTF?  It is a peanut bar!  It had better have peanuts.  Otherwise it wouldn’t be a Peanut bar.  The absurdity that you would have to label a peanut bar as possibly containing peanuts ruined it for me.  Almost.