I am ashamed to say that I spent most of yesterday in whine mode. I woke up yesterday with some sinus and nasal trouble, I had a list of things to do, I was a teensy bit stressed about the upcoming show, and I really felt sorry for my poor little self. I mean, what a horrible thing it is to have a head cold! There was also the fact that my older son was out of school and he and his brother had to get in some "torture time."
I went in to town and left the boys with my mom so I could do some shopping. I had five Operation Christmas Child boxes to fill before Sunday, and time was running out. For those of you who don't know what Operation Christmas Child is, I'll explain. Every year in November, churches and organizations all over the country fill up shoe boxes with toys and trinkets for children around the world who wouldn't otherwise receive anything for Christmas. It's become a tradition in my family to take part, and we all really enjoy it. This year, however, I was a little stressed about it. I had been so busy with the show that I had not had the time to spend on the project that I would have liked. The show itself was another source of stress, but I'll get to that in a minute. Anyway, I headed out to find stuff for the shoe boxes, but I wasn't in a very "Christmasy" mood. I felt sick and stressed and really just wanted to sit down and cry.
Something occurred to me though. I really have little to whine about. I have a cold. Boo hoo. I could be so much sicker. My kids could be ill, but they're not. They're healthy enough to run wild and drive me crazy. And they need absolutely nothing. They're some of the fortunate ones who'll (hopefully) never have to make do with a shoe box full of odds and ends. I should be thankful that I'm the one filling the shoe boxes and not the one waiting and praying for a Christmas miracle.
This always seems to happen to me around this time of year. I get to the point where I'm so focused inward that I can't see all the blessings that have been laid at my feet. Sure, there's tons to do, but at least I'm strong and well enough to do it. Things could be so much worse! My schedule is currently jam-packed with holiday activities, and instead of worrying myself into a tizzy over the upcoming Christmas Tea, I should just chill and be glad I'm surrounded by loving friends and family.
As for the show, I'm feeling better about that too. We had a good final rehearsal last night, and I think everything will come together. If not, well... it's been a blast anyway. I should take a cue from the characters in the show. They're all simple folks, but they do extraordinary things when the people and places they love are threatened. Family and community is a huge part of their lives, and they are all willing to fight for them.
I really live a charmed life. I don't have much to legitimately worry about. I'm not rich, but my family never goes without food. My house is warm and peaceful. My country has problems, but it's still the greatest country in the world. My family will all be together for the holidays.
I'll probably end up stressed and whiny a few more times before the New Year, but I'm only human. I hope I'll take another minute to think about how blessed I really am.
***A special note of thanks to some folks who helped me put things back into perspective yesterday:
*The man in the store who stopped me and told me how good God is. Yes sir, He sure is.
*My husband who has taken over as Mom and Dad so I could do the show. You rock, Baby!
*My little Paulie who requested prayer for me at church last night.
*My cast mates who made me laugh even when I didn't feel like it.
*God for reminding me of all the blessings that I don't deserve but He has given me anyway.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Life Without the Magic Box
Last week was one of the longest weeks of my life. Not only was I sick and medicated within an inch of my life, my computer was gone. There was an empty space in the little cubby-hole where the thing usually sits and a sad little jumble of wires and cords beneath the computer desk.
I didn't realize how much of my life was on that machine until it was gone. Everything, I mean EVERYTHING is on my computer: my calendar, my phone book, my address book, news, weather, personal communications, work... Suddenly, I was cut off from the entire world. I didn't know how to get in touch with anyone. Sure, I have a phone, but what good is it when all my phone numbers are stored on my computer? I didn't have a clue about what was going on in the world. I couldn't even check the weather without turning on the television and waiting for a weather report. How archaic!
By Saturday, I had an irresistable urge to draw charcoal pictures of mastodons on my living- room walls. Luckily, there was football to satisfy my new itch for primitive violence. But even with Bama giving Tennessee what-for, I was disappointed that I couldn't post snide remarks about the game on Facebook.
Yesterday, my little friend returned. I was overjoyed when that big blue button lit up and it whirred to life once more. I spent the next hour or so dealing with a back-log of email and Facebook updates. I read the news. I checked the weather. I updated my Yahoo! avatar. It felt goooooood.
Welcome home, oh prodigal PC. Don't ever leave me again and force me to buy actual newspapers and watch the Weather Channel. You and coffee and a kiss from my husband begin my day. Stay and keep me informed and connected. I will keep you dusted and protected from surges. I promise.
I didn't realize how much of my life was on that machine until it was gone. Everything, I mean EVERYTHING is on my computer: my calendar, my phone book, my address book, news, weather, personal communications, work... Suddenly, I was cut off from the entire world. I didn't know how to get in touch with anyone. Sure, I have a phone, but what good is it when all my phone numbers are stored on my computer? I didn't have a clue about what was going on in the world. I couldn't even check the weather without turning on the television and waiting for a weather report. How archaic!
By Saturday, I had an irresistable urge to draw charcoal pictures of mastodons on my living- room walls. Luckily, there was football to satisfy my new itch for primitive violence. But even with Bama giving Tennessee what-for, I was disappointed that I couldn't post snide remarks about the game on Facebook.
Yesterday, my little friend returned. I was overjoyed when that big blue button lit up and it whirred to life once more. I spent the next hour or so dealing with a back-log of email and Facebook updates. I read the news. I checked the weather. I updated my Yahoo! avatar. It felt goooooood.
Welcome home, oh prodigal PC. Don't ever leave me again and force me to buy actual newspapers and watch the Weather Channel. You and coffee and a kiss from my husband begin my day. Stay and keep me informed and connected. I will keep you dusted and protected from surges. I promise.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
To the Glory That Was...Goth?
Tomorrow is the 160th anniversary of the death of Edgar Allan Poe. In honor of this event I decided to decorate another web page with pictures and other graphics featuring Poe. While searching through numerous picture hosting sites for said pictures and graphics, I found myself growing increasingly agitated by the number of idiots in black that have laid claim to dear Eddy. How the he... heck did he become an icon to goths and emos? Sure, he was a bit dark, but I doubt that if he lived today he would be shopping at Hot Topic.
Why do these Depeche Mode-listening, black lipstick-wearing, combat boot-sporting, posers think they have a right to assume that he belongs to them? They tattoo "Nevermore" on various parts of their pale bodies and spout "The Raven" every chance they get (mainly because it's the only poem of his that they know.) They know nothing about the man, but somehow he is the poster boy for their movement.
FYI, freaks. Poe was not a goth. He would probably look at you guys and think, 'Wow, that's weird.' Yes, I know he wrote strange, twisted stuff, but that hardly qualifies him to start wearing eye-liner. He also wrote lovely, sweet, even humorous things.
And don't let the pictures fool you, emo kids. If you had to sit perfectly still for up to five minutes just to have your photograph taken, you would look a bit unhappy and droopy too.
The point of this rant is not to slam goths or emos. If that's what you guys want to do with your lives, that's your business. Just learn something about the people you take as idols. You may find out that they have nothing whatsoever in common with who you are or pretend to be. And when someone asks you who your favorite poet is, don't say Poe. Throw them for a loop and say Emily Dickinson.
Why do these Depeche Mode-listening, black lipstick-wearing, combat boot-sporting, posers think they have a right to assume that he belongs to them? They tattoo "Nevermore" on various parts of their pale bodies and spout "The Raven" every chance they get (mainly because it's the only poem of his that they know.) They know nothing about the man, but somehow he is the poster boy for their movement.
FYI, freaks. Poe was not a goth. He would probably look at you guys and think, 'Wow, that's weird.' Yes, I know he wrote strange, twisted stuff, but that hardly qualifies him to start wearing eye-liner. He also wrote lovely, sweet, even humorous things.
And don't let the pictures fool you, emo kids. If you had to sit perfectly still for up to five minutes just to have your photograph taken, you would look a bit unhappy and droopy too.
The point of this rant is not to slam goths or emos. If that's what you guys want to do with your lives, that's your business. Just learn something about the people you take as idols. You may find out that they have nothing whatsoever in common with who you are or pretend to be. And when someone asks you who your favorite poet is, don't say Poe. Throw them for a loop and say Emily Dickinson.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Dear God...
Remember when I prayed for patience? Yeah, well I take that back. What I want now is a maid service. Or a carpet shampooer. Or maybe just a bathtub full of Calgon.
Paulie is an adorable child. He's got a head full of sweet curls, and big brown eyes that will just make you melt. He looks like a cross between an angel and the world's cutest puppy. The only problem is the angel is Lucifer and the puppy is Cerberus.
Okay, maybe that's a tad dramatic. After all, he's not a really a hellian. He just seems to find/attract mischief. So far, we've had to tie the fridge closed to keep him from trying to make another omelet in the living room. We've had to put doorknob covers on the door to the pantry to keep him from helping himself to oatmeal and uncooked macaroni. We've had to tie up the kitchen cabinets, lock the screen door, and move any furniture that can be used to climb to the tops of the counters.
Today, while I was doing laundry, Paulie discovered my container of coffee mate. It ended up being dumped in the sink and in the floor in his bedroom. It looked like Lindsay Lohan sneezed in there. I put him in the Time-Out chair and he was so pitiful. He said, "But Mommy, I don't wanna be in trouble. I'll be nice!" I didn't break though. I made him sit there, and then we had a little chat about making messes and getting into stuff without asking. He came to me later with those big brown eyes and said, "Mommy, I'm sorry I made a mess. Are we still friends?"
What do I do with that? I gave him a big hug and told him that I would always be his friend. He slipped away happily to watch Yo Gabba Gabba, and was left wondering what I can do with my little angel/demon. Sometimes I swear, he's going to make me lose my marbles. He'll drive me to my absolute breaking point, and just before I check myself into the loony-bin, he comes to me and turns on the charm.
He's a handful, but I honestly wouldn't trade him. He's full of mischief, but he's also full of music and humor and sweetness. He's a funny little guy and I never cease to be amazed by him.
Amazed and exhausted.
Paulie is an adorable child. He's got a head full of sweet curls, and big brown eyes that will just make you melt. He looks like a cross between an angel and the world's cutest puppy. The only problem is the angel is Lucifer and the puppy is Cerberus.
Okay, maybe that's a tad dramatic. After all, he's not a really a hellian. He just seems to find/attract mischief. So far, we've had to tie the fridge closed to keep him from trying to make another omelet in the living room. We've had to put doorknob covers on the door to the pantry to keep him from helping himself to oatmeal and uncooked macaroni. We've had to tie up the kitchen cabinets, lock the screen door, and move any furniture that can be used to climb to the tops of the counters.
Today, while I was doing laundry, Paulie discovered my container of coffee mate. It ended up being dumped in the sink and in the floor in his bedroom. It looked like Lindsay Lohan sneezed in there. I put him in the Time-Out chair and he was so pitiful. He said, "But Mommy, I don't wanna be in trouble. I'll be nice!" I didn't break though. I made him sit there, and then we had a little chat about making messes and getting into stuff without asking. He came to me later with those big brown eyes and said, "Mommy, I'm sorry I made a mess. Are we still friends?"
What do I do with that? I gave him a big hug and told him that I would always be his friend. He slipped away happily to watch Yo Gabba Gabba, and was left wondering what I can do with my little angel/demon. Sometimes I swear, he's going to make me lose my marbles. He'll drive me to my absolute breaking point, and just before I check myself into the loony-bin, he comes to me and turns on the charm.
He's a handful, but I honestly wouldn't trade him. He's full of mischief, but he's also full of music and humor and sweetness. He's a funny little guy and I never cease to be amazed by him.
Amazed and exhausted.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Tee hee! I Said Duty!
Yesterday I had my first experience with the American court system. I was called for jury duty. At five-thirty (also known as the butt-crack of dawn) yesterday morning, I got in my car and drove for about an hour to a federal building a few cities over. I had no idea what to expect, but my husband had prepared me a bit for the experience.
"Take a book," he told me. I did. I took my brand-spanking new Poe biography (number 15 in the Poe book collection.) It's about as thick as a family Bible, so I figured it would last me for a while. Funny, how authors can stretch 40 years over 700+ pages.
"You should probably take a sweater," advised my husband. I wasn't so sure about that one. After all, this is August in the south where the average low is about 96 degrees. I ended up taking my little white zip-up sweater, and I was glad I did. Apparently, the Federal Court system is run by polar bears who must maintain arctic temperatures at all times. Don't listen to Noah Wyle. The polar bears aren't dying out; they're just becoming judges. Of course, the thermostat may have been lowered in order to keep the reptilian lawyers from becoming too warm and lethargic.
"They may not even choose you," my husband told me. Again, he was correct. After sitting for about two-and-a-half hours, answering a boat-load of personal questions, and reading about three chapters of my book, I was excused. Yippee.
I was really pretty happy about not being chosen, though the whole process bore a painful resemblance to team picking in fifth grade PE. Still, I didn't have to get up before the chickens this morning and endure a long day on an extremely uncomfortable wooden chair listening to an extremely boring civil suit. And I still get paid for yesterday, 55 cents for every round-trip mile, and an attendance fee on top of that.
When I get my check, maybe I'll buy book number 16.
"Take a book," he told me. I did. I took my brand-spanking new Poe biography (number 15 in the Poe book collection.) It's about as thick as a family Bible, so I figured it would last me for a while. Funny, how authors can stretch 40 years over 700+ pages.
"You should probably take a sweater," advised my husband. I wasn't so sure about that one. After all, this is August in the south where the average low is about 96 degrees. I ended up taking my little white zip-up sweater, and I was glad I did. Apparently, the Federal Court system is run by polar bears who must maintain arctic temperatures at all times. Don't listen to Noah Wyle. The polar bears aren't dying out; they're just becoming judges. Of course, the thermostat may have been lowered in order to keep the reptilian lawyers from becoming too warm and lethargic.
"They may not even choose you," my husband told me. Again, he was correct. After sitting for about two-and-a-half hours, answering a boat-load of personal questions, and reading about three chapters of my book, I was excused. Yippee.
I was really pretty happy about not being chosen, though the whole process bore a painful resemblance to team picking in fifth grade PE. Still, I didn't have to get up before the chickens this morning and endure a long day on an extremely uncomfortable wooden chair listening to an extremely boring civil suit. And I still get paid for yesterday, 55 cents for every round-trip mile, and an attendance fee on top of that.
When I get my check, maybe I'll buy book number 16.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
School Daze
Rant Warning!
I spent the better part of this morning getting my son registered for fourth grade. He's transferring this year, so I had to drive 30+ miles to his old school to pick up his shot records, report card, test scores, etc. That wasn't a problem though.
No, the problem was the manila folder I was given at the school to which he'll be transferring. I counted on paperwork. I knew I would have to fill out address forms and emergency contact forms and allergy notification forms. I didn't count on having to fill out a dozen forms explaining that my children and I do not live in a tent or camper, we are not migrant workers, and English is the official language in our home.
Okay, I know there are cases when such things are needful, but come on! What the heck? I was so tempted to fill out the forms stating that I am a traveling gypsy, that I speak only Swahili, and I live in a van down by the river.
I just want to put my kid in fourth grade, not apply for a government bailout. Maybe all those forms are just to help the folks who really have had it rough in this sucky economy, but do I really need to fill them all out? Maybe I should just ignore it and be thankful that I can look at those forms and be mildly annoyed. I am pretty blessed, after all.
No, Mr. Board of Education man, I don't need you to give my child free lunches. No, we live in a nice, cozy house down by the lake. No, we all speak fluent English (Paulie knows some Spanish and Chinese.) No, we have reliable transportation. Yes, my children are in a safe home environment. Sure, I can donate some crayons and scissors. You're welcome.
End Rant.
I spent the better part of this morning getting my son registered for fourth grade. He's transferring this year, so I had to drive 30+ miles to his old school to pick up his shot records, report card, test scores, etc. That wasn't a problem though.
No, the problem was the manila folder I was given at the school to which he'll be transferring. I counted on paperwork. I knew I would have to fill out address forms and emergency contact forms and allergy notification forms. I didn't count on having to fill out a dozen forms explaining that my children and I do not live in a tent or camper, we are not migrant workers, and English is the official language in our home.
Okay, I know there are cases when such things are needful, but come on! What the heck? I was so tempted to fill out the forms stating that I am a traveling gypsy, that I speak only Swahili, and I live in a van down by the river.
I just want to put my kid in fourth grade, not apply for a government bailout. Maybe all those forms are just to help the folks who really have had it rough in this sucky economy, but do I really need to fill them all out? Maybe I should just ignore it and be thankful that I can look at those forms and be mildly annoyed. I am pretty blessed, after all.
No, Mr. Board of Education man, I don't need you to give my child free lunches. No, we live in a nice, cozy house down by the lake. No, we all speak fluent English (Paulie knows some Spanish and Chinese.) No, we have reliable transportation. Yes, my children are in a safe home environment. Sure, I can donate some crayons and scissors. You're welcome.
End Rant.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Men Are From Mars, Little Boys Are From Planet Spaz
Little boys are funny. Like funny ha-ha, and funny weird. My boys are especially...er, unique. The older one is quite the dramatist. I don't know where he gets that. He can't bear to make a mistake, or do something wrong. If he does break a rule, it eats at him until he must confess, even if no one knows about it but him. The confessions themselves are elaborate productions involving many tears and sighs. It's hard to be angry when the child drapes his arm dramatically across his forehead and proclaims, "I admit it! I did it!"
The younger one could hardly care less about rules and regulations. He just wants to have a good time. We've recently had to purchase those white plastic things that go over the doorknobs to keep him out of the pantry. He likes to help himself to oatmeal and uncooked macaroni.
He got a big-boy bed for his birthday, and that has posed its own challenges. I decided to put one of those door-knob thingies on the knob inside his room to keep him from getting out and roaming around the house and possibly the neighborhood. He can't get out now, but the other day he decided to channel his inner rock star and trashed his room. And by trashed, I mean TRASHED. He pulled the mattress up out of his bed and tore off the sheets. He overturned all of his shoe and toy boxes. He found a container of baby powder and made it snow all over every surface in his room.
I put him in his Time-Out chair until I could get the mess cleaned up. He sputtered and sobbed and told me how sorry he was and that he would never make a big mess again. I let him get up, and he ran into the livingroom where he proceeded to tear all the tissues out of the tissue box.
For the most part, my boys are very well-behaved. They are polite and well-mannered. The little one is at that stage where he wants to challenge authority, but he's usually a very sweet little guy. The other day he informed me that I am his "girl." He loves to play a game that my oldest and I made up when he was little, called "I Love You More Than..." We take turns telling each other what we love each other more than. For example, I'll say, "I love you more than chocolate sauce." And he'll say, "I love you more than baby monkeys." It's very sweet.
Boys can be challenging. They don't sit and play quietly with dolls or tea sets like a lot of little girls do. Boys like to run around and take things apart and see how stuff works. Boys like to make mud and get really, REALLY dirty. Boys are noisy, and wild, and completely...well they're wonderful.
*At least the little guy's room now has that new baby smell.*
The younger one could hardly care less about rules and regulations. He just wants to have a good time. We've recently had to purchase those white plastic things that go over the doorknobs to keep him out of the pantry. He likes to help himself to oatmeal and uncooked macaroni.
He got a big-boy bed for his birthday, and that has posed its own challenges. I decided to put one of those door-knob thingies on the knob inside his room to keep him from getting out and roaming around the house and possibly the neighborhood. He can't get out now, but the other day he decided to channel his inner rock star and trashed his room. And by trashed, I mean TRASHED. He pulled the mattress up out of his bed and tore off the sheets. He overturned all of his shoe and toy boxes. He found a container of baby powder and made it snow all over every surface in his room.
I put him in his Time-Out chair until I could get the mess cleaned up. He sputtered and sobbed and told me how sorry he was and that he would never make a big mess again. I let him get up, and he ran into the livingroom where he proceeded to tear all the tissues out of the tissue box.
For the most part, my boys are very well-behaved. They are polite and well-mannered. The little one is at that stage where he wants to challenge authority, but he's usually a very sweet little guy. The other day he informed me that I am his "girl." He loves to play a game that my oldest and I made up when he was little, called "I Love You More Than..." We take turns telling each other what we love each other more than. For example, I'll say, "I love you more than chocolate sauce." And he'll say, "I love you more than baby monkeys." It's very sweet.
Boys can be challenging. They don't sit and play quietly with dolls or tea sets like a lot of little girls do. Boys like to run around and take things apart and see how stuff works. Boys like to make mud and get really, REALLY dirty. Boys are noisy, and wild, and completely...well they're wonderful.
*At least the little guy's room now has that new baby smell.*
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