I had a lot planned last weekend. Almost none of which got done. Last week the GirlChild’s legs started looking like this:

She’d been bitten by a tick a week or ten days before.  On Friday, when it appeared on her arm, I made the connection.  Duh!  Mama is slow.  It looks like she has Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

Friday evening after dinner, I called my brother.   Who called in an antibiotic and said he wanted to look at her on Saturday. And yes it is great to have someone I can call at almost any time and have him call in something to the pharmacy.  Even if he can be kind of condescending sometimes.

On Saturday we met and he said “hhhhmmmmm,” which I think is doctor speak for “what the hell?!?”  and ordered a bunch of blood tests.  We went to the hospital lab and got blood drawn, a first for her, and peed in a cup, another milestone for the GirlChild.

We’d intended to go to my Mother’s this weekend to help her with a few things. My Mother lives in a small town where they don’t have a plumber, an electrician or apparently, a handy man.   So if they have to have any kind of work done, the closest town of any size (and I use that term relatively) is probably 35-45 minutes away.  It’s expensive to get anything done because anyone doing anything wants to charge for their travel time (an understandable requirement) and there is no competition.

The last time I was there, I was surprised at the number of little things that I would have said to David, “honey, please fix that today.”  Or called someone and said, “come fix this today please for $25 or less” if it was something he couldn’t do.  I’d talked to her on the telephone about this a few weeks ago and she was going to get the things needed to make the necessary repairs and David was going to take care of them for her.

We’d intended to do that on Saturday.  But it did not happen.

Some of it was because of the blood work, but more importantly, the need to spray my yard for ticks. Ticks give me the the heeby-geebies. The last time the BoyChild had a tick, I had his pediatrician take it off.  It was just blind luck that we already had an appointment made when I noticed the tick.  David and the GirlChild were out of town that day and I’m not sure I wouldn’t have made an appointment for the pediatrician to take it off even if we hadn’t already had the appointment.

On Sunday I got up inspired and enthusiastic.  I intended to scrape the remainder of the wall paper off the bathroom walls, organize the back bedroom by getting rid of stuff, organize my threads and other stitching supplies and stitch on my ANG Auction Project.

I began with the scraping.

David has pretty much taken over the Sunday grocery shopping and menu planning from me.  I’d come to hate and despise doing it.  Though I notice he always leaves the BoyChild with me when he goes.  I ALWAYS took the BoyChild when I went.  I think that contributed to hating it so much because it is so much harder when you have an six year old in tow and one who can spin off and melt down because of the smell of the floor cleaners in the store made it even more fun.

The BoyChild “helped” me for a short while.

I actually thought he could probably do it, but he quickly tired of the task and told me it made his arms hurt and he thought he needed to go to his room and play quietly with his Legos.  Since I’m not a slave driver, I let him go. The BoyChild played nicely in the hall and talked to me.   I scraped wall paper.  And I scraped wall paper.  And I scraped wall paper.   Did I mention that this was the bathroom?  A relatively small bathroom as bathrooms go.  And I’d started scraping (and I’m actually embaressed to admit this) the wall paper off the walls almost four years ago to the day so I had about 1/3 of it already done.

I remembered why I quit scraping.   It’s hard, sweaty, messey work.

This nasty messy job was made even worse by the injury to my foot that occurred over the Fourth of July weekend. It still hurt like hell on Sunday a full 10 days after I initially hurt it. I soldiered on with the scraping and finally gave up and cleaned up the bathroom because the kids were going to have to have showers before bed and we had to have dinner.

So to recap.  I didn’t get all the wallpaper scraped off the walls in the bathroom.  I didn’t get any stitching done.  I made no progress on cleaning out my stitching stuff.  And I didn’t even think any more about the back bedroom.

Does anyone ever end up in a situation where they get everthing done that they intended?

I was looking for something else at Wikipedia today and their “featured article” was on my favorite book, To Kill a Mockingbird.  It was very interesting and I learned things I did not know before.

There is no way around it. I want an Amazon Kindle. I want to be able to carry around over 200 books in my purse. I want to pull it out and look at it while I’m waiting for a docket to start or sitting in the waiting room waiting for my kids to have their throats swabbed, or their teeth looked at or that horrible line at the drive through bank* or where ever I happen to be with an idle minute. I want to be able to download books and magazines and newspapers. I want to be able to read the first chapter of a book to decide if I want to commit to the remainder; just like I use to do in the bookstore.

Never mind that the Kindle costs $399. I could pay for more than a month’s school tuition for one of the kids. Get 10 pedicures. Get almost 16 waxes. Get three laser treatments to permanently remove that pesky facial hair I hate so much.

I’ve given away boxes and boxes of books in recent months in order to de-clutter my life. There are very few books I actually have time to read these days, much less that I have time to read more than once. I don’t have the bookshelf space to keep a lot of books. I’m not sure of the value of having a lot of books in my house when they may never get read again; as opposed to giving them to the library for their annual book sale. People will buy them for $1 each and might actually read them and give them back to the library to sell for a dollar, again, to someone else at the next sale.

I like the feel of books. I like the heft to them. I like touching and turning the pages.

But I hear the Kindle crooning to me every time I go to Amazon dot com. Enticing me with low priced books. Ones that are downloaded instantly where ever I happen to be, not just when I’m near my computer. Books that will save my place even if I use it so much I lose power and the battery dies. A book that I can’t lose or get half finished and have to return to the library because it won’t renew and my husband freaks out if he has to pay a 20 cent fine.

We make a concerted effort to use our local library. It is a beautiful place, with lots of light and a wonderful children and young adults (that group that use to be called teenagers) section and has lots and lots of lovely books. It makes me feel virtuous. I’m not spending money on books anymore. I’m using fewer resources and killing fewer trees. The library lets me sign on on my computer at home or work and reserve the books I want. They e-mail me when it arrives at the library of my choice so I can pick it up.

The other night I was on Amazon looking for the next book club book. I’m not going to buy it but some of the others in the book club do buy them and I like to give everyone an idea of what it costs and how many copies are available in our Library System. And I spied the Kindle. It’s on every page at Amazon! Searching prices for a scooter? On the right is an ad for the Kindle. Searching for Potato Flour? On the upper left is an ad for the Kindle. Never mind that I’m not even there to think about books, Amazon won’t let me come to their site without tormenting me with the Kindle.

And then yesterday? I do believe Amazon is trying to push me over the edge. They sent me an e-mail (and yes I do know that they are sending them to all of their 150 gazillion customers, not just me) telling me they had lowered the price! Oh they are intent on tormenting me.

But I have vowed to be strong. And my husband wants a new lawn mower and he probably needs it more than I need a Kindle. But when the second generation is released, I’m so there.
____________________________________
*Does this ever happen to you? Where you get pissed off that there are only three cars in the drive through at the bank yet it still is taking them for ev-arh to get those deposits processed? And you get the urge to call that bank guy up from your cell phone. You know that guy, the one they send out every six months or so to “make sure there isn’t anything more we can do to make you happy” and say “This. This is what you can do to make me happy. Sit in this horrible, stupid line for me so I can go cook dinner for my children instead of wasting my life here! Or. News-flash! Hire more people!” No? O.K. maybe it is just me; just checking.

Where have I been?

Several people have e-mailed to ask where I have been and what is going on. Since the process is almost over, I feel like I can talk about the last few months. I didn’t realize until looking at my blog, it has been almost three months since I’ve written anything.

Anyway.

I applied for a Job. A really good Job. Not just a good Job but a great Job. I filled out a long application and answered some strange and invasive questions. I gave them access to my college transcripts, my tax records, my children’s names and dates of birth, writing samples and a recent copy of my credit report.

I met with influential, and a few not so influential, people to discuss whether they would want me for The Job. And thus could support me with the group of people who decides whether my name is sent on for further consideration for The Job.

It required much talking to people to make the first cut. And I did. Make the first cut that is.

Then a new round of talking to people began, to insure I made the second cut. There was an interview with the 12 or so people who made the decision about who made the second cut. I made the second cut.

But, on that second round of talking to people, or maybe because I don’t interview well, I didn’t fare so well. I only came out on The List for one of four Jobs available. I applied for all of The Jobs. I just happened to come out for The Job which has someone in the current Job who has reapplied for The Job. Everyone agrees the guy who has The Job will get to keep The Job. At least for the next six years. The word is, the Governor told the guy who has The Job that he would reappoint him when his Job was up. And the Governor is an honorable man who, as far as I know, does what he says he will do.

So during all this process, when the State Bureau of Investigation was calling my friends, co-workers and relatives to ask about what kind of worker I was, and did I show up when I was suppose to, and was my personal life good or stormy, I worried about this blog. I went through and made some of my entries private. And I took the archive thing down so it might be harder to search it.

I stopped writing. I missed it and began thinking about other outlets for my writing.

Now? Now I have an interview with the Governor. I kind of like saying that,  “I have a meeting with the Governor next week.”   A meeting for a Job I know I’m not going to get.   A meeting for a Job the Governor knows I know I’m not going to get. A meeting for a Job I know, he knows, I know I’m not going to get. And on and on until it makes my head hurt.

To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. I didn’t cry. I don’t cry about very much, but this disappointment made me think about it. Instead I went out and bought a pack of cigarettes. The first in more than six months; I smoked about half of them before it kind of made me sick and I decided I didn’t want to do that anymore. I thought I had a good chance of actually getting one of the Jobs and while I tried to not let myself be too optimistic it had begun to creep in.

But, this is not my time.

Most, if not all, of the investigation of me is over. So it’s safe to come back and maybe throw the f-word around a little bit. I have some time to decide what I’m going to do with, or about, this blog; if anything.

Because I’m at that point where I have to smile and say, “it is simply an honor to have even been considered for The Job.”

I’m breaking my self imposed silence to talk about Survivor.

Since I decided to go underground there have been all kinds of topics running through my head to write about. And I’ve actually thought about writing them but not posting them. But I haven’t because once I get a piece worked up, I’m all “let’s hit that “post it” button” so that doesn’t work for me. Besides there are other things I need to be writing, like a piece about my father I’ve been asked to write. Do you have any idea how hard it is to write about your parents? Well trust me. It is.

Anyway.

Back to Survivor. My burning question today:

Is there a bigger moron in the history of Survivor than Erick?

I have been a Survivor fan since it first started; I’ve watched as much as my life allows of the shows. I watched Richard Hatch cavort around naked. I watched Jonathon self-destruct. And James. What can I say about James? “Ooh la la” comes to mind and then I need to wipe the drool off my chin.

I LOVE this show.

And Erick? He’s obviously never seen this show. Because he did the stupidest thing he could have possibly ever done on this show. He walked to the end of the pier with a bucket of fish guts and blood and carefully and thoughtfully poured it into the water, jumped in and asked the circling sharks to EAT.HIM.ALIVE. And they did. And he was SURPRISED!

And wasn’t James’ line about being replaced as the stupidest contestant on Survivor wonderful?

This vignette was originally published December 21, 2005

We’ve come to this time of year. To send Christmas photo cards or to not send Christmas photo cards?

I always begin with good intentions.

I take pictures of my children through the late summer and fall with an eye toward, “I wonder if this would make a good Christmas card?” I download them to my computer and put them in a special folder if they are Christmas card “worthy.” I print them out and demand my husband tell me which one is best and which one would make the best Christmas card.

And then Thanksgiving arrives.

And the cards haven’t been ordered. The background hasn’t been decided upon. Colored envelopes or white ones? No pithy message has been selected. In short, it hasn’t been done.

And then the first of December comes bearing down upon me, and I still haven’t picked a photo or a border or decided whether to have the folded kind or the postcard kind. And the message! Gack! What can I say that will be personal enough for family and friends but I can still send to people I work with?

And soon we are at that time of year when it is too late. And all those good intentions are for naught. And I put away my hopes and dreams of being organized. My plans to get my cards out on time and in an orderly fashion are dashed.

You suppose anyone has a holiday photo card available to celebrate National Prune Breakfast Month? I have the perfect picture of my kids for that.

This vignette originally appeared October 23, 2003.

I think I got dissed this weekend by the 12 year old working at the Clinique counter at the mall.

I needed some makeup, mine having reached that dreaded barren bottle status. Even leaving it balanced on its top all the time, it still wouldn’t give up anymore makeup.

Time to go talk to those perky, young, made up, cosmetic pushers.

I took my little bottle of foundation. It amazes me how many different types of makeup they have within the same line. They all have names I’m sure were meant to be descriptive but just serve to confuse me:

Gentle Light
Almost Makeup
Pore-Minimizer
Dewy Smooth Anti-Aging Makeup
Continuous Coverage
City Base Oil-Free Powder
Work-Out Makeup All Day Wear
Stay-True Makeup Oil-Free Formula
Balanced Makeup Base
Clarifying Makeup Clear Skin Formula
City Stick
City Base Compact Foundation
Superbalanced Makeup
Soft Finish Makeup
Superfit Makeup
Clarifying Powder Makeup

Even looking at the written descriptions and the shapes of the bottles on the web page, I can’t remember which one I use.

So, I showed up at the makeup counter late on a Sunday afternoon with my empty makeup bottle in my hot little hand.

It was late on a Sunday afternoon for several reasons. I’d managed to get most of the stuff I needed to do last weekend done relatively early. The GirlChild was at her BFFEIS for the afternoon. The GirlChild didn’t have a soccer game that weekend and it wasn’t because I’d prayed for rain and been rewarded for my efforts. The Boychild was napping. And the DearHusband was hanging Halloween decorations on the front porch.

I showed the teenybopper my empty bottle and she wondered away. She asked if there was anything else I needed.

Damn!

There actually was but I didn’t bring it with me.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

I weighed the chances that I’d be able to get to the mall by myself within the next few weeks. Two soccer games next weekend. The DearHusband committed to helping clean out his mother’s house. Needing to put in a few hours at the office each weekend this month. Things didn’t look good.

I decided I’d try to go it alone and describe to her what I wanted, “Powder. In the square compact. That you can carry in your purse. Not that loose stuff that gets all over the counter when you open it. Powder. In the pressed form.”

And she looked at me and smiled her cheerful, lipstick painted smile, “do you want the Stay-MatteSheerPressedPowder, theSoftFinishPressedPowder, theSuperpowderDoubleFaceMakeup or theGentleLightPressedPowder.”

I looked at her and said “Powder.” I felt like a deer, caught in the headlights of a GMC pickup truck that was full of red-necked hunters with guns and knives.

I couldn’t just go with cheap. Three of them were the same price and the more expensive one only cost a dollar or two more. I know that because I asked.

So she proceeds to explain to me the virtues of each. This one is oil absorbing. This one is moisturizing. This one absorbs light. I’m not at all clear why one would need that. One helps “cover lines, shadows and evens out skin tones” and she gave me that look that said “it’s the one you need, honey.”

I picked a powder.

They always give free miniature samples there when you buy stuff. Usually it’s nice stuff you can use but would never really buy; eye puffiness reducer, lip stuff to keep your lipstick on your lips longer, stuff to keep your eye makeup on longer. This time the toddler came out with a product called “Advanced Stop Signs” that carries the notation that it “targets lines and dark spots.”

She showed it to me and dropped it into my bag. She told me “I think you’ll lllooovvveee this.”

I don’t know how she could possibly know that. She didn’t look old enough to drive a car much less be pushing makeup to middle-aged women at the mall. She had flawless skin. The kind that doesn’t require any artificial assistance to glow. It was sweet, smooth, innocent.

I’ll admit it kind of pissed me off.

It’s bad enough that at 40 I still have acne.

It’s bad enough I have gray hairs that stick out at funny angles.

It’s bad enough that my moisturizer has the words age fighting on the front of the bottle and is called TimeWise.

It’s bad enough that I know what lines and dark spots are all about and from time to time worry about them.

It’s bad enough that I probably will lllooovvveee the product that “targets lines and dark spots.”

But she doesn’t have to rub my face in it.

This originally appeared on September 14, 2003. The GirlChild would have been about 9 and the BoyChild would have been about 15 months old. As a little background, my brother, RangerDoc, was in Afghanistan. DogDoc is my SIL and RangerDoc’s wife.

Last night the GirlChild and I were laying in her bed talking over her day.

“I’m sad.”

“How come?”

“We aren’t a family anymore.”

Since she had just returned from spending the night with DogDoc, I kinda thought I knew where this was heading.

“You and BoyChild and Daddy and I will always be a family, Sweetheart.”

“We aren’t a BIG family anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“With RangerDoc gone, we aren’t a BIG family anymore.”

“RangerDoc will only be gone a little while and when he comes back he’ll still be part of our family.”

“But what if he dies?”

Pause.

I didn’t see that coming.

“Well, I hope RangerDoc doesn’t die, and I don’t think he is going to, but if he does, we’ll all still be a family.”

“Really? Even DogDoc.”

“Yes, Sugar, especially DogDoc.”

“Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Can the BoyChild go with us to the grocery store tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.”

I’ve been busy at work lately.  I was asked to teach the Basic Bankruptcy Seminar and I’m trying to put my materials together and still work.  And.  Well something else is afoot that I can’t write about.  Nothing bad.  Just not something I can talk about here.  So in the mean time.  I’m going to re-post some of my better blog entries.  This one is from way back.  It first appeared on my blog August 16, 2003.   The BoyChild would have been about fourteen months old.

Tonight we went to Bob’s BBQ for dinner. Bob’s is in the little hamlet down the road with the college football team that adults are inordinately proud of having graduated from. Despite being a shrine for said college football team, Bob’s is a pretty good place to eat. They have southern fried catfish and a red meat extravaganza that makes my arteries harden just thinking about it.

It also has a mascot that is a tall person (I think it’s a man but it’s hard to tell) wearing a white chef’s shirt and a big pig mask who goes by the name of Bobby.

Bobby terrifies the BoyChild.

So tonight we are sitting in the dining room. I’m splitting up my salad between my kids (I often wonder how long it will be before I am the only person eating off my plate again) when the BoyChild lets out a scream that would make Jamie Lee Curtis proud.

David, the GirlChild and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Bobby. The BoyChild has spied him over the room divider. He screams. And he screams. And he screams.

Everyone in the restaurant stops talking.

The manager and waitress rush over to see what’s wrong.

The restaurant stops.

Everyone is looking at the BoyChild.

David finally figures out it’s Bobby that’s causing the shrieking and is comforting the BoyChild as best he can while he’s strapped in a high chair. The manager banishes Bobby to the back.

The BoyChild spent the rest of dinner scanning the room for Bobby, lest he sneak up on him again.

I guess Walt Disney World isn’t in our future anytime soon.

This weekend, after 5:00 Mass, we went to the mall to eat dinner.

There is this one place in the food court where the BoyChild can eat that doesn’t seem to bother him. And that’s where he wanted to eat tonight.

But today was not his potato day. So he couldn’t have the french fries and all he got to eat was meat and water. I gave him his meat and didn’t eat any of mine until he said he was full and finished and had eaten all of mine he wanted.

After we ate, David and the GirlChild decided to go to Target. The GranMa and the Baba gave the kids gift certificates for Easter (nothing says Happy Easter like money!) and it was burning a hole in the GirlChild’s pocket.

As the BoyChild and I sat at the Mall, I thought about all the things there that he couldn’t have.

He couldn’t drink the smoothies, he couldn’t eat the Chinese food or what passes for the Italian food. He could possibly eat some of the the chicken from the chicken place that has a cow for their mascot; but not the really good crunchy chicken. He couldn’t have the cookies from the cookie store. He can’t eat the ice cream dots. He can’t eat the $29 a pound chocolate candy.

And this musing led me to thinking about the things he might not be able to do.

It will be hard for him to go spend the night with a friend. Birthday parties are already a challenge. I don’t know whether he’ll be able to go to the sleepover camp the GirlChild goes to every year; I’m not sure they will be able, or willing, to deal with his food allergies.

I wondered about how he would be able to date. It seems like so much socializing, at least where we live, happens over food. In restaurants. At someone’s house.

There are just so many things his food allergies may prevent him from doing.

I’m hoping the allergy shots will work. I’m hoping he’ll out grow some of this. But I’m not really counting on either one happening.

And it was all making me a little sad.

Then he stuck his tongue out at me when I asked him to throw his plate away. I told him we couldn’t stay at the mall anymore because he was being ugly and griped at him while I marched him to the car.

He made me forget about being sad…….