My husband tried to sneak in a kiss on the lips this morning before he had brushed his teeth.
I've been on my guard pretty much the rest of the day.
I stepped out in sweat pants with my highschool logo on them while simultaniously wearing a Twilight apron. My shame knows my bounds. But all I did was go to Walmart, where I fit right in. I did stop off to get another diet coke, but Janelle, the convienence store lady, had already seen me twice, today, in my leopard print slippers that I bought AT a grocery store IN Idaho.
Again, shame...no bounds...
My day really was going quite marvelously. I was watching the 6 hour version of Pride and Prejudice while clobbering my laundry pile. Calvin bounced in and out and around me and Kelly and I were being pithy and smug in our texts. Who could ask for more?
But then I ran out of fabric softener.
Hence the speedy jaunt to Walmart. Where my happiness was sucked right out of me. Between the squeaky, way-ward shopping cart that left my right bicep sore from trying to force the cart foreward and not into the lady wheeling her oxygen tank round, I was done. My cocoon of bliss at home awaited me. But so did the bell ringer and a petition signer.
The petition guy got me first.
Would I sign a ballot measure to legalize marijuana?
No. "Sorry", I said, "But my husband is law enforcement and he catches so many of the worst guys because they have a small amount of drugs on them."
SPeaking of drugs, which we were, the petition guy looked like he had smoked a bit in his time because clearly my words were too much for him. He looked at me, said, "Dude" and then I said, "Dude" and I went on my less than merry way.
My husband called while I was driving. He had stopped off at the house for lunch... how was I doing... what's new.... He was interested in what I had to say until I got to the, "I bought a different kind of fabric softener. Purple Fusion Snuggle. It was on sale." I knew he had checked out at that point so I threw in, "I read a great article about Karma Sutra. I can't wait for you to get home."
He was back.
I admitted my lie. We hung up.
On the way home, I got a fresh 54 ounces of liquid love. When I got home, I unloaded my purchases and went back to Mr. Darcy just as he asked Elizabeth if her feelings were unchanged.
Almost immediately, I was better. And then my mother in law texted me to tell me she had just ordered me 3 new pairs of shoes and went on to say that "it was a lucky day for us when you came into our family."
Wow, right?
I know!
And by the time Elizabeth and Darcy and Jane and Bingley became man and wife, it was time to take my daughter to ballet. So I snuck into the kitchen, hid the big bag of Cheetos inside my coat, grabbed my drink and told the boys I would be back.
Then I sat in my car, fingers orange and coated and salty and debated, with Kelly, the pros and cons of giving a bidet as a holiday gift.
All in all, a great day.
P.S. For $200 more, The Brondell Swash 1000 has a warm air dryer and an automatic deodorizer. Something to think about.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
Angel of Music
I had a post for you.
It was about the time, last week, when my husband took me on a frozen yogurt run, and I had Phantom of the Opera on in the car.
I told him I would totally bescreeching singing if he weren't in the car with me.
And then he told me to go for it and then for whatever reason I cranked the music up so loud it was nearly painful. And then I added more pain to the mix by singing.
And then, in my post, I went on to tell you how he hit a bump in the road (which coincided nicely with me slaughtering Christine's plea for the Angel of Music to hide no longer) and that I told him his bad drving messed up my vibrado.
It was hilarious.
To me.
But the post was lame.
So I deleted it.
And was bummed that I wasted 32 minutes at the computer with nothing to show for it.
So I clicked this bit out for you.
My apologies.
My writing is nearly as bad as my singing.
No it isn't.
But my dancing is....
It was about the time, last week, when my husband took me on a frozen yogurt run, and I had Phantom of the Opera on in the car.
I told him I would totally be
And then he told me to go for it and then for whatever reason I cranked the music up so loud it was nearly painful. And then I added more pain to the mix by singing.
And then, in my post, I went on to tell you how he hit a bump in the road (which coincided nicely with me slaughtering Christine's plea for the Angel of Music to hide no longer) and that I told him his bad drving messed up my vibrado.
It was hilarious.
To me.
But the post was lame.
So I deleted it.
And was bummed that I wasted 32 minutes at the computer with nothing to show for it.
So I clicked this bit out for you.
My apologies.
My writing is nearly as bad as my singing.
No it isn't.
But my dancing is....
Monday, October 17, 2011
I Was Only Dreamin'
Do you know that song? It may be, in my ever so humble opinion, the best song to come out of the 80's. I fondly recall having a 45 record, A RECORD, of that song. I played it on my JCPenny stereo that was roughly the size of a bookcase.
Sweet, right?
I mention that lovely ditty because it sets the mood for this post. I have had bizarre dreams as of late and I could really use some deciphering.
The other night, Saturday night, I had a dream where Kelsey Grammer (Fraiser... ex-hubby of Camille from RHWOBH..if you don't know that acronym, let's just end this relationship now, K?) saw me at a soiree and approached and did the kiss on the cheek thing. Soooo Hollywood. BUT, in addition, he placed his hand squarely, confidently even, on my boob. And as he stepped out of the kiss, his hand remained in place.
I was freaked out inside but tried to seem low key. And the dream faded out.
What's that all about?
I have had several weird dreams before the Frasier-Feel-Me-Up. By far the most disturbing and bizarre one started with me, in my bed, sheets askew and my husband dead asllep next to me. I distinctly recall I was wearing huge, HUGE white granny panties (which I may or may not actually own) and a hot pink satin bra (again...may or may not).
I was trying to wake my husband up by sort of rolling him back and forth. No go.
I was pushing him with my leg, calling his name, nothing was working.
Then I noticed my bed was smack dab in the middle of a cubicle maze on some non-descript floor of a non-descript office.
I looked around, acutely aware of myself, half naked, surrounded by people. I noted with relief that no one noticed me and my bed and my granny panties.
And then I saw one guy, waaaay across the room. He saw me, dropped his pen, pivoted his body towards me ever so slightly and folded his arms on his desk and settled in for a good stare.
Creepy.
And what did I do? I nervously and slowly pulled my sheet up to cover my hot pink bra. And then (help me, please, help me understand myself!) I looked to my right and picked a cheesy, delicious nacho off of the enormous pile of nachos that materialized right when I needed them most.
Fruedian wanna-bes, have at it. What does any of this mean?
Sweet, right?
I mention that lovely ditty because it sets the mood for this post. I have had bizarre dreams as of late and I could really use some deciphering.
The other night, Saturday night, I had a dream where Kelsey Grammer (Fraiser... ex-hubby of Camille from RHWOBH..if you don't know that acronym, let's just end this relationship now, K?) saw me at a soiree and approached and did the kiss on the cheek thing. Soooo Hollywood. BUT, in addition, he placed his hand squarely, confidently even, on my boob. And as he stepped out of the kiss, his hand remained in place.
I was freaked out inside but tried to seem low key. And the dream faded out.
What's that all about?
I have had several weird dreams before the Frasier-Feel-Me-Up. By far the most disturbing and bizarre one started with me, in my bed, sheets askew and my husband dead asllep next to me. I distinctly recall I was wearing huge, HUGE white granny panties (which I may or may not actually own) and a hot pink satin bra (again...may or may not).
I was trying to wake my husband up by sort of rolling him back and forth. No go.
I was pushing him with my leg, calling his name, nothing was working.
Then I noticed my bed was smack dab in the middle of a cubicle maze on some non-descript floor of a non-descript office.
I looked around, acutely aware of myself, half naked, surrounded by people. I noted with relief that no one noticed me and my bed and my granny panties.
And then I saw one guy, waaaay across the room. He saw me, dropped his pen, pivoted his body towards me ever so slightly and folded his arms on his desk and settled in for a good stare.
Creepy.
And what did I do? I nervously and slowly pulled my sheet up to cover my hot pink bra. And then (help me, please, help me understand myself!) I looked to my right and picked a cheesy, delicious nacho off of the enormous pile of nachos that materialized right when I needed them most.
Fruedian wanna-bes, have at it. What does any of this mean?
Friday, October 14, 2011
The Constant Companionship of Critcism and Insecurity
I'm a year older.
And I feel about 100 years wiser. Last year was a rough year, to put it mildly. But it's a year that I wouldn't change. Maybe when I'm old and arthrictic to the point that my fingers curl in on themselves, this will be the year that I describe as the year that I really, really learned to liked myself. Even if it came about as a survival skill.
Things started to go down hill last Halloween. I remember it vividly because I was smack-dab in the middle of hot glue-ing spanish moss to my son's camoflouge pants. (Think gilly suit, people). My emotional demise started with a phone call. A really long phone call about how terrible I am. It escalated to public confrontations, continued in emails, spanned 9 months and all the while was coated with other people asking me what was happening because they were told....blah, blah, blech. There was a final nail in my emotional coffin but really, at that point, I was already an insecure shell of my former happy self so it didn't quite sting as much as you'd think.
The worst part was this was all unfolding at church. Church: a place to learn bout kindness and compassion; understanding and charity. It's like when you are watching the news and you hear about a crime. And then to find that crime was committed by a police officer- someone who holds themselves up to be an example of what they say. This was something like that. Being church associates made it that much more dissapointing.
Kelly was my constant sounding board. I told her everything and she told me that what was hapening was unfair, untrue and below the belt. It felt nice to have my ego stroked. Or my goodness reaffirmed. As the problem got bigger and messier, word got out. My Massachusetts friends that knew were great, phenominal even. But there's only so much you can do for someone who has decided that leaving her home is optional.
And my husband, well, he was my rock. I could write a book on all of the tender ways he cared for me and protected me. Sitting next to me at church, he resembled more of a pitbull than the jovial husband he has always been. It was like you had to get thru him to get to me. I felt so protected by him. At home he would vent his frustrations with their behavior and he would make sweeping declarations of their character. Oddly, I would defend them in ways and try to justify, on some level, why they treated me the way they did. When I had made all the excuses for them that I could, I came up with a story in my head that maybe so-and-so was beaten severly and often by someone who looked like me and so years of pain and heartache bubbled up when I was around. Like they had no choice in hating me.
How could I not understand?
And let's be clear, this trick only came about after spending way too much time blaming myself for their bad behavior. Because, if you haven't already learned, criticism is merely the wrapping paper. The true gift is insecurity.
But I'm not saying I didn't laugh when my husband joked about "no-fly lists" and "full cavity searches" for our special friends. It wasn't a belly laugh. More of a pityfull laugh while the tears flowed. So that makes it OK.
Because, despite my wicked wit and sharp tongue, I am a tender hearted girl. I don't understand cruelty or meaness. Of course I have said and done things that have hurt others. Those are the moments of life that I hate the most. But I have never set out to bring someone down or tear them apart. And I don't ever remember a time when someone did that to me...not even highschool or jr. high...those trecherous years when bad behavior seems the norm...even then I was handed kindness on a plate and told to eat it up.
I did. And I do.
I'm the first to blame myself so criticism fells like, "I knew it. I knew I sucked."
This was the first time in life that someone was force feeding me anger and hatred and telling my small world know how much I deserved it.
Not fun.
And again, mixing church stuff with this only complicated matters.
But it brought powerful rewards. Each time I got the wind knocked out of me, someone would come out of the woodwork with an unexpected kind word. A perfect example was a Sunday when there had been an issue; church was over and I was walking to the car with all of my bags. I was trying to get to the car in one piece and just as I got close, my husband got out and came around to open my door and take my bags. At the same time a guy from church came up. I opened my mouth to thank him for the really beautiful lesson he had given about service. In the lesson, he got quite emotional as he thanked members in the class who cared for and taught his teenagers and young children. It was so heartfelt and genuine...just loveliness at it's best. I was sitting alone, in the back (don't know where my attack dog was) and I was hardly keeping it together. You see, I can never let anyone cry alone. So as he spoke and was moved to tears, I cried, too.
And here, in the parking lot, was my chance to thank him for such a fabulous class. But before I could get it out, he was extending a hand to my husband and talking about his class. And he was confiding to my husband that, as he was discussing the lesson on Christ-Like service, he said (and I hope I never forget his words) "I was looking out across the room and I saw your sweet wife and I thought to myself, 'Who serves more than her?' " And he added, "So I just sort of went off on a tangent."
I would have never guessed I had anything to do with his impromtu speech.
It was like a tender mercy dropped down to let me know that I'm not scum, at least not in everyone's eyes.
And it's been my experience that every time something happened that cut through me, something even more loving and kind came from somewhere unexpected. It was like the universe was puting it's finger under my chin, forcing my eyes upwards and saying, "You can do this, kiddo."
And I did it. With class, if I do say so myself. I never bit back or said the sarcastic, snarky things that I could have in those moments when I was being emotionally fillet-ed (how in the heck do you spell fillet in the past tense??).
There is so much more to this story. There was one night when I went to tuck my daughter in and she was crying. She said that she knew what that family was doing to me and that, seeing the way I was handling things made her feel like she could handle the mean girls at school.
That night my tears were tears of gratitude.
Needless to say, when the call came asking if we'd like to relocate, again, it was a tender mercy. One that said, "You've done well. You've been through enough. I knew you could do it. And now, so do you."
For that bit of knowledge, I will be forever grateful. Makes it worth it all. And besides, my hair that I lost is growing in nicely.
So Happy Birthday to me! I really like me. And I really like you.
I hope the feeling is mutual.
And I feel about 100 years wiser. Last year was a rough year, to put it mildly. But it's a year that I wouldn't change. Maybe when I'm old and arthrictic to the point that my fingers curl in on themselves, this will be the year that I describe as the year that I really, really learned to liked myself. Even if it came about as a survival skill.
Things started to go down hill last Halloween. I remember it vividly because I was smack-dab in the middle of hot glue-ing spanish moss to my son's camoflouge pants. (Think gilly suit, people). My emotional demise started with a phone call. A really long phone call about how terrible I am. It escalated to public confrontations, continued in emails, spanned 9 months and all the while was coated with other people asking me what was happening because they were told....blah, blah, blech. There was a final nail in my emotional coffin but really, at that point, I was already an insecure shell of my former happy self so it didn't quite sting as much as you'd think.
The worst part was this was all unfolding at church. Church: a place to learn bout kindness and compassion; understanding and charity. It's like when you are watching the news and you hear about a crime. And then to find that crime was committed by a police officer- someone who holds themselves up to be an example of what they say. This was something like that. Being church associates made it that much more dissapointing.
Kelly was my constant sounding board. I told her everything and she told me that what was hapening was unfair, untrue and below the belt. It felt nice to have my ego stroked. Or my goodness reaffirmed. As the problem got bigger and messier, word got out. My Massachusetts friends that knew were great, phenominal even. But there's only so much you can do for someone who has decided that leaving her home is optional.
And my husband, well, he was my rock. I could write a book on all of the tender ways he cared for me and protected me. Sitting next to me at church, he resembled more of a pitbull than the jovial husband he has always been. It was like you had to get thru him to get to me. I felt so protected by him. At home he would vent his frustrations with their behavior and he would make sweeping declarations of their character. Oddly, I would defend them in ways and try to justify, on some level, why they treated me the way they did. When I had made all the excuses for them that I could, I came up with a story in my head that maybe so-and-so was beaten severly and often by someone who looked like me and so years of pain and heartache bubbled up when I was around. Like they had no choice in hating me.
How could I not understand?
And let's be clear, this trick only came about after spending way too much time blaming myself for their bad behavior. Because, if you haven't already learned, criticism is merely the wrapping paper. The true gift is insecurity.
But I'm not saying I didn't laugh when my husband joked about "no-fly lists" and "full cavity searches" for our special friends. It wasn't a belly laugh. More of a pityfull laugh while the tears flowed. So that makes it OK.
Because, despite my wicked wit and sharp tongue, I am a tender hearted girl. I don't understand cruelty or meaness. Of course I have said and done things that have hurt others. Those are the moments of life that I hate the most. But I have never set out to bring someone down or tear them apart. And I don't ever remember a time when someone did that to me...not even highschool or jr. high...those trecherous years when bad behavior seems the norm...even then I was handed kindness on a plate and told to eat it up.
I did. And I do.
I'm the first to blame myself so criticism fells like, "I knew it. I knew I sucked."
This was the first time in life that someone was force feeding me anger and hatred and telling my small world know how much I deserved it.
Not fun.
And again, mixing church stuff with this only complicated matters.
But it brought powerful rewards. Each time I got the wind knocked out of me, someone would come out of the woodwork with an unexpected kind word. A perfect example was a Sunday when there had been an issue; church was over and I was walking to the car with all of my bags. I was trying to get to the car in one piece and just as I got close, my husband got out and came around to open my door and take my bags. At the same time a guy from church came up. I opened my mouth to thank him for the really beautiful lesson he had given about service. In the lesson, he got quite emotional as he thanked members in the class who cared for and taught his teenagers and young children. It was so heartfelt and genuine...just loveliness at it's best. I was sitting alone, in the back (don't know where my attack dog was) and I was hardly keeping it together. You see, I can never let anyone cry alone. So as he spoke and was moved to tears, I cried, too.
And here, in the parking lot, was my chance to thank him for such a fabulous class. But before I could get it out, he was extending a hand to my husband and talking about his class. And he was confiding to my husband that, as he was discussing the lesson on Christ-Like service, he said (and I hope I never forget his words) "I was looking out across the room and I saw your sweet wife and I thought to myself, 'Who serves more than her?' " And he added, "So I just sort of went off on a tangent."
I would have never guessed I had anything to do with his impromtu speech.
It was like a tender mercy dropped down to let me know that I'm not scum, at least not in everyone's eyes.
And it's been my experience that every time something happened that cut through me, something even more loving and kind came from somewhere unexpected. It was like the universe was puting it's finger under my chin, forcing my eyes upwards and saying, "You can do this, kiddo."
And I did it. With class, if I do say so myself. I never bit back or said the sarcastic, snarky things that I could have in those moments when I was being emotionally fillet-ed (how in the heck do you spell fillet in the past tense??).
There is so much more to this story. There was one night when I went to tuck my daughter in and she was crying. She said that she knew what that family was doing to me and that, seeing the way I was handling things made her feel like she could handle the mean girls at school.
That night my tears were tears of gratitude.
Needless to say, when the call came asking if we'd like to relocate, again, it was a tender mercy. One that said, "You've done well. You've been through enough. I knew you could do it. And now, so do you."
For that bit of knowledge, I will be forever grateful. Makes it worth it all. And besides, my hair that I lost is growing in nicely.
So Happy Birthday to me! I really like me. And I really like you.
I hope the feeling is mutual.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
What is it? Wednesday?
Just a moment ago. I had to pee so bad- so, so bad- that I thanked my lucky stars I was in a rental. I knew I was in trouble when, while trolling thru Pier 1 searching for a sette, I ignored my bladder. And then I went to the preschool to get Calvin. On the drive home, I had a vision of me getting pulled over for speeding. In my mind, I threw my license out the window and yelled my apologies as I burned rubber and merged back into traffic. Like that wasn't enough, I took a breath and did that cruddy, unexpected choking thing. I was trying to cross my legs, press the gas and avoid the po-po. Coughing didn't help. So I sipped my diet coke with distain since it was what got me into this mess in the first place. It was rough. But I managed.
After I recovered, I asked Calvin the Caboose questions about his day. He had burst into the car with an energetic, "We talked a wacoonth in thienthe!" (Keep up, man. He said science.) so I had a good jumping off point for out chat.
"Mom, thith ith my wacoon mathk." He said while lifting his balck and white creation up so I could see it in the rearview.
"Did you know wacoonth don't like people?" I did the required "No, I didn't know that."
A second later he announced, "I don't like you."
I sat up just a touch straiter to see him in the mirror. He lifted his mask up off his face.
"It'th only 'cauth I'm wearing my mathk."
I suggest that if you do not currently have a four year old in your life, get one. They are awethome.
So are 6, 11, 12 and 14 year olds.
On a seperate note, I deleted the Facebook app off of my phone. And the US magazine app. Not the US Weekly- news movers and shakers app. The US-look who moved it and it popped out and guess who's shakin' in on a yacht with P-Diddy app.
I have decided I am wasting moments here and there and I'll never reach a few of my personal goals with these brain suckers at my finger tips. Best to keep them down the hall...on the computer.
I'm pleased to announce that at the very least, my bathroom breaks are much shoter. And not because I have over come some intense intestinal problem. The length of my potty breaks were in direct proportion to the length of the facebook news feed and the Zooey Deschanel article.
Too much honesty? Forgive me.
I'm doing all of this in the hopes of checking it off of my "Do It Or Feel Bad Forever" list.
On the top of that list: write a book.
That goal popped up a few years ago. I was trying to start a journal, a little compilation of who I am and how I got here.
Very boring.
So I took the liberty of writing it in narrative form.
Suddenly, it was much more fun.
I started with my first date with my husband. And 400 pages later, I think I may have a book on my hands. What I will do with it, I know not. I may simply print it, bind it and set it on my shelf. The only library it may rest in will be my own. Tucked away in the room that, right now, needs a sette.
And Pier1 is over priced.
And I need a refill.
Let's chat soon, yes?
After I recovered, I asked Calvin the Caboose questions about his day. He had burst into the car with an energetic, "We talked a wacoonth in thienthe!" (Keep up, man. He said science.) so I had a good jumping off point for out chat.
"Mom, thith ith my wacoon mathk." He said while lifting his balck and white creation up so I could see it in the rearview.
"Did you know wacoonth don't like people?" I did the required "No, I didn't know that."
A second later he announced, "I don't like you."
I sat up just a touch straiter to see him in the mirror. He lifted his mask up off his face.
"It'th only 'cauth I'm wearing my mathk."
I suggest that if you do not currently have a four year old in your life, get one. They are awethome.
So are 6, 11, 12 and 14 year olds.
On a seperate note, I deleted the Facebook app off of my phone. And the US magazine app. Not the US Weekly- news movers and shakers app. The US-look who moved it and it popped out and guess who's shakin' in on a yacht with P-Diddy app.
I have decided I am wasting moments here and there and I'll never reach a few of my personal goals with these brain suckers at my finger tips. Best to keep them down the hall...on the computer.
I'm pleased to announce that at the very least, my bathroom breaks are much shoter. And not because I have over come some intense intestinal problem. The length of my potty breaks were in direct proportion to the length of the facebook news feed and the Zooey Deschanel article.
Too much honesty? Forgive me.
I'm doing all of this in the hopes of checking it off of my "Do It Or Feel Bad Forever" list.
On the top of that list: write a book.
That goal popped up a few years ago. I was trying to start a journal, a little compilation of who I am and how I got here.
Very boring.
So I took the liberty of writing it in narrative form.
Suddenly, it was much more fun.
I started with my first date with my husband. And 400 pages later, I think I may have a book on my hands. What I will do with it, I know not. I may simply print it, bind it and set it on my shelf. The only library it may rest in will be my own. Tucked away in the room that, right now, needs a sette.
And Pier1 is over priced.
And I need a refill.
Let's chat soon, yes?
Monday, September 26, 2011
I Should Probably be Too Embarrassed to Tell You This
You know how diet coke tastes funny right after you brush your teeth with minty toothpaste? On my way out the door to take my son to seminary, I was scrambling to pop something in my mouth to take the minty away. (You see, I get my first drink on the way home.)
Anyway, in a pinch I grabbed a handful of bacon crumbles left over from the salad I made last night.
Bacon.
At 5:50am.
Bacon.
To make the diet coke taste better.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Anyway, in a pinch I grabbed a handful of bacon crumbles left over from the salad I made last night.
Bacon.
At 5:50am.
Bacon.
To make the diet coke taste better.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Traveling: A True Tale Told Thru Texts
Texting with Kelly: Part Deux
You're excited, aren't you?
July 14
6:45am
Kelly: How are you? You ok?
Rachel: I got a new phone. All I can say is facetime baby!
K: Wooohooo! But not today. I look like hell.
2:07pm
R: We leave in a few hours. I'm a mess of emotions and I'm squelching them all.
K: Good call. Don't cry 'till you pull out. Then do it with sunglasses and a fresh diet coke.
2:46pm
R: Im sitting at my kitchen table in the middle of my street watching guys loads up my children's bikes. Ouch.
K: Ooh. I'm at Sonic. Should I get you one?
R: Yes
K: And a side of tots. Probably better than antidepressants.
July 16
6:12pm
R: We are taking the kids out to a place we saw on the Foodnetwork. Bet we drop $150 on dinner.
K: You travel like I do...senic route, and all about the food!
A few minutes later...
R: I just went potty. It's my luck that the toilet over flowed. Not backed up, OVERFLOWED. I'm in flip flops so I booked it out of that stall lickety-split.
K: That's like when Emily was potty training and had an accident in Costco. I knocked over a sprite, yelled whoops, then high tailed it.
July 17
6:29am
K: Why can't my husband and I get along? I swear....
R: Dang. Treat him like he's dying. You'll be more patient and he'll be more gentle in turn.
R: Or fake bad cramps and go back to bed.
K: I wish I could fake cramps. He's mad because I won't go camping without a trailer. He thinks it's a sellout.
K: Being lactose intolerant has taken all the fun out of cereal, by the way.
6:45am
K: I'm not in a good place. I'm annoyed with....[CLASSIFIED]
R: Woah. You need to break a femur. That will buy you an excuse to get out of all this and you'll get bed rest. I have prayed to break a femur before. I swear. You should try it. It's never worked for me, but maybe you have more of a need.
9:48am
R: Dang. A BMW just cut us off on the freeway. Bryan had to swerve to the far left to avoid hitting her. He plowed through some orange construction barrels. I'm still shaking.
K: Holy...I'm sorry!
12:23pm
R: Right now. Drop everything and go buy "My One and Only" by Kristan Higgins. I love it. And I think I love Nick. I don't know. I only met him a paragraph ago.
K: Nick who?
R: The guy from the book!
6:43pm
R: Buy this book! An example of why you'll love it...the main character, stranded in a small, hotel-less town, is staying the night with an older couple. She walks into the guest room where the walls are covered with dozens of pictures of "Jesus who apparently looks like Brad Pitt circa Legands of the Fall. Amen!"
7:14pm
R: Bryan just hit a deer. He's feeling pretty testy right now. But he looks really hot in his glasses.
R: UPDATE: the front end has issues and the drivers door is struggling to open. Super.
7:46pm
K: Give me another fav author. I'm ordering books for my camping trip. Fluff, please.
R: Where are you camping?
K: Glacier National Park
R: Thats where this book takes place! And in Massachusetts! Its a sign!
R: For some reason our blinker, when you signal to turn left, clicks twice as fast now. Seriously?
K: Shoot. Looks like you might have to trade it in. Seriously, whats the damage?
R: The driver's door is really hard to open and creaks so loud when you open it. Someone even came up to us and asked if we needed help. We are officialy white trash. And the Chevy emblem fell off.
K: Quick!! Go back and wear it as jewelry.
R: BTW, the heroine in this book hits a deer.
K: That's freaky. You need to manifest in another direction.
R: Who knows, maybe in the last half of the story she finishes her book, drops a dress size and, I don't know, beaks a femur!
K: Cory wants to know where the antlers are?
R: Tell him it was a doe. A pretty one.
K: He said, "Great. Now Bambi's mom is dead."
R: Creep. 5 words for Cory: Good luck with the trailer.
9:03pm
R: We almost hit a raccon.
R: 2 more deer just ran in front of us.
K: PETA is going to be all over you.
R: PETA should hate me. I love steak.
R: We're turning left and i can't stop laughing! Our blinker is so jacked up.
K: Cory said the blinker can give the deer twice as much notice.
July 19
11:10am
R: Donde esta chica?
R: Did I just ask you how you are or where you are? Where, I think.
K: In the trailor getting ready for the trip
K: Como esta is how are you. I can count to 10, too!
R: Braggert. Puedo ir al bano?
And I really mean it. I'm about to piss all the way down I-80.
July 20
9:55pm
K: Guess what I'm doing??
R: Do you love it? I got sucked in immediately.
What part are you on?
K: I just started. She had me at, "Dennis Costello was...well...the only fly in the ointment was the rattail..."
R: Beautiful literature, eh?
R: BTW, I taught Kennedy how to shave her legs in the hotel room last night.
10:15pm
K: Where are you?
R: When I offered to drive, Bryan worried I would drive too slowly. Instead I got a speeding ticket in Elk Point, South Dakota. Doesn't that town sound made up?
Currently, we are in Rapid City. Bryan hinted at a romantic evening. I said from girl's POV, rapid and romantic cancel each other out.
K: Bahahahaha! Did you know there is a road outside of Boise called Chicken Dinner Road? Not lying.
R: Beautiful.
3:13pm
R: If Bryan says Jack-a$$ one more time...
July 21
12:35pm
R: $44 at Taco Bell? I'm embarrassed.
K: Where are you?
R: Wyoming. How goes the camping prep? I bought a new Kristan Higgins book. It starts with her lamenting how she's fallen in love with priest.
K: I've driven that road. LONG.
R: Are you talking about Chicken dinner road? Or something else??
K: Ha! That is also the second book I bought for my trip. Freaky.
R: Maybe our frequencies are easy to read considering our close proximity. Imagine when we are in the same room? I bet the lightbulb blows.
1:55pm
R: "He looked ridiculousy appealing in black. Granted the white collar takes away some of the zing."
K: Nice.
2:27pm
K: Cory accidentally sent this to a lady today:
"I love you. You have been awesome. Things will work out today. Leave for me whatever you need me to do when I get home."
R: Awesome. Awkwad. Could be worse. Is he mortified?
K: He said he turns red everytime he thinks about it.
Sorry to tell you this has been edited. And I didn't get my daughter's OK to add some really good stuff.
Never the less, we made it to Portland, safe and sound. We took 10 days to make the trip. I'm a bit surpirsed we made it. The DVD system didn't work, I was always asking my husband to stop at the next restroom. Some of my kids, who should have been asking, weren't....But my husband (who drives like Jason Bourne and is as angry as every other Massachussets driver) got us there in one piece.
Minus the Chevy emblem.
You're excited, aren't you?
July 14
6:45am
Kelly: How are you? You ok?
Rachel: I got a new phone. All I can say is facetime baby!
K: Wooohooo! But not today. I look like hell.
2:07pm
R: We leave in a few hours. I'm a mess of emotions and I'm squelching them all.
K: Good call. Don't cry 'till you pull out. Then do it with sunglasses and a fresh diet coke.
2:46pm
R: Im sitting at my kitchen table in the middle of my street watching guys loads up my children's bikes. Ouch.
K: Ooh. I'm at Sonic. Should I get you one?
R: Yes
K: And a side of tots. Probably better than antidepressants.
July 16
6:12pm
R: We are taking the kids out to a place we saw on the Foodnetwork. Bet we drop $150 on dinner.
K: You travel like I do...senic route, and all about the food!
A few minutes later...
R: I just went potty. It's my luck that the toilet over flowed. Not backed up, OVERFLOWED. I'm in flip flops so I booked it out of that stall lickety-split.
K: That's like when Emily was potty training and had an accident in Costco. I knocked over a sprite, yelled whoops, then high tailed it.
July 17
6:29am
K: Why can't my husband and I get along? I swear....
R: Dang. Treat him like he's dying. You'll be more patient and he'll be more gentle in turn.
R: Or fake bad cramps and go back to bed.
K: I wish I could fake cramps. He's mad because I won't go camping without a trailer. He thinks it's a sellout.
K: Being lactose intolerant has taken all the fun out of cereal, by the way.
6:45am
K: I'm not in a good place. I'm annoyed with....[CLASSIFIED]
R: Woah. You need to break a femur. That will buy you an excuse to get out of all this and you'll get bed rest. I have prayed to break a femur before. I swear. You should try it. It's never worked for me, but maybe you have more of a need.
9:48am
R: Dang. A BMW just cut us off on the freeway. Bryan had to swerve to the far left to avoid hitting her. He plowed through some orange construction barrels. I'm still shaking.
K: Holy...I'm sorry!
12:23pm
R: Right now. Drop everything and go buy "My One and Only" by Kristan Higgins. I love it. And I think I love Nick. I don't know. I only met him a paragraph ago.
K: Nick who?
R: The guy from the book!
6:43pm
R: Buy this book! An example of why you'll love it...the main character, stranded in a small, hotel-less town, is staying the night with an older couple. She walks into the guest room where the walls are covered with dozens of pictures of "Jesus who apparently looks like Brad Pitt circa Legands of the Fall. Amen!"
7:14pm
R: Bryan just hit a deer. He's feeling pretty testy right now. But he looks really hot in his glasses.
R: UPDATE: the front end has issues and the drivers door is struggling to open. Super.
7:46pm
K: Give me another fav author. I'm ordering books for my camping trip. Fluff, please.
R: Where are you camping?
K: Glacier National Park
R: Thats where this book takes place! And in Massachusetts! Its a sign!
R: For some reason our blinker, when you signal to turn left, clicks twice as fast now. Seriously?
K: Shoot. Looks like you might have to trade it in. Seriously, whats the damage?
R: The driver's door is really hard to open and creaks so loud when you open it. Someone even came up to us and asked if we needed help. We are officialy white trash. And the Chevy emblem fell off.
K: Quick!! Go back and wear it as jewelry.
R: BTW, the heroine in this book hits a deer.
K: That's freaky. You need to manifest in another direction.
R: Who knows, maybe in the last half of the story she finishes her book, drops a dress size and, I don't know, beaks a femur!
K: Cory wants to know where the antlers are?
R: Tell him it was a doe. A pretty one.
K: He said, "Great. Now Bambi's mom is dead."
R: Creep. 5 words for Cory: Good luck with the trailer.
9:03pm
R: We almost hit a raccon.
R: 2 more deer just ran in front of us.
K: PETA is going to be all over you.
R: PETA should hate me. I love steak.
R: We're turning left and i can't stop laughing! Our blinker is so jacked up.
K: Cory said the blinker can give the deer twice as much notice.
July 19
11:10am
R: Donde esta chica?
R: Did I just ask you how you are or where you are? Where, I think.
K: In the trailor getting ready for the trip
K: Como esta is how are you. I can count to 10, too!
R: Braggert. Puedo ir al bano?
And I really mean it. I'm about to piss all the way down I-80.
July 20
9:55pm
K: Guess what I'm doing??
R: Do you love it? I got sucked in immediately.
What part are you on?
K: I just started. She had me at, "Dennis Costello was...well...the only fly in the ointment was the rattail..."
R: Beautiful literature, eh?
R: BTW, I taught Kennedy how to shave her legs in the hotel room last night.
10:15pm
K: Where are you?
R: When I offered to drive, Bryan worried I would drive too slowly. Instead I got a speeding ticket in Elk Point, South Dakota. Doesn't that town sound made up?
Currently, we are in Rapid City. Bryan hinted at a romantic evening. I said from girl's POV, rapid and romantic cancel each other out.
K: Bahahahaha! Did you know there is a road outside of Boise called Chicken Dinner Road? Not lying.
R: Beautiful.
3:13pm
R: If Bryan says Jack-a$$ one more time...
July 21
12:35pm
R: $44 at Taco Bell? I'm embarrassed.
K: Where are you?
R: Wyoming. How goes the camping prep? I bought a new Kristan Higgins book. It starts with her lamenting how she's fallen in love with priest.
K: I've driven that road. LONG.
R: Are you talking about Chicken dinner road? Or something else??
K: Ha! That is also the second book I bought for my trip. Freaky.
R: Maybe our frequencies are easy to read considering our close proximity. Imagine when we are in the same room? I bet the lightbulb blows.
1:55pm
R: "He looked ridiculousy appealing in black. Granted the white collar takes away some of the zing."
K: Nice.
2:27pm
K: Cory accidentally sent this to a lady today:
"I love you. You have been awesome. Things will work out today. Leave for me whatever you need me to do when I get home."
R: Awesome. Awkwad. Could be worse. Is he mortified?
K: He said he turns red everytime he thinks about it.
Sorry to tell you this has been edited. And I didn't get my daughter's OK to add some really good stuff.
Never the less, we made it to Portland, safe and sound. We took 10 days to make the trip. I'm a bit surpirsed we made it. The DVD system didn't work, I was always asking my husband to stop at the next restroom. Some of my kids, who should have been asking, weren't....But my husband (who drives like Jason Bourne and is as angry as every other Massachussets driver) got us there in one piece.
Minus the Chevy emblem.
Rose Colored Pine Trees
I moved.
To the west coast. Not back home to Hollister or the beachy town I will always love.
I'm up in the beautiful northwest.
Pine trees, cool air, cloud cover.
And I love it. I love the vibe, the house we bought, the neighbors, the schools...so far, I have zero complaints. It's likely to stay that way. I'm a half-glass full kind of girl.
Half glass full?
Glass half full.
I always goof up those little sayings.
Still, I'm quite pleased with this sudden change in plans.
Pics and details as the story unfolds...
Oh, and I missed you.
XO
To the west coast. Not back home to Hollister or the beachy town I will always love.
I'm up in the beautiful northwest.
Pine trees, cool air, cloud cover.
And I love it. I love the vibe, the house we bought, the neighbors, the schools...so far, I have zero complaints. It's likely to stay that way. I'm a half-glass full kind of girl.
Half glass full?
Glass half full.
I always goof up those little sayings.
Still, I'm quite pleased with this sudden change in plans.
Pics and details as the story unfolds...
Oh, and I missed you.
XO
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
I Have A Thing For Older Men
That's right.
I have a thing for older men.
Older men like Mr. Hetman. He's my convienence store crony. I met him during the wee hour of the morning known as 6:55. When I used to drive my teenager to school, I would stop off for a small 64ozer of diet coke. You know, to get the day going.
And each and every morning I would see the old man there, getting his version of a morning pick-me-up.
After a week or so of polite smiles, he started teasing me about being thirsty and what not. Those quick quips turned into chats and before long I started leaving earlier so I would have more time to chat it up with my new friend.
I would sip my drink, he'd sip his. I would lean against the honey bun display, he'd use the water bottle display as a make-shift chair.
He was surprised to hear I had 5 kids. He and his beloved had had 7. With almost no prodding, he began to open up about his life. He was 85. He lost his wife 10 years ago and everytime he would mention her, he'd get emotional.
Mr. Hetman told me she was a tiny, fiery Irish girl and he had been as tall, black haired Italian stallion. (He was still mighty tall and had some gray, but still had a full head of hair)
They fell madly in love and married. There first baby came along and when he presented the teeny, red-haired infant to his old fashioned mother, she hit him and told him that he was a "weak man." Had he been stronger, the baby would have black hair, like him. Instead he was weak and was letting "that woman" rule the household. Which, of course, was unacceptable. He tried to explain genetics to his mother. She thought that was non-sense and reaffirmed that he needed to set things strait.
He never did.
More red-headed babies followed. And so did decades of happiness.
Morning after morning I would get a bit here and there; details about the grandchildren and who was graduating and who was traveling. He did most of the talking. And I soaked it up. I even cried one day, as I got in my car. I cried from sheer delight, just spending a few minutes with him. He became so much a part of my day, I worried when I didn't see him. I worried because he doesn't sleep well. I worried because his legs had been swelling-badly- and the compression socks were uncomfortable.
I had fallen a little bit in love with this little (6'3") old man.
It didn't take long to graduate to the point where he brought me a phot of his family.
I practically knocked him off his perch when I looked at his seven adult children and recognized one! Quietly, standing in the background was Ed, a friend of my husband's. Ed was serving in Iraq off and on over the years and my husband and son painted his garage once while he was deployed. His wife had fallen ill and had surgery and Bryan and I stopped in to check on her.
And all this time when Mr. Hetman was telling me about his son Ed the Military Man, my husband was emailing back and forth with just that guy.
Isn't life crazy sometimes?
One franctic morning, I struggled out the door in Hello Kitty pj bottoms that someone had given me to donate to the homeless shelter (a story for another time) and rain boots and a very large, stained sweatshirt.
He met me at the door of the convience store and as I walked in he said, "You know, Halloween is still a few weeks away."
It's like he knew how to win my affection!
But then gas prices spiked and driving 30 minutes every morning, in a suburban, became too much. Especially considering the school bus stops at my driveway.
So I stopped driving my son. And I stopped going to the convienence store at 6:55am.
And I haven't seen Mr. Hetman in a couple months. I've asked the employees if they've seen him.
They have not.
I've driven past the car wash where he has a funny habit of emptying the trash bins and collecting the aluminum cans.
I can't find him there.
And now I'm moving and I have a bit of panic percolating inside me wondering if I will ever see him again. Part of me fears something has happened and for that reason alone, I don't go early to check on him.
I don't think I can bear it.
At least this way, in my head, I can lie to myself and even in 20 years I can say, "I bet Mr. Hetman is sitting on the Poland Spring stack, chewing on a toothpic."
And now there's a new guy; my real estate agent. He's got to be pushing 70. He came by today. We hadn't seen him in about a month...we were traveling before the big move. My husband had just come from the gym and was making himself a protien shake and my agent got a heavy smile on his face and told us how the doctor had his wife drink this special drink to help her gain weight. We've only ever talked about real estate stuff and so I asked, "Was she sick?"
He looked very sad and told me she had passed away while I was out of town; just a week and a half ago.
My husband had heard none of this (noisy blender and all) and sat down next to me and the business conversation commensed. But of course I could do nothing but worry and wonder about what he was going thru and what I could do to help. Have they had a wake? Wakes need food.
Have they had the funeral?
Funerals need lots of food.
Does his house need cleaning?
Does he need groceries?
I think I put on a brave face, talking numbers and open houses and stuff. And even though I was heartbroken, I willed myself not to say anything or get emotional because that just seems obnoxious even though my concern is genuine.
So now here I am.
I have no clue how I can ask this sweet heart broken man to do things for me, when my impulse is to do for him.
And I still miss Mr. Hetman.
I have a thing for older men.
Older men like Mr. Hetman. He's my convienence store crony. I met him during the wee hour of the morning known as 6:55. When I used to drive my teenager to school, I would stop off for a small 64ozer of diet coke. You know, to get the day going.
And each and every morning I would see the old man there, getting his version of a morning pick-me-up.
After a week or so of polite smiles, he started teasing me about being thirsty and what not. Those quick quips turned into chats and before long I started leaving earlier so I would have more time to chat it up with my new friend.
I would sip my drink, he'd sip his. I would lean against the honey bun display, he'd use the water bottle display as a make-shift chair.
He was surprised to hear I had 5 kids. He and his beloved had had 7. With almost no prodding, he began to open up about his life. He was 85. He lost his wife 10 years ago and everytime he would mention her, he'd get emotional.
Mr. Hetman told me she was a tiny, fiery Irish girl and he had been as tall, black haired Italian stallion. (He was still mighty tall and had some gray, but still had a full head of hair)
They fell madly in love and married. There first baby came along and when he presented the teeny, red-haired infant to his old fashioned mother, she hit him and told him that he was a "weak man." Had he been stronger, the baby would have black hair, like him. Instead he was weak and was letting "that woman" rule the household. Which, of course, was unacceptable. He tried to explain genetics to his mother. She thought that was non-sense and reaffirmed that he needed to set things strait.
He never did.
More red-headed babies followed. And so did decades of happiness.
Morning after morning I would get a bit here and there; details about the grandchildren and who was graduating and who was traveling. He did most of the talking. And I soaked it up. I even cried one day, as I got in my car. I cried from sheer delight, just spending a few minutes with him. He became so much a part of my day, I worried when I didn't see him. I worried because he doesn't sleep well. I worried because his legs had been swelling-badly- and the compression socks were uncomfortable.
I had fallen a little bit in love with this little (6'3") old man.
It didn't take long to graduate to the point where he brought me a phot of his family.
I practically knocked him off his perch when I looked at his seven adult children and recognized one! Quietly, standing in the background was Ed, a friend of my husband's. Ed was serving in Iraq off and on over the years and my husband and son painted his garage once while he was deployed. His wife had fallen ill and had surgery and Bryan and I stopped in to check on her.
And all this time when Mr. Hetman was telling me about his son Ed the Military Man, my husband was emailing back and forth with just that guy.
Isn't life crazy sometimes?
One franctic morning, I struggled out the door in Hello Kitty pj bottoms that someone had given me to donate to the homeless shelter (a story for another time) and rain boots and a very large, stained sweatshirt.
He met me at the door of the convience store and as I walked in he said, "You know, Halloween is still a few weeks away."
It's like he knew how to win my affection!
But then gas prices spiked and driving 30 minutes every morning, in a suburban, became too much. Especially considering the school bus stops at my driveway.
So I stopped driving my son. And I stopped going to the convienence store at 6:55am.
And I haven't seen Mr. Hetman in a couple months. I've asked the employees if they've seen him.
They have not.
I've driven past the car wash where he has a funny habit of emptying the trash bins and collecting the aluminum cans.
I can't find him there.
And now I'm moving and I have a bit of panic percolating inside me wondering if I will ever see him again. Part of me fears something has happened and for that reason alone, I don't go early to check on him.
I don't think I can bear it.
At least this way, in my head, I can lie to myself and even in 20 years I can say, "I bet Mr. Hetman is sitting on the Poland Spring stack, chewing on a toothpic."
And now there's a new guy; my real estate agent. He's got to be pushing 70. He came by today. We hadn't seen him in about a month...we were traveling before the big move. My husband had just come from the gym and was making himself a protien shake and my agent got a heavy smile on his face and told us how the doctor had his wife drink this special drink to help her gain weight. We've only ever talked about real estate stuff and so I asked, "Was she sick?"
He looked very sad and told me she had passed away while I was out of town; just a week and a half ago.
My husband had heard none of this (noisy blender and all) and sat down next to me and the business conversation commensed. But of course I could do nothing but worry and wonder about what he was going thru and what I could do to help. Have they had a wake? Wakes need food.
Have they had the funeral?
Funerals need lots of food.
Does his house need cleaning?
Does he need groceries?
I think I put on a brave face, talking numbers and open houses and stuff. And even though I was heartbroken, I willed myself not to say anything or get emotional because that just seems obnoxious even though my concern is genuine.
So now here I am.
I have no clue how I can ask this sweet heart broken man to do things for me, when my impulse is to do for him.
And I still miss Mr. Hetman.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
But Seriously, Folks
DISCLAIMER: This post contains references to my spiritual beliefs and personal feelings. If this makes you uncomfortable or brings out the nasty, ridiculee side of you, come back later this week. I'll have some of my usual fluff. But if you'd like to know me better, not just the me that is sarcastic and goofy, but the other side of me, stay awhile. I'd like to share with you one of the most powerful experiences I've ever had.
Easter is this weekend.
I love Easter. Fo me, it is a much more spiritual holiday than Christmas.
And here's why:
In April 2006, I had 4 kids. My oldest, a son- Ethan- had just turned 9. My youngest was Elliot. He was a year and a half and was sprouting the cutest blonde curls the world has ever seen.
Kennedy and Eric, only 15 months apart, were sandwiched in between.
April 13th was a Thursday, the first day of little league practice, the basketball banquet and the last day of school before Spring break.
I'm pretty sure my day was very ordinary. And I know, with perfect detail, what I prayed for that simple Thursday morning. I can recall it that way you can recall something after a tramautic event and suddenly little moments are crystalized in your mind with perfect clarity.
I simply prayed that I would know what to do to keep my kids safe.
And then I did the usual.
The day had gotten the best of me and I was tired and behind schedule. With just a couple minutes before practice started, I loaded my kids into the car and clicked Elliot into his car seat, shoeless.
On the way, I explained to Ethan that I was going to drop him off at practice and would come back to get him. Looking in the rearview mirror, I could see he was dissapointed. He asked me to stay and I told him about the baby not having shoes and how I'd have to go home but that I'd be back.
And that's what I did.
Near the end of practice, the younger kids were all sort of playing at my feet and running circles around me. I was leaning against the chain link fence watching Ethan up at bat. This was the first year of fast pitch and I watched my skinny, skinny slugger at home plate, his batting helmet wobbling on his head. Standing there, I had an interesting experience- a sort of mini-movie in my head. Like many of you have probably done, I went down the "what-if" road in my mind. This time, it seemed more like it was shown to me, than something I was imagining. It started with me wondering what would happen if Ethan were to get hit by a pitch. In seconds my mind was working out the details. I innately knew it would be bad. Without my own intelligence, I knew he would need to see a doctor. It was like half of my brain was absorbing the details and the other half was wondering why. So, I knew he'd need to see a doctor and I figured it was because he's so skinny and he'd probably crack a rib or something. Again, with no effort, I understood that the pediatrician's office would be closed and I would need to take him to the ER.
Of course I didn't want to take all my kids to the ER, so I planned to go home, have my husband come home and then I would take Ethan in. He could just rest quietly on the couch while I prepared a quick meal and waited for Bryan, my husband.
And just as quickly as I had ironed out all the deatils, I was back on the field, leaning against the chain-link, little ones playing tag with me as base.
And then Ethan got hit by a pitch.
The thud sound still haunts me. The closest I've heard to that sound is a melon being dropped or something.
Ethan crumpled to the ground. The coach ran up. I hung back. 9 year old boys are men in their own eyes, and I didn't want to blow his cover. But he wasn't getting up and I was getting anxious. As I approached, the coach was helping him up and I could hear Ethan saying, "I don't want to hit anymore". The coach was reassuring him. "I'll pitch to you. It'll be OK."
I got closer and Ethan was up on his own feet and, like a well-meaning parent, I didn't Ethan to leave the field afraid, so I encouraged him to bat a few more times. And like a sweet, sweet child, he did what we adults asked of him.
Moments later, he was in left field, not far from me. He was favoring his left side. I could tell he was in pain, but the most disturbing part was his coloring.
He was grey. His face was nearly colorless. I called him off the field and said we were leaving. The closer he got to me, the more he let his gaurd down and started to whimper. You know how we all do that; we can keep up appearance for awhile, but then we see a loved one or get home or to a familiar place and we let it all out. He was starting to let it out. Walking to the car with all the kids, a mom came running up to me and said, "You're going to take ito the doctors, right? I have a bad feeling about this."
By the time I got everyone in and buckled, Ethan was in tears. I pulled out of the lone driveway of the pracice field and waited for my chance to take a left turn. And wouldn't you know, this teeny, tiny, small town of mine had traffic. It almost never has traffic. But it did.
And as I waited and mumbled under my breath, "C'mon, C"mon you dumb cars", I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Ethan. He was even more upset and my anxiety was building. I glanced to the right planning on taking a right and then making a u-turn down the road. When I looked right, I saw an ambulance parked in the fire staion parking lot.
I simulataniously pulled in and told Ethan to get out of the car.
A couple EMT's/fireman approached us. I told them what had happened and asked if they could tell if he had a broken rib or something. One was talking to me-Matt. Another was chatting to Ethan but I didn't pay attention their conversation. Matt asked me again the details and I remember sort of stumbling over my words because I could hear this weird clicking sound. I looked behind me and saw Ethan on a gurney just as Matt starting asking me to pick a hospital.
This part is all so confusing in my mind because, despite what I was seeing, I couldn't understand it. I remember I kept saying, "What?"
Matt's voice was getting a bit more strained as he asked again, "Pick a hospital."
(We happen to live equ-distant between 2 hospitals, hence the question. I picked the hospital where I had delivered my latest bundle.)
In a split second, it all hit me and I asked if they could wait for me to go with them. I told the EMT's that I could drop my little ones off at my neighbor's house and then jump in with them. A different EMT said, "There isn't time. Just meet us at the hospital."
And the back doors to the ambulance closed and they drove away.
With my son and without me.
I got in my suburban and my little girl was crying and sweet Eric, in his lispy 5 year old voice said, "Mommy. mommy, fa-woow dat car" and pointed to the ambulance as it drove out of sight.
I called my husband. I was just starting to crack when he picked up and I said, "Put on your blue lights and get home as fast as you can. They just took Ethan away in an ambulance."
Calm as a cucumber he told me to call Cheryl, our closest and most favorite friend. He told me that she would get there faster than he could. I called her. I don't know what I said. But 2 minutes later I pulled in behind her, in my driveway, and she took the baby from my arms and said, "Just go."
I didn't think about my other kids for hours- a gift she gave me. I could only see and breath and think about Ethan.
I'll skip over the trauma of going to the wrong hospital-I didn't know that the hospital I picked was not the one I thought I picked. Lucky for me, when I burst into tears in the ER of the wrong hospital yelling, "I can't find my son!", a sweet. old, old nurse put her arms around me, sat me down and began making phone calls. She sent me on my way in mere moments.
I finally, finally got to him.
He looked so little, lyimg in a big hospital bed. Monitors were beeping and there were wires and stuff. I can't remember if he had an IV.
Seeing him made me strong again. My voice wasn't shaky and it was bright when I said, "Hey Buddy. I'm here."
He opened his eyes a little and smiled even a little more.
Xrays and an MRI were in the works.
In the few minutes before this all began, Ethan and I made plans for what we would get from McDonald's on our way home. He was pretty sure he could finally eat an entire BigMac all by himself.
I told him to prove it.
Xrays happened. Nothing broken.
While waiting for the MRI, I kept Ethan going with the occasional Skittle that I'd fish out from the bottom of my bottomless mom purse.
We waited for the MRI results in the overcrowded hallway fo the ER. Ethan would drift in and out of sleep. I rubbed his scrawny legs under the white, thin hospital blaknets.
It was quiet for a long time before a doctor came in to explain the results to me. It was obvious to them, as it had been to the EMT's, that my son was bleeding internally. They didn't know where or how bad, but his coloring, nausea and shoulder pain (a sign of blood pooling on the diaphram) made them certain of this.
The MRI showed Ethan had a 2 inch laceration of the spleen. (And a stomach full of Skittles). If the bleeding didn't stop, and they weren't sure it would, surgery to remove his spleen would be necessary. They were making calls to Boston to see where to send Ethan. Children's hospital was obvious, but the best pediatric trauma surgeon was at New England Medical Center. The ER doc was hoping he would take the case.
The doctor walked away just as the 2 EMT's that drove Ethan up, Ryan and Capt. Bosworth, saw us and approached. I was just starting to lose it. And without words, Capt. Bosworth, a grey-bearded, tall guy folded me up in his arms and led me away as I started to completely fall apart. I heard Ryan's voice fade into the background as he asked, "So what other sports do you like to play Ethan?"
With help, I collected myself enough and called my husband. He was going to meet me up in Boston as soon as we knew where Ethan was going.
Cheryl, planning to leave on a trip to Canada the next morning, would stay at our house as long as we needed. She'd even cancel her trip if necessary.
I don't remember how long it took, but it was late when we finally arrived, by a second ambulance, at the NEMC ER.
I recall standing back watching a team of people surround Ethan's gurney. In time, they all surrounded me, asking for details. The doctor spoke and the young residents looked back and forth between me and the doctor. Like tennis, excpet they had on white coats and I was in jeans.
"How long after the hit did your son recieve medical attention?"
"Umm. 10 minutes. Maybe less"
I saw my husband walk in. He walked hesitantly over to our son. He doesn't do anything hesitantly.
He rubbed Ethan's head and pulled his hair back off his forehead.
The doctor spoke to me again.
"10 minutes?" He sounded surprised.
"Well, it's safe to say that getting him help that quickly saved his life. Most times, people take the patient home and have them lay down to rest. Often they will bleed to death in their sleep."
And with that, they all walked away from me.
It was all sort of dawning on me as my husband walked up to me. He took his baseball cap off, wedged his head on my neck and shoulder, and cried. That was the first time I'd ever seen him really cry.
Ethan spent the night in the Pediatric ICU. I slept in the chair next to him. The kid in the room next to us was unconscious, suffering from complete organ failure.
How could my son be so sick that he was on the same floor as that little guy?
My husband went home to the kids. When he got there, Cheryl had done some of our laubdry and cooked 2 meals and placed them in the fridge. She had packed a bag for me and Ethan. Nobody knew how long we'd be in the hospital. She put in magazines and books and all manner of stuff.
To make a long story short, Ethan stopped bleeding. No surgery needed. We spent 3 nights in the hospital. As long as Ethan was absolutely still, he could do whatever he wanted. The nurses had wheeled in a video game system- I can't remember which one-and he played for hours. Being 9, he'd moan and complain and get animated while playing and I'd have to tell him to calm down. I spent my time reading and looking out the window at the McDonald's in Boston's Chinatown. Bryan came up every day.
We were all exhausted.
Bryan came to pick us up, with the little ones dressed in their Sunday best, on Easter.
The doctor gave us the all clear to leave. Ethan was ordered on strict bed rest for 3 weeks. Then he needed another MRI.
And after that, 3 months of very limited physical activity and then another MRI.
He's completely recovered. He hasn't played baseball since. He switched to hockey because, in his words, it's safer.
And with all that I learned in this experience, I learned that Easter, a Christian holiday set aside to remember the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, evokes in me a deep well of emotion.
Because until April 2006, I had never had to consider life and death like that. I never had to need promises like Easter.
And when I think back to that Thursday morning and I think back to my simple prayer, I remember what I said and I remember what I've been told.
"Ask and ye shall recieve."
Easter is this weekend.
I love Easter. Fo me, it is a much more spiritual holiday than Christmas.
And here's why:
In April 2006, I had 4 kids. My oldest, a son- Ethan- had just turned 9. My youngest was Elliot. He was a year and a half and was sprouting the cutest blonde curls the world has ever seen.
Kennedy and Eric, only 15 months apart, were sandwiched in between.
April 13th was a Thursday, the first day of little league practice, the basketball banquet and the last day of school before Spring break.
I'm pretty sure my day was very ordinary. And I know, with perfect detail, what I prayed for that simple Thursday morning. I can recall it that way you can recall something after a tramautic event and suddenly little moments are crystalized in your mind with perfect clarity.
I simply prayed that I would know what to do to keep my kids safe.
And then I did the usual.
The day had gotten the best of me and I was tired and behind schedule. With just a couple minutes before practice started, I loaded my kids into the car and clicked Elliot into his car seat, shoeless.
On the way, I explained to Ethan that I was going to drop him off at practice and would come back to get him. Looking in the rearview mirror, I could see he was dissapointed. He asked me to stay and I told him about the baby not having shoes and how I'd have to go home but that I'd be back.
And that's what I did.
Near the end of practice, the younger kids were all sort of playing at my feet and running circles around me. I was leaning against the chain link fence watching Ethan up at bat. This was the first year of fast pitch and I watched my skinny, skinny slugger at home plate, his batting helmet wobbling on his head. Standing there, I had an interesting experience- a sort of mini-movie in my head. Like many of you have probably done, I went down the "what-if" road in my mind. This time, it seemed more like it was shown to me, than something I was imagining. It started with me wondering what would happen if Ethan were to get hit by a pitch. In seconds my mind was working out the details. I innately knew it would be bad. Without my own intelligence, I knew he would need to see a doctor. It was like half of my brain was absorbing the details and the other half was wondering why. So, I knew he'd need to see a doctor and I figured it was because he's so skinny and he'd probably crack a rib or something. Again, with no effort, I understood that the pediatrician's office would be closed and I would need to take him to the ER.
Of course I didn't want to take all my kids to the ER, so I planned to go home, have my husband come home and then I would take Ethan in. He could just rest quietly on the couch while I prepared a quick meal and waited for Bryan, my husband.
And just as quickly as I had ironed out all the deatils, I was back on the field, leaning against the chain-link, little ones playing tag with me as base.
And then Ethan got hit by a pitch.
The thud sound still haunts me. The closest I've heard to that sound is a melon being dropped or something.
Ethan crumpled to the ground. The coach ran up. I hung back. 9 year old boys are men in their own eyes, and I didn't want to blow his cover. But he wasn't getting up and I was getting anxious. As I approached, the coach was helping him up and I could hear Ethan saying, "I don't want to hit anymore". The coach was reassuring him. "I'll pitch to you. It'll be OK."
I got closer and Ethan was up on his own feet and, like a well-meaning parent, I didn't Ethan to leave the field afraid, so I encouraged him to bat a few more times. And like a sweet, sweet child, he did what we adults asked of him.
Moments later, he was in left field, not far from me. He was favoring his left side. I could tell he was in pain, but the most disturbing part was his coloring.
He was grey. His face was nearly colorless. I called him off the field and said we were leaving. The closer he got to me, the more he let his gaurd down and started to whimper. You know how we all do that; we can keep up appearance for awhile, but then we see a loved one or get home or to a familiar place and we let it all out. He was starting to let it out. Walking to the car with all the kids, a mom came running up to me and said, "You're going to take ito the doctors, right? I have a bad feeling about this."
By the time I got everyone in and buckled, Ethan was in tears. I pulled out of the lone driveway of the pracice field and waited for my chance to take a left turn. And wouldn't you know, this teeny, tiny, small town of mine had traffic. It almost never has traffic. But it did.
And as I waited and mumbled under my breath, "C'mon, C"mon you dumb cars", I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Ethan. He was even more upset and my anxiety was building. I glanced to the right planning on taking a right and then making a u-turn down the road. When I looked right, I saw an ambulance parked in the fire staion parking lot.
I simulataniously pulled in and told Ethan to get out of the car.
A couple EMT's/fireman approached us. I told them what had happened and asked if they could tell if he had a broken rib or something. One was talking to me-Matt. Another was chatting to Ethan but I didn't pay attention their conversation. Matt asked me again the details and I remember sort of stumbling over my words because I could hear this weird clicking sound. I looked behind me and saw Ethan on a gurney just as Matt starting asking me to pick a hospital.
This part is all so confusing in my mind because, despite what I was seeing, I couldn't understand it. I remember I kept saying, "What?"
Matt's voice was getting a bit more strained as he asked again, "Pick a hospital."
(We happen to live equ-distant between 2 hospitals, hence the question. I picked the hospital where I had delivered my latest bundle.)
In a split second, it all hit me and I asked if they could wait for me to go with them. I told the EMT's that I could drop my little ones off at my neighbor's house and then jump in with them. A different EMT said, "There isn't time. Just meet us at the hospital."
And the back doors to the ambulance closed and they drove away.
With my son and without me.
I got in my suburban and my little girl was crying and sweet Eric, in his lispy 5 year old voice said, "Mommy. mommy, fa-woow dat car" and pointed to the ambulance as it drove out of sight.
I called my husband. I was just starting to crack when he picked up and I said, "Put on your blue lights and get home as fast as you can. They just took Ethan away in an ambulance."
Calm as a cucumber he told me to call Cheryl, our closest and most favorite friend. He told me that she would get there faster than he could. I called her. I don't know what I said. But 2 minutes later I pulled in behind her, in my driveway, and she took the baby from my arms and said, "Just go."
I didn't think about my other kids for hours- a gift she gave me. I could only see and breath and think about Ethan.
I'll skip over the trauma of going to the wrong hospital-I didn't know that the hospital I picked was not the one I thought I picked. Lucky for me, when I burst into tears in the ER of the wrong hospital yelling, "I can't find my son!", a sweet. old, old nurse put her arms around me, sat me down and began making phone calls. She sent me on my way in mere moments.
I finally, finally got to him.
He looked so little, lyimg in a big hospital bed. Monitors were beeping and there were wires and stuff. I can't remember if he had an IV.
Seeing him made me strong again. My voice wasn't shaky and it was bright when I said, "Hey Buddy. I'm here."
He opened his eyes a little and smiled even a little more.
Xrays and an MRI were in the works.
In the few minutes before this all began, Ethan and I made plans for what we would get from McDonald's on our way home. He was pretty sure he could finally eat an entire BigMac all by himself.
I told him to prove it.
Xrays happened. Nothing broken.
While waiting for the MRI, I kept Ethan going with the occasional Skittle that I'd fish out from the bottom of my bottomless mom purse.
We waited for the MRI results in the overcrowded hallway fo the ER. Ethan would drift in and out of sleep. I rubbed his scrawny legs under the white, thin hospital blaknets.
It was quiet for a long time before a doctor came in to explain the results to me. It was obvious to them, as it had been to the EMT's, that my son was bleeding internally. They didn't know where or how bad, but his coloring, nausea and shoulder pain (a sign of blood pooling on the diaphram) made them certain of this.
The MRI showed Ethan had a 2 inch laceration of the spleen. (And a stomach full of Skittles). If the bleeding didn't stop, and they weren't sure it would, surgery to remove his spleen would be necessary. They were making calls to Boston to see where to send Ethan. Children's hospital was obvious, but the best pediatric trauma surgeon was at New England Medical Center. The ER doc was hoping he would take the case.
The doctor walked away just as the 2 EMT's that drove Ethan up, Ryan and Capt. Bosworth, saw us and approached. I was just starting to lose it. And without words, Capt. Bosworth, a grey-bearded, tall guy folded me up in his arms and led me away as I started to completely fall apart. I heard Ryan's voice fade into the background as he asked, "So what other sports do you like to play Ethan?"
With help, I collected myself enough and called my husband. He was going to meet me up in Boston as soon as we knew where Ethan was going.
Cheryl, planning to leave on a trip to Canada the next morning, would stay at our house as long as we needed. She'd even cancel her trip if necessary.
I don't remember how long it took, but it was late when we finally arrived, by a second ambulance, at the NEMC ER.
I recall standing back watching a team of people surround Ethan's gurney. In time, they all surrounded me, asking for details. The doctor spoke and the young residents looked back and forth between me and the doctor. Like tennis, excpet they had on white coats and I was in jeans.
"How long after the hit did your son recieve medical attention?"
"Umm. 10 minutes. Maybe less"
I saw my husband walk in. He walked hesitantly over to our son. He doesn't do anything hesitantly.
He rubbed Ethan's head and pulled his hair back off his forehead.
The doctor spoke to me again.
"10 minutes?" He sounded surprised.
"Well, it's safe to say that getting him help that quickly saved his life. Most times, people take the patient home and have them lay down to rest. Often they will bleed to death in their sleep."
And with that, they all walked away from me.
It was all sort of dawning on me as my husband walked up to me. He took his baseball cap off, wedged his head on my neck and shoulder, and cried. That was the first time I'd ever seen him really cry.
Ethan spent the night in the Pediatric ICU. I slept in the chair next to him. The kid in the room next to us was unconscious, suffering from complete organ failure.
How could my son be so sick that he was on the same floor as that little guy?
My husband went home to the kids. When he got there, Cheryl had done some of our laubdry and cooked 2 meals and placed them in the fridge. She had packed a bag for me and Ethan. Nobody knew how long we'd be in the hospital. She put in magazines and books and all manner of stuff.
To make a long story short, Ethan stopped bleeding. No surgery needed. We spent 3 nights in the hospital. As long as Ethan was absolutely still, he could do whatever he wanted. The nurses had wheeled in a video game system- I can't remember which one-and he played for hours. Being 9, he'd moan and complain and get animated while playing and I'd have to tell him to calm down. I spent my time reading and looking out the window at the McDonald's in Boston's Chinatown. Bryan came up every day.
We were all exhausted.
Bryan came to pick us up, with the little ones dressed in their Sunday best, on Easter.
The doctor gave us the all clear to leave. Ethan was ordered on strict bed rest for 3 weeks. Then he needed another MRI.
And after that, 3 months of very limited physical activity and then another MRI.
He's completely recovered. He hasn't played baseball since. He switched to hockey because, in his words, it's safer.
And with all that I learned in this experience, I learned that Easter, a Christian holiday set aside to remember the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, evokes in me a deep well of emotion.
Because until April 2006, I had never had to consider life and death like that. I never had to need promises like Easter.
And when I think back to that Thursday morning and I think back to my simple prayer, I remember what I said and I remember what I've been told.
"Ask and ye shall recieve."
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Highlights and Lowlights
Are you a "Give me the bad news first" kind of person or do you need the good news front and center?
I don't really know which I am. So I'm unsure whats news to give you first.
I've been considering this post while I went through my day. And it was going to be all the funny things from the past week. And then my day spiraled out of control when I found myself standing on my front porch, yelling at my son who forgot the boyscout paperwork I told him not to forget. Of course he didn't hear because he was riding off in a suburban full of kids.
BTW, Jay Snell is a crazy, deaf driver.
Anywhoo. That wasn't fun.
So I called my son on his nicer-than-mine cell phone and told him he forgot the uber important paperwork. And his sister.
And apparently I said something about killing him because when I got off the phone, I heard my 3 year old doing a sing-songy version of, "I'm gonna kill you" and my 6 year old was saying, "Mom won't wheely kill him."
Let's call this a lowlight.
Highlight: My dinner was AWESOME! I may enter the Betty Crocker bake-off and become a famous, celebrity chef.
Or not.
Either way, my homemade, totally from scratch chicken pot pie is enough to make Marie Callendar roll over in her cinnamon-scented grave.
BTW, I don't know, for a fact, if her grave smells like cinnamon. It's just a hunch.
Highlight: My husband and I went out to dinner everynight last week. EVERY NIGHT! It's like we are all in love again.
BTW, I think someone swiped my debit card and spent A LOT of money at restaurants.
Lowlight: At 5:30 tonight- with one hour until my big kids had to be out the door- while I had veggies sautee-ing and I was rolling out pie crust, my husband- working late- asked me to find an email from a week ago, download all of the attachments and make 10 copies of each. AND have it all ready ASAP. Then, THEN, while I was faux swearing about how brown my butter got, he called back with another email (from 3 weeks ago!!!) and more printing.
BTW, I didn't love him again until my potpie turned into bubbling perfection.
Highlight: My kids were on vacation last week. We all slept in every morning. It was bliss. Thursday,
I got up to use the restroom just as my little guy was stumbling, puffy faced and blinking, out of his room. I ran across my room, whispering loudly, "Hurry! Hide! Calvin is awake. Pretend your asleep!" My husband and I made a big production of pulling the covers over our head.
Calvin stood by my door, his blankie pooling at his feet and said, "Mom! It's not like I'm going to eat you."
BTW, it sounded more like he said "eat chew".
Highlight: Eric is 10. One morning during vacation, he hugged my waist and told me he loved me without any warning. When I drop the kids off at school, Eric turns around no less than 3 times to wave good-bye.
BTW, I am taking applications for the position of Eric's wife. We are mormon so 3 lucky girls will win the title.
BTWFR (By the way for reals), just kidding.
Lowlight: My daughter, on her journey to finding her sense of humor, told me I'm not that ugly.
BTW, She looks just like me.
Ha! Who's laughing now, sweetheart!!
Highlight: Some stranger approached me and asked if my teenage son was mine. I said yes and this guy just started telling me what a great young man my son is. (I know I shouldn't end a sentance with a preposition.)
BTW, not all teenagers are scary.
I'm giving up diet coke.
BTW, I'm serious.
Oh boy.....
I don't really know which I am. So I'm unsure whats news to give you first.
I've been considering this post while I went through my day. And it was going to be all the funny things from the past week. And then my day spiraled out of control when I found myself standing on my front porch, yelling at my son who forgot the boyscout paperwork I told him not to forget. Of course he didn't hear because he was riding off in a suburban full of kids.
BTW, Jay Snell is a crazy, deaf driver.
Anywhoo. That wasn't fun.
So I called my son on his nicer-than-mine cell phone and told him he forgot the uber important paperwork. And his sister.
And apparently I said something about killing him because when I got off the phone, I heard my 3 year old doing a sing-songy version of, "I'm gonna kill you" and my 6 year old was saying, "Mom won't wheely kill him."
Let's call this a lowlight.
Highlight: My dinner was AWESOME! I may enter the Betty Crocker bake-off and become a famous, celebrity chef.
Or not.
Either way, my homemade, totally from scratch chicken pot pie is enough to make Marie Callendar roll over in her cinnamon-scented grave.
BTW, I don't know, for a fact, if her grave smells like cinnamon. It's just a hunch.
Highlight: My husband and I went out to dinner everynight last week. EVERY NIGHT! It's like we are all in love again.
BTW, I think someone swiped my debit card and spent A LOT of money at restaurants.
Lowlight: At 5:30 tonight- with one hour until my big kids had to be out the door- while I had veggies sautee-ing and I was rolling out pie crust, my husband- working late- asked me to find an email from a week ago, download all of the attachments and make 10 copies of each. AND have it all ready ASAP. Then, THEN, while I was faux swearing about how brown my butter got, he called back with another email (from 3 weeks ago!!!) and more printing.
BTW, I didn't love him again until my potpie turned into bubbling perfection.
Highlight: My kids were on vacation last week. We all slept in every morning. It was bliss. Thursday,
I got up to use the restroom just as my little guy was stumbling, puffy faced and blinking, out of his room. I ran across my room, whispering loudly, "Hurry! Hide! Calvin is awake. Pretend your asleep!" My husband and I made a big production of pulling the covers over our head.
Calvin stood by my door, his blankie pooling at his feet and said, "Mom! It's not like I'm going to eat you."
BTW, it sounded more like he said "eat chew".
Highlight: Eric is 10. One morning during vacation, he hugged my waist and told me he loved me without any warning. When I drop the kids off at school, Eric turns around no less than 3 times to wave good-bye.
BTW, I am taking applications for the position of Eric's wife. We are mormon so 3 lucky girls will win the title.
BTWFR (By the way for reals), just kidding.
Lowlight: My daughter, on her journey to finding her sense of humor, told me I'm not that ugly.
BTW, She looks just like me.
Ha! Who's laughing now, sweetheart!!
Highlight: Some stranger approached me and asked if my teenage son was mine. I said yes and this guy just started telling me what a great young man my son is. (I know I shouldn't end a sentance with a preposition.)
BTW, not all teenagers are scary.
Highlight: I found these heels.
I texted this picture to my husband and to Kelly F. Kelly replied: "Buy them...absolutely. Your welcome."
My husband replied: "Don't know. Not enough skin showing to make a determination."
Lowlight: They slipped in the heel when I walk. :(
Highlight?
Lowlight?I'm giving up diet coke.
BTW, I'm serious.
Oh boy.....
Monday, February 21, 2011
Here Come Those Eyes...
This song has shaped my day. I loved it the second Pandora brought it to my attention this morning while I was doing breakfast dishes. Shortly after, my husband called and asked if I wanted to meet him for lunch.
Brillant!
This song got me to pay more attention to my appearance and to give him quite the "I made you a sandwich" kiss.
In the course of today, I have thought about my husband and how he reacts to me; how he has always reacted to me.
We met, kissed, got engaged and planned our life together all within, like, 5 minutes.
When it all falls into place that quickly, there isn't much time for him to pine for me. There's no time to mistake shyness for unrequited love.
So I have no choice but to day dream about what it would have been like if we had met at school- or working side by side at an ice cream parlor. You know, like everyone else.
I try to imagine my husband, Mr. Calm, Cool and Collected- the guy with a reptilian heartrate-the man who is all about a "measured response"- getting flustered or nervous. Being as honest as I can be in this forum, he's never caught off guard. He's never not in total control.
Ever.
Lucky for me, I have a fabulous imagination.
And in the course of fusing daydreams with the real life details, I mentally traveled back to the first time we met. Really met. Face to face. Not the time I saw him walk thru the room and not notice the girl who had just lost her heart to him.
In my awesome parallel reality, I didn't have a fat lip. And I wasn't wearing a scrunchie.
I sauntered.
I mesmorized.
I made his head spin.
In real reality, I knew he was planning to ask me out. Kelly had shown him my picture and established that if Bryan asked me out, I would say yes.
But, to my dismay, once he was around me, there was no mention of a date. I was left with no other conclusion than one involving him not being into girls with fat lips and scrunchies.
Stephanie, my friend and ride, was leaving. I said my goodbyes and as I walked to the door, I was heavy hearted. Just as I was closing the door, Kelly called out, "Rachel, Bryan wants to ask you something."
I popped my head back into the room. Bryan asked me if I would like to go with him to San Francisco sometime soon.
I casually said, "I'd like that."
I was cautiously optomistic that maybe he did like me, at least a tiny bit.
And what do you know, a few weeks later, while I was starring at my engagement ring and we were re-living all 4 of our dates, he sheepishly admitted he was a little nervous to ask me out that first night.
Huh.
Mr. Confidence- Mr. Always Ready For It All- wasn't ready for the girl with the fat lip and scrunchy.
Even my daydreams couldn't have beat that.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Let Me Tell You Something
At this very second, my husband is strumming his guitar, making fun of our daughter. She was telling me about her favorite parts of "Farmer Boy" (from the Little House on the Prairie series). Every other word is, "Ahhh" and "Ummm".
My husband challenged her to continue her story telling without using"Ahhh" and "Ummm". All that did was make every other word a giggle. When she finished, I turned my attention to Toy Story 2. Calvin, 3 and fresh from the bath tub, has found a place in my bed watching the unstoppable duo of Woody and Buzz Lightyear.
Bryan grabbed his guitar and played some simple chords and turned Kennedy's story details into a song about "Ahh, Farrrrrmer Boy. Ummm. He sheered some, ummm, sheeeeep."
But that's not what I was going to blog about.
I was going to blog about what I love.
But that sounds kind of self centered. But I don't really care. This is my blog.
Sooo, I guess I'm back on track.
I love the color red.
And potato chips.
SmashBox Cosmetics. I buy them on QVC.
I love QVC.
We have an unhealthy relationship. The first thing I bought from QVC was a silver bracelet in 1989.
I have bought electronics, cleaning supplies, bras, shampoo, jewelry, fore-arm forklifts, tools, even perfume.
Who buys perfume on TV?
The same person who buys a cajun-spice injected turkey at Thanksgiving.
(Do not follow my lead.)
Multiple times in the course of our TV viewing, I will say to my husband, "Turn it to QVC. Whatever it is, I'm going to buy 3 of them. One for me, one for your mom and one for Kelly."
He is always quick to oblige. And the best part is he knows the channel by heart. I never have to say, 'Turn in to channel 12, ya know, QVC."
I love putting on brand new socks.
I love Buzz Lightyear.
In fact, I think if I were any cartoon character, I would be him. Things just always work out for me, sometimes in the same hair-brained, "Of course I can fly. I'll prove it" way. I'm pretty sure if I jumped off the roof, I'd land on a giant hotwheels track and coast to a peaceful stop just at the end of the ramp. Or maybe I'd land smack on the ground with my leg beside me in a really gross way. But then I'd go to the hospital and they'd probably be filming a segment for a reality show and then Oprah would see me, invite me on her show and offer me a car.
Just to be clear, that has never happened.
But, like that funny designer lady on The Incredibles says, "Luck favors the prepared, Dahhhling."
I love bookstores.
I love waterbottles. I don't care what the research says. I think bottled water tastes waaaay better than tap. And I have excellant tap. But it'still second best.
Ok. Enough about me.
For now.
My husband challenged her to continue her story telling without using"Ahhh" and "Ummm". All that did was make every other word a giggle. When she finished, I turned my attention to Toy Story 2. Calvin, 3 and fresh from the bath tub, has found a place in my bed watching the unstoppable duo of Woody and Buzz Lightyear.
Bryan grabbed his guitar and played some simple chords and turned Kennedy's story details into a song about "Ahh, Farrrrrmer Boy. Ummm. He sheered some, ummm, sheeeeep."
But that's not what I was going to blog about.
I was going to blog about what I love.
But that sounds kind of self centered. But I don't really care. This is my blog.
Sooo, I guess I'm back on track.
I love the color red.
And potato chips.
SmashBox Cosmetics. I buy them on QVC.
I love QVC.
We have an unhealthy relationship. The first thing I bought from QVC was a silver bracelet in 1989.
I have bought electronics, cleaning supplies, bras, shampoo, jewelry, fore-arm forklifts, tools, even perfume.
Who buys perfume on TV?
The same person who buys a cajun-spice injected turkey at Thanksgiving.
(Do not follow my lead.)
Multiple times in the course of our TV viewing, I will say to my husband, "Turn it to QVC. Whatever it is, I'm going to buy 3 of them. One for me, one for your mom and one for Kelly."
He is always quick to oblige. And the best part is he knows the channel by heart. I never have to say, 'Turn in to channel 12, ya know, QVC."
I love putting on brand new socks.
I love Buzz Lightyear.
In fact, I think if I were any cartoon character, I would be him. Things just always work out for me, sometimes in the same hair-brained, "Of course I can fly. I'll prove it" way. I'm pretty sure if I jumped off the roof, I'd land on a giant hotwheels track and coast to a peaceful stop just at the end of the ramp. Or maybe I'd land smack on the ground with my leg beside me in a really gross way. But then I'd go to the hospital and they'd probably be filming a segment for a reality show and then Oprah would see me, invite me on her show and offer me a car.
Just to be clear, that has never happened.
But, like that funny designer lady on The Incredibles says, "Luck favors the prepared, Dahhhling."
I love bookstores.
I love waterbottles. I don't care what the research says. I think bottled water tastes waaaay better than tap. And I have excellant tap. But it'still second best.
Ok. Enough about me.
For now.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Elliot
Elliot is six.
This week, he has worked diligently to perfect his hawk cry. Or call. Or imitation.
He is getting ridiculously good at that piercing sound.
He was doing it again on the way to school this morning.
I asked him if he had shown his teacher his new trick.
He told me there is a no-hawk sound rule at school.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Wednesday, Around 2pm
Some words and thoughts from my day (not in chronological order):
Calvin (3): "Mom can I have more pancakes pleeeeeeese"
Me: "Sorry. I don't have any more pancakes."
Calvin: "Poop!"
Me (while on the phone with Kelly): "What happened to PotteryBarn. There stuff used to be so cute. It's kind of lame now."
Kelly: "You've graduated to Restoration Hardware."
Kelly: "My house is thrashed. I have so much to do I don't know where to start. I'm sort of walking around aimlessly. Do you ever do that?"
Me: "No. I'm great when it's a total disaster; I dive right in. It's when it's only a little messy that I drop the ball. I think I'm just comfortable with a certain amout of mess. "
At the crack of dawn I was driving my son to school. I don't know how or why but I started thinking about Hummers. Weird, right? Those big, boxy SUVs. I thought about how they went belly-up (I love that phrase and use it as much as possible. You should, too.)
Why did they go belly-up? Is it because it seemed like only arrogant, douch-baggy guys bought them?
Can a stereo type bring down an entire company in a capitolistic society?
No. No way.
And then I was done thinking about it.
And I dropped my son off for the day.
I was driving back home, plotting my first trip of the day for a fresh diet coke. Will Mr. Hetman be there?
He's my favorite convienence store cronie.
Suddenly, with out warning, a car pulled out in front of me.
I slammed on the brakes, not good considering the icy roads.
And what do you know? It wasn't just any car.
It was a Hummer.
What a douche bag.
PS- if anyone has a better non-swear alternative to douche bag, I'm all ears.
Calvin (3): "Mom can I have more pancakes pleeeeeeese"
Me: "Sorry. I don't have any more pancakes."
Calvin: "Poop!"
Me (while on the phone with Kelly): "What happened to PotteryBarn. There stuff used to be so cute. It's kind of lame now."
Kelly: "You've graduated to Restoration Hardware."
Kelly: "My house is thrashed. I have so much to do I don't know where to start. I'm sort of walking around aimlessly. Do you ever do that?"
Me: "No. I'm great when it's a total disaster; I dive right in. It's when it's only a little messy that I drop the ball. I think I'm just comfortable with a certain amout of mess. "
At the crack of dawn I was driving my son to school. I don't know how or why but I started thinking about Hummers. Weird, right? Those big, boxy SUVs. I thought about how they went belly-up (I love that phrase and use it as much as possible. You should, too.)
Why did they go belly-up? Is it because it seemed like only arrogant, douch-baggy guys bought them?
Can a stereo type bring down an entire company in a capitolistic society?
No. No way.
And then I was done thinking about it.
And I dropped my son off for the day.
I was driving back home, plotting my first trip of the day for a fresh diet coke. Will Mr. Hetman be there?
He's my favorite convienence store cronie.
Suddenly, with out warning, a car pulled out in front of me.
I slammed on the brakes, not good considering the icy roads.
And what do you know? It wasn't just any car.
It was a Hummer.
What a douche bag.
PS- if anyone has a better non-swear alternative to douche bag, I'm all ears.
Monday, January 24, 2011
For You, Mackenzie. With Love.
My young friend Mackenzie is at the precious stage in life when love is just around the corner.
Or building. Maybe just on the other side of the door. Who knows. And that's what makes youth so fun. Because it's all still possible. Because I can resist her in nothing, this post is a small moment taken from my personnal fairy tale. And what a tale it has been...so far.
You should know, I am not an avid journaler. I joke that Bryan and I are still dating in my journal. Certainly I have the tax returns and children to prove otherwise, but according to that book on the shelf, we just met.
Before I fell in love, I dreamed about love. I petitioned for it, hoped for it and got lost in the notion that someday, I would be in love. And loved in return.
One of my few journal entries, September 17, 1993, is a detailed account of all my wishes.
And it is nausiatingly sweet and hopeful.
Even better than that is Sept. 15, 1993 where I list, by name, every boy I ever kissed. All 8 of them.
I even rate them. There's a couple of "Oh, gross, gross" and two "good"s.
Heaven help me. I was only 18 so I'm trying to cut myself some slack.
But, back to the 17th.
"I can't wait 'til I'm a mom and I can cook dinner for my husband and our children. I want us to all sit at the table and talk about our day."
"I can't wait to fingerpaint and teach them how to write in cursive. I can't wait to go to the grocery store and fill up two shopping carts. I can't wait to put almost 20 grocery bags in the back of my station wagon." (Seriously, who is excited about a station wagon?)
I go on and on. And on. I describe what I think he'll be like and "wouldn't it be great if he loved me right away and I didn't realize it but that because he's so awesome I would be crazy about him and still have no clue he likes me back."
I needed a nap after just listening to myself.
I sign off a different journal entry with "I have the song from 'Sleeping Beauty' in my head. 'I know you I've walked with you once upon a dream. I know you the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam...."
I have a few minor entries after that entry.
In a matter of weeks I met Bryan and quite frankly, fell so hard and so fast, I didn't have time to document my descent.
And then one day, 3 weeks after we met, he asked me to marry him. We had real, honest conversation about it. We kissed and laughed and talked. And kissed and laughed and talked. And then I locked myself in my room without music or TV or phone or food or water. And I thought.
All day long.
I studied all I knew about him. I studied all I knew about me.
And I thought back to out first date. I recalled how surprised I was that he was so into classical music. And that he ordered duck at dinner. And he was fluent in French. And had lived in Bangkok and Singpore.And France and Switzerland.
All I had to offer was a simple upbringing in Hollister.
How could this work?
I lay on my bed going thru our dates. It was easy. We had only been on like, 10. With perfect recall, I remembered stepping off of the curb in San Fransisco and how he pulled be back quickly when a car sped by. I remembered how he was humming a classical tune from Tchichovsky. The music used in Disney's "Sleeping Beauty."
I turned to my journal. I started at page one. I read all my silly entries.
I read, like I would be tested later, the entry about all of my hopes and dreams regarding love.
And there it was. A reference to "Sleeping Beauty."
We said I do.
On September 17, 1994.
Isn't that wild?
He never lived in Bangkok. He was just visiting Malaysia.
This I did not know.
But now I do.
And apparently my post makes it sound like he asked me to marry him and then I closed the door on him and immediately turned the lock.
That is an awesome visual.
But there was a couple of days between the talking and the locking.
Or building. Maybe just on the other side of the door. Who knows. And that's what makes youth so fun. Because it's all still possible. Because I can resist her in nothing, this post is a small moment taken from my personnal fairy tale. And what a tale it has been...so far.
You should know, I am not an avid journaler. I joke that Bryan and I are still dating in my journal. Certainly I have the tax returns and children to prove otherwise, but according to that book on the shelf, we just met.
Before I fell in love, I dreamed about love. I petitioned for it, hoped for it and got lost in the notion that someday, I would be in love. And loved in return.
One of my few journal entries, September 17, 1993, is a detailed account of all my wishes.
And it is nausiatingly sweet and hopeful.
Even better than that is Sept. 15, 1993 where I list, by name, every boy I ever kissed. All 8 of them.
I even rate them. There's a couple of "Oh, gross, gross" and two "good"s.
Heaven help me. I was only 18 so I'm trying to cut myself some slack.
But, back to the 17th.
"I can't wait 'til I'm a mom and I can cook dinner for my husband and our children. I want us to all sit at the table and talk about our day."
"I can't wait to fingerpaint and teach them how to write in cursive. I can't wait to go to the grocery store and fill up two shopping carts. I can't wait to put almost 20 grocery bags in the back of my station wagon." (Seriously, who is excited about a station wagon?)
I go on and on. And on. I describe what I think he'll be like and "wouldn't it be great if he loved me right away and I didn't realize it but that because he's so awesome I would be crazy about him and still have no clue he likes me back."
I needed a nap after just listening to myself.
I sign off a different journal entry with "I have the song from 'Sleeping Beauty' in my head. 'I know you I've walked with you once upon a dream. I know you the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam...."
I have a few minor entries after that entry.
In a matter of weeks I met Bryan and quite frankly, fell so hard and so fast, I didn't have time to document my descent.
And then one day, 3 weeks after we met, he asked me to marry him. We had real, honest conversation about it. We kissed and laughed and talked. And kissed and laughed and talked. And then I locked myself in my room without music or TV or phone or food or water. And I thought.
All day long.
I studied all I knew about him. I studied all I knew about me.
And I thought back to out first date. I recalled how surprised I was that he was so into classical music. And that he ordered duck at dinner. And he was fluent in French. And had lived in Bangkok and Singpore.And France and Switzerland.
All I had to offer was a simple upbringing in Hollister.
How could this work?
I lay on my bed going thru our dates. It was easy. We had only been on like, 10. With perfect recall, I remembered stepping off of the curb in San Fransisco and how he pulled be back quickly when a car sped by. I remembered how he was humming a classical tune from Tchichovsky. The music used in Disney's "Sleeping Beauty."
I turned to my journal. I started at page one. I read all my silly entries.
I read, like I would be tested later, the entry about all of my hopes and dreams regarding love.
And there it was. A reference to "Sleeping Beauty."
Of course, you know how this ends.
I said yes.We said I do.
On September 17, 1994.
Isn't that wild?
CORRECTION:
He never lived in Bangkok. He was just visiting Malaysia.
This I did not know.
But now I do.
And apparently my post makes it sound like he asked me to marry him and then I closed the door on him and immediately turned the lock.
That is an awesome visual.
But there was a couple of days between the talking and the locking.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Let Me Just Say.....Ummm. Give Me A Minute. It'll Come To Me.
I have blogger's block.
I have a zillion thoughts.
I have pictures I could post, stories I could relay.
But I'm not feelin' it.
Maybe it's the winter-time blues.
Except I'm not sad.
I don't know.
But I feel like I should say something.
It's awesomely narcissistic to think that you want me to say something.
SOMETHING BIG!!!
Something like, "Did I ever tell you about the time I sat next to Huey Lewis?"
And I would add that it was in the 80's which made is down-right magical.
Maybe I could blog about...geez. I don't even have enough to finish this sentance.
What if the diet coke has fried my brain?
I always knew it would.
But SO SOON?!
How about I tell you all the things I would change about myself if it took no effort what-so-ever.
Excellant idea.
1. I'd have muscle definition. Who the heck cares about the scale. I'll take whatever the number is if I could see the outline of anything on my body besides remnants of pizza and brownies.
2. I'd have a masters in anything. Bugs, history, economics, religion. Don't really care to know what it would be in. Just would like to have done it.
3. I would have all my pictures organized. The real ones and the digital.
It's like a pipe-dream I carry around with me everywhere.
4. I'd put said uber-organized pictures up on my blog at various times and they could enhance my opinions. But, with a masters in All-Kinds-of-Useful-Information, my words wouldn't need enhancing.
5. I'd be a vegetarian.
6. I'd be a former vegetarian who remembered how much she loves rib eye steak.
7. I'd knit things.
8. I'd blog everyday.
I am very well. I really hope you are too.
I have a zillion thoughts.
I have pictures I could post, stories I could relay.
But I'm not feelin' it.
Maybe it's the winter-time blues.
Except I'm not sad.
I don't know.
But I feel like I should say something.
It's awesomely narcissistic to think that you want me to say something.
SOMETHING BIG!!!
Something like, "Did I ever tell you about the time I sat next to Huey Lewis?"
And I would add that it was in the 80's which made is down-right magical.
Maybe I could blog about...geez. I don't even have enough to finish this sentance.
What if the diet coke has fried my brain?
I always knew it would.
But SO SOON?!
How about I tell you all the things I would change about myself if it took no effort what-so-ever.
Excellant idea.
1. I'd have muscle definition. Who the heck cares about the scale. I'll take whatever the number is if I could see the outline of anything on my body besides remnants of pizza and brownies.
2. I'd have a masters in anything. Bugs, history, economics, religion. Don't really care to know what it would be in. Just would like to have done it.
3. I would have all my pictures organized. The real ones and the digital.
It's like a pipe-dream I carry around with me everywhere.
4. I'd put said uber-organized pictures up on my blog at various times and they could enhance my opinions. But, with a masters in All-Kinds-of-Useful-Information, my words wouldn't need enhancing.
5. I'd be a vegetarian.
6. I'd be a former vegetarian who remembered how much she loves rib eye steak.
7. I'd knit things.
8. I'd blog everyday.
I am very well. I really hope you are too.
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