Becoming Something

Averting death

Three days ago some men who work for the city of Kalamazoo were here on Katie's street cutting down trees to make room for some sewer line work.

The next morning I woke up to loud booming crashes. I was scared until I realised it was just trees loudly falling outside. The irregular crashing lasted for about twenty minutes. The BOOM!s made it impossible to fall back asleep.

Except that when I was more alert I realised that it seemed more plausible that the crashing was actually children jumping above my temporary basement suite. Of course the city men would not let large trees crash to the ground and even if they did, their thuds would be cushioned by other trees, by soft dirt, by ivy and brush. It must have been the tree uprooting scene in the suicide-inducing movie The Road, a movie we saw this week, traumatising my brain, along with the reality-glazing state of suddenly being awakened from a deep sleep.

However, none of the previous day occurred to me when a nuclear bomb jolted me awake at exactly 7:00 yesterday morning. The crash was louder than the movie trailers at the Cineplex and the reverberation seemed to last twenty seconds. My body was flooded with adrenaline and in a matter of a second or two I thought, Oh no! I shouldn't have come to the United States. It figures it would get bombed. What should I do? Should I check on Katie? But I was stuck to my bed in fear and disbelief.

It was only a couple of minutes before I woke up enough to realise that it was just a child jumping or breaking a television on the floor above me or setting off small fireworks or teaching an elephant to "sit". One of those things. But not a bomb. What country would target Michigan? Michigan is great. Everyone knows that you'd start bombing in South Dakota.

I could not go back to sleep. For about thirty minutes my heart was pumping as though I had been doing jumping jacks. 

So, now you know approximately what my IQ level is when I'm tired or just awakened. REMEMBER THIS. If you know me at all, I will likely need to call upon this story for remembrance at some point to solicit your forgiveness and mercy for something stupid I will say or do to have you know that no, no, it's not you; it really is me.

And to make things worse, for the past few weeks I have been unable to sleep past seven or eight in the morning, no matter what time I went to bed the night before. My husband's prayers have been answered. I will now be forced to go to bed early if I want to be functional and non-paranoid the next day. This might be a cool thing to become a morning person, seeing as our society, and my family life in particular, requires a morning person's sensibility, if only I was capable of napping. My husband can fall asleep on any surface in any position in about five minutes. I can't quiet my mind enough. I've had this problem since I was a wee one. My mind zips around no matter how tired I am and keeps me up for at least 15 minutes if I'm exhausted and as much as an hour and a half (or four hours if I'm anxious) if it's just an average day. It's all the worse when it's a nap because I feel pressure to fall asleep because I only have a certain amount of time. 

Pretty tired these days.

Daily Gratitudes

1. I suppose I am glad that Kalamazoo avoided a tornado, though that would have been a cool experience.
2. Listening to Corn Fed Girls front row at the library was really lovely.
3. I caught some fireflies and let them go! I haven't seen any since I was about eleven or so.
4. Katie's friend, to whom I'd never spoken, brought me the ingredients to make pesto so I could cross another item off my bucket list on the right. I thought that was so immensely sweet but it doesn't surprise me that Katie has very endearing friends. So, I'm going to make pesto today and eat it with the prettiest rainbow-striped pasta found at the astoundingly awesome store World Market. Man, these Americans are so ridiculously spoiled. And they likely have no idea.
5. I really needed a new wallet. Mine was really cute, with leather pleats and a leather flower on it and it was cream, orange and brown and from a decent brand costing about $25-30, though I got it at a yard sale for a dollar. But it was ripped and had pencil marks from Lulu and the flower fell apart. So I decided I would find a wallet while I was here. I didn't go looking but chanced upon this gorgeous, big, mustard-coloured, magnetic closure leather wallet in Aveda, made by Hobo. It was normally ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS (!!) and it was on sale for $50. Fifty is the most I could ever see spending on a wallet and because this one is so useful and beautiful I was more delighted than if I'd just found a hundred dollar bill on the street. But I shouldn't have gone to the website because now I know they make other pleated, possibly prettier wallets. That Rebecca clutch is stunning. Oh well.

I don't know how Dora the Explorer does this

[Note: I wrote most of this on Thursday, then finished some of it and the Daily Gratitudes Friday night. That will explain the timing for anyone privy to my life's goings on.]

I had to drive to Edmonton yesterday for a two-hour appointment with my psychologist.  It's, well, a fair distance. 

Before I left, Jude asked me if I had my credit card.  "Yep," I said.  It's always in my wallet.  Which is not to say I have never forgotten my entire wallet before.  I did, once.  Got all the way to Calgary.  Ohhhh yeah.  In my defense, I was excited to get there and was preoccupied with a lot of things.

At my appointment the Dr. wanted me to talk about my mom.  I was surprised that I started to get emotional.  For many years I have been able to talk about her and all my most traumatic memories without feeling any emotion at all, except contempt.  I thought that meant I was fine. Damaged but mostly fine, not about to have some crying fit or anything.

She wanted me to be upset, too.  Apparently, getting into "vulnerable child" mode is crucial for changing how you feel.  Blech.  I don't like feeling all vulnerable.  It hasn't worked out for me so well in the past.  So, I raced through my life story and series of parental abandonments: mom, dad, boyfriend-dad, step-mom, grandfather.

Then, our appointment was done.  We were not able to really resolve anything.  I went to pay her.  Hey, guess what?  I didn't have my credit card after all.  She was unconcerned; I could pay her next week.

I was FAMISHED.  I had not had lunch and it was now 4:30.  I was living on just pancakes at breakfast, with blackcurrant compote on them— divine!  And I knew I needed gas, or "petrol" as Jude says, for some reason.  I phoned Joelle and, laughing quite a bit, said, "Hi.  So, I am going to come crash that baby shower and I am starving and need you to feed me and give me money for gas.  I drove all the way here with no credit card!"

She agreed to the terms.  But when I got into the car I saw that I didn't have enough money to make it out to see her.  It's about a 45 minute drive.  No gas!  No money!  No one in Edmonton for me to call to ask for help!  And it would be very gauche of me to go interrupt my psychologist's appointment with another client to ask her for money.  Can you imagine?  Ugh. 

So, I drove to the nearest gas station and asked the young girl working there if we could phone my husband and get his credit card number and pay that way.  I knew it was a long shot.  No, they needed to at least swipe the card the old fashioned way, if not run it through the debit machine.  She asked if $20 would be enough.  I said more than enough, $15 would be enough.  She said that $20 was fine and I could just go fill up at pump number five.  I asked how they were able to do that.  Do they have a free gas fund for weary travellers?  Surely this must happen all the time?  Who hasn't driven to a major city without any way to buy anything and not enough gas to get back, am I right, people, or am I right?

I'm kidding, of course. The girl paid for it herself, offered to.  Wasn't even going to tell me that she was paying for it herself.  And she did seem a bit reluctant, like she didn't think she'd ever get the money back.  Of course I made her give me her name and phone number and promised her I'd be back next Thursday.  (Of course, I can't find her phone number anywhere because I lost it but Jude was in Edmonton today and paid her back. Also— ha. ha. ha.— he had even offered to fill up the car for me before I left but I said that was silly, I could do it easily myself. Turned out not to be so easy.)

I turned my iPhone on and used the GPS feature to find Joelle's house and directions to it.  But as I followed along, something went wrong.  It didn't make sense.  I pulled into a residential neighbourhood to take a closer look.  The stupid thing didn't even know where I was!  Here I was happily following the blue dot (me), la di da, and really, I was quite a few streets over from where the stupid thing said I was.  I sat there for a while trying to orient myself, then carried on. 

I wasn't paying close attention to the lines on the road because I was paying attention to the signs, and the street signs were not what Google maps said they should be.  I did notice an X painted on the road in front of the crosswalk but by the time I really noticed, I was already partway over it and besides, by my calculations, the light should be turning green soon, since it had been red while I was driving up to it.

Instead I heard a thump-thump on my car.  I thought someone was hitting my car.  I wondered what was wrong, if there was an emergency, if something was wrong with my car, or if I was about to get carjacked.  I wondered if it was the sound of my trunk flapping away— did I accidentally pop the trunk open when I popped the gas tank door open and then somehow not notice...?  How the heck could that happen?  Then I spotted it.  I was under a big red and white striped railroad crossing arm!  Brilliant!  You know, the thing you're supposed to stay behind so you don't get clipped by a speeding train?  (Not that I was in any such jeopardy.  The train was way ahead of me.  ALSO, the train had already gone by when I was on the other side of the tracks.  Why would I have guessed that a mere ten minutes later, another train would come by?  That never happens. AND, there were no flashing lights or noises to let me know the train was coming and the arm would be coming down.)

No one was behind me so I backed up from under the weight of the arm and it fell down to eye level.  I laughed, anticipating telling this to you.  But the story was much funnier in my head because I was all loopy on post-psychology angst and bile fumes (hungry, remember?), whereas now I'm tired from all the sleep I didn't get last night. 

I pulled into another residential area in order to give my GPS another chance, when I spotted a man loading something into his vehicle.  I asked him if he could tell me where to go.  I explained the problems I was having and he said he wasn't surprised because I look really stupid.  No, I'm kidding.  He didn't say that.  But that would be funny.  He said that Google maps is often wrong.  I said, "Yes!  I once had to take someone from the Edmonton temple to the High Level Diner and it said that we had to turn on Fox Drive and it was a ramp," and the guy was nodding his head and smiling, "Yep, that's how you'd have to go."  And I said,

"Right, and she wanted me to turn there and I was tempted BUT, I had carefully written down instructions from Google maps and there were three more things that had to take place before we ever got to this Fox Drive point and the sign was really small and, actually, the only part of it that agreed with what Google said was the "fox" part. I had something else written, that was not 'drive'."

He told me that he talked to a guy once who had something to do with these maps and he said that at some point in the beginning they drew a line where everything would be accurate and above it would be hit and miss and, I think frankly, it was probably right at the 49th parallel.  He said the more I paid for my GPS the more accurate it would get.  I showed him what the map of our current location looked like.  I said, "Doesn't it look like if I just turn this way, that I will get to Gateway?"  "Yep."  Well, it was missing two whole turns!!  Then I told him about the railroad arm and we laughed and laughed and then he told me that there was nothing wrong with being Mormon, some guys who work for him are Mormon.  I found this very funny because I never expressed any concern about being Mormon.  I just said that I was at the temple.  I could have been there defacing it for all he knew.  Freudian slip?

So, he gave me very good directions.

I moseyed on up the Anthony Henday major roadway and all I had to do was go straight.  I phoned Joelle to tell her what had happened and to confirm directions to her house.  I was killing myself laughing telling her about what had all happened so far because I will laugh a lot at my own stories when I know I'm telling them to someone who will also laugh and Joelle and Sara will always laugh a lot. She passed me to her husband so he could give directions while she carried on getting ready for this baby shower.  As I'm talking to him I realise that I must have taken a wrong turn, which seems impossible, since I never turned anywhere.  I was told to go straight and I did.  I must have merged somehow without realising it, because I was talking on the phone and I was really hungry and tense and kind of loopy, therefore, not paying close enough attention.

So, I hung up the phone with Drew in order to make time for a very near collision into a bus.  I had to slam on my breaks and the driver honked at me.  He looked a bit ticked off.  Oops.  I was about... two metres away from hitting him.  It was a three-way stop and I didn't even notice the third way.  I was trying to describe where I was to Drew. 

Hey, note to self:  Stop driving and talking on the phone.  If you can, pull over for directions next time.

Ya, not the highlight of my week.

The highlight of my week was when I lightly bumped another car.  Scraped a bit of paint off his bumper, dented mine in.  Stupid plastic bumper.  I barely bumped him and it looked like he was going but some car came racing up behind us and he suddenly stopped and so did I, just barely not in time.  And yes, I was rushing.  To Daisy's birthday party.

So, I made it out of the residential neighborhood with Drew guiding me on the phone and when I got to her house I said I was sleeping over.  We were going to watch Shaun of the Dead because she hasn't seen it yet (can you believe that?) and I'd just crash there (ha ha) and go home in the morning. 

She was hosting a baby shower and I was the only person who didn't really know anyone and didn't bring a gift.  But to make up for it, I was the first person to attack the food table.

I felt very strange and the later into the night we got, I felt uncomfortable.  It took me the two hour drive home the next morning and half an hour in bed trying to sleep, to figure out why.  I'll get to that in a moment.

I didn't feel like I related to a single person.  There was no interesting conversation, really.  Except for the slightly crazy woman who said her baby's head was 37 centimetres at birth.  That was interesting but for the life of me I just could not muster up the dramatic reaction that her dramatic retelling and pausing seemed to demand.  There was no witty repartee.  There were some wide-eyed LDS people with whom I felt I could discuss to their content the virtue of roses and sun-filled days but, well, have you met me?

Joelle said something about some funny cards that she read in a store and they sounded like the ones at someecards.com.  So, using my iPhone, I went to the website and found some of the cards to show her.  Many are funny without being crude and some are simply obscene so don't go there if you're at all a normal person and especially not if you're delicate. See how I didn't even link to it?  I'm trying to be responsible.

Anyway, I forgot, because she was as quiet as a mouse and one of about 15 people, that there was a girl there about 11 or 12 and not just any girl but a Mormon girl.  So, I didn't mean to offend when I read aloud, (but not loudly, I think) at our end of the party, an apology card that said, "Sorry I was aroused at the description of your breast examination," which we all thought was hilaaaarious because we were already laughing and, me, because I was a bit loopy.  Looking back now, that mom might have been upset.  At one point someone else asked the girl to cover her ears and the mom, looking displeased, asked her daughter to help her bring the cake into the house. But the woman who had something adult to say just carried on. I tried gesturing to her, but she didn't get it. So, with the mom and girl still there, she repeated a story about someone's son telling his teacher that his mom said his dad was the sperm donor or something.  Pretty tame I thought.  And it's factually true.  But I think the mom and daughter left shortly after.  Another woman told her ahead of time that she shouldn't bring her here because the conversation might get dicey. 

Anyway, it just felt odd.  The people felt odd.

I couldn't get to sleep.  I missed my bed, my husband, and my children.  Oddly, since I had just been talking about wanting to escape for a while. 

Eventually, the light was starting to come into the living room where I had decided to move to sleep and I heard a repetitive noise that sounded like an alarm clock that gently rouses with a bird chirp, then gets louder and louder.  It couldn't be a real bird because I've never heard such an uncreative, ranting, self-indulgent bird chirp before.  I realised it wasn't growing louder, I was just growing more awake.  As I sat there, the bird was clearly saying, "DIE, DIE, die, die..." and then two seconds later, the same thing. It carried on, despite me closing the windows, so I gave up on sleep, tried out Joelle's eyelash curler, and left the bird behind, after writing her a note explaining why I disappeared so early and thanking her for all the food and directions, and leaving it on the kitchen counter.

I felt icky the whole way home.  It was awful.  I hadn't felt this way in a long time.  It didn't help that I couldn't find anything good to listen to on the radio.  I loathe radio jockeys who think that if they don't put some kind of exaggerated inflection in their voices every few seconds that I won't be able to follow what they're saying, that my attention will be lost.  I was looking for CBC where the hosts talk like normal people, but couldn't remember the station.  So, I settled on a hip hop station where I only hated half the songs.

Then, I was so lost in thought, trying to figure it all out, I missed my turn off to my city.  Just kept going straight, then had to turn around, got lost again, made it home. 

I swear that I don't normally have such a terrible time driving.  The last time I did, I was similarly distracted, stressed out, and sleep deprived.

And anyway, I'm sure I have other, more redeeming qualities.  I make fantastic appetizers and I dance wildly at weddings.  I am an easy laugh.  My eyes are bright leaf green when I cry, which is such a waste, don't you think?  I can quote most of The Cremation of Sam McGee and all of She Walks in Beauty Like the Night.

But I'm not good at deep stressful thought and driving simultaneously. I will never be a Bond girl.

So what I finally realised, when lying in bed is that I had reverted back to more of the person I was when I last talked to Joelle and before, which was years ago.  It's not her fault.  Just association and probably that I was feeling out of sorts from my psychologist appointment.  By association I mean like when you smell a scent and it reminds you of a place and a feeling.  I felt arrogant and superior to the people at her shin dig.  I hate that feeling.  It makes me feel dirty.  I don't like revisiting past places I've been with unhappy memories.  I don't like my present places being tainted with unhappy memories or unhappy people.  I don't like revisiting versions of myself I used to be, worst of all.  To not only look back on who I used to be but to actually re-feel it was emotionally traumatising. Very uncomfortable in a similar way as doing something really bad and feeling horribly guilty.  Ahem.  Not that I would know.

Later on in the day, I got a Facebook message from Joelle saying that she had gone downstairs and kept the kids quiet, to be all loving and let me sleep in.  When she eventually went into the room she'd put me in, the bed was made and I had disappeared (like a wannabe, never-be Bond girl).  She was confused because it wasn't until later that she found my letter... folded up by the kids and used as a paper airplane.  Perfect punchline to a strange and eventful day.

Dora may be better at this but she has a backpack that somehow manages to store inflatable dinghies and hand gliders, and her parents must have sprung for the really pricey talking and singing GPS system she affectionately calls "Map".

Daily Gratitudes

1. Saw Knight & Day with Jude.  Loved it.  Funny and sexy.  Great stunts.  The previews are always SO loud, though.  We always forget to bring earplugs and the Cadbury's mini eggs I used didn't work well for long before they got cracked from me trying to stuff them in and then a bit melty. You think I'm kidding, don't you?
2. We have great choices of babysitters. 
3. Cashier at the grocery store asked Jude where the kids were, the last time he went in, then said that our kids are the best behaved kids she's seen in the store. Awww.
4. Our friend works at the Cineplex and offered to get us in free to any movie we want! What? I think I should get a part time job working there.  I'm serious.  So, we're going to take the kids and Megan to Despicable Me next weekend for free.  That will help offset the $70 we paid to see Toy Story 3 which I did not love as much as everyone else.  I thought the baby doll was very creepy and sad, the monkey was shrill and scary for Lulu, and the recycling bit was too dark.  Even I was scared. 
5. Jude dressed down for me tonight and looked cute.

Wherein I supposedly hit on a missionary *eyeroll*

Life is unbelievably weird. Honestly, if I were to write the story of my life, with no embellishment, NO ONE WOULD BELIEVE ME. You'll have to trust me on this. As they say, truth is stranger than fiction. Or life is stranger than fiction. Or something like that. Glenn Beck is stranger than fiction. One of those sayings. This really has little with what I'm about to say next but I just wanted to get that off my chest and then not explain it. Dooce does it all the time, why can't I? Come on, you like it.

Through somewhat remarkable or at least odd or at least coincidental(?) circumstances, I reconnected with my ex-best friend. It's been three years or so since we last spoke. We're all grown up now and kinder, more honest, more relaxed people and were able to have a conversation that felt different than ones in the past. 

I mentioned a missionary we had in our ward who had been transferred from her ward three years ago for the purpose of saying that he had told me that she had a baby boy, which was weird, since she had a girl and girls and boys are so different that you'd think you'd be able to keep that one straight. There are only two options, usually, for how that birthing situation might go down and "girl" and "boy" don't even SOUND similar. And we trust these boys to teach the gospel? Sheesh. "Joseph Smith was a young 14-year-old girl, no!, I mean boy, who wanted to know...."

Anyway. What she had to say next shocked me.

This missionary in our ward got transferred out early, before the transfer date, and it was because of me. I knew this because the bishop at the time pulled me into a classroom and in a very weird, somewhat incoherent, mysterious way, asked me what had gone on between this missionary and I. I don't remember exactly how he asked or exactly what he said in our brief little meeting because it was so jarring and offensive. The gist was that the missionary didn't feel comfortable about being in the ward with me because he felt like something was going on between us. 

I explained to the bishop that I didn't really know what the missionary could be talking about other than I liked him more than other missionaries (some missionaries are really stupid/boring/full of themselves/immature, you know), we had a couple of things in common. I said that the only time we had ever talked, there were people around and we only talked about music. I said that I felt like he liked me. The first time he came to our home he thought that Jude and I were just so funny and awesome. Not bragging or anything, but that's what he said. "We'll have to come here more often," he said, or something like that. And he was impressed that I knew what Celiac disease was and that I had tried to accommodate his food needs, his condition preceding via rumour his first formal introduction to us, by making a dessert with low-gluten flour in it. And we bought him some gluten-free food from the grocery store. But that wasn't just me, that was Jude, too, and we often buy food for the missionaries. If he felt singled out and assumed it was because I dug his fancy pants, that's not my doing.

I told the bishop that maybe he felt like he liked me too much after I had asked him and his companion if either of them had heard of Prairie Home Companion, a radio show with Garrison Keillor that Jude and I LOOOOVE and we would sometimes play sketches from the show for missionaries after dinner. It turned out that the Elder (who's name I don't even remember, by the way. I want to say his name begins with a D but that probably means it begins with an ZYQK because that's just how my brain works. I'll ask Jude or people on Twitter for a word that means such-and-such and it begins with an M, I'm sure of it, and it turns out that it actually begins with a B. Ooops. Sorry about that. Girl brain.) and his family (look at that awkward sentence interruption. Ha.) (And this one.) used to listen to the radio show all the time and they looove Garrison Keillor, too. He was so shocked that we even knew about it and, I'll be honest, he seemed a bit starry-eyed. It is an American radio show that many Americans don't even know about, so we came off as mighty cool, you understand.

So, yes. I liked this missionary and he liked me. You know who else I like? Paul and Mary.  My bishop. Ron and Pam. Naomi and Gord. Mary Z. (Among many other people, blah blah blah.) They're just very easy to like and I try not to creep them out by smiling at them too much or letting on that I like them. Because apparently, I'm a creepazoid who feels up missionaries under my dining room table. Watch out. You might be next.

Okay, actually, what my friend said was that Elder ZYKQBP said that I put my hand on his leg under the table.

Now stop what you're doin' 'cause I'm about to ruin this absurd gossip.

That is SO not true. I think. I'm pretty sure. 

I think that I would remember doing such a thing and that in talking with the bishop, my mind would immediately flash to such a thing and that I'd feel guilty or at least embarrassed. But this was news to me as of last night.

For one thing, when missionaries come to dinner, they always sit beside each other at the table. Maybe I sat on the end of the table and he was perpendicular to me and my KNEE brushed against his but he should know the difference between a knee and a hand unless he has a sensory disorder.

Maybe we were sitting in my living room at some point while he played my guitar and I put my hand on his leg briefly while talking or laughing and I don't remember? I really doubt it. I can be touchy feely when laughing and excitable but it's usually in the Elaine from Seinfeld kind of way, with a surprising amount of violence. "Get out!" You wouldn't mistake it for a come on. Again, unless you have a sensory disorder. And some people do. I'm not trying to be insensitive here.

This isn't the worst of it. The worst of it is that this was major gossip that all the missionaries talked about for a while. Or maybe I just remember her saying that it was major gossip because it was gossip that felt major to me because it was about me. "Watch out for Sister Loewen. She likes the young 'uns." For all I know, it's a story that gets passed down to the missionaries in my ward. (Just now as I wrote that, I was paralysed with indecision about whether to strike my head against the wall or laugh hysterically. It's a common dilemma that I have: Have anxiety about people's perceptions and assumptions or giggle uncontrollably at what they must think, I knowing how wrong they are and appreciate a feeling of superiority that I don't jump to such conclusions about people because I really don't care about their private lives that much. I usually go with amusement but, I admit, last night I felt anxiety. A twinge of it. Is it possible that people gossip about me? I've never really thought so. That's why it was so jarring, rather than validating, to hear that gossip had been taking place and about me. Some people like to be gossiped about, like Paris Hilton and Megan Fox. Presumably.)

I did not behave toward this missionary any differently than with any person I get on with, like, say, Candace from the antique store. I get excited when talking with people with whom I have something in common and I usually have an easier time talking with men than with women. I can be very chatty and excitable and childlike. And I can be pretty charming, let's just be honest about that. But I'm not flirting. I'm just being me. And sometimes I am serious and shy and boring so I can see how my chatty, excitable, charming self could then be interpreted as out-of-the-ordinary behaviour that is flirtatious. Not so. If I am flirtatious, it is equal opportunity flirtation. Don't take it personally. I'm probably just feeling rather enamoured with myself.

I admit that I'm annoyed. It's one thing for there to be gossip about me hitting on someone else besides my husband, but a missionary? PLEASE. I can do so much better than that. And because missionaries are so revered in our religion and because they're newly adult men who take major vows of chaste behaviour, hitting on a missionary is pretty scandalous. It's like hitting on a young priest.

No, I don't like the idea of being gossiped about and yes, I know that in sharing so much information about myself I'm making it easy for people to try to fill in blanks and make wild assumptions rather than, say, thinking things that are more likely such as I'm a good person who's trying her best. But I think the good from being so open outweighs the bad. It's possible that I'll one day change my mind. I like to learn the hard way. Writing fodder and all.

Argh.

Just had to get that off my chest. My heaving, missionary-loving chest.

Daily Gratitudes

1. A new Amazon order arrived yesterday. More books to start and not finish!
2. My kids are funny.
3. My friends are special and way too nice to me. I seriously don't know how they put up with me or why. Maybe they're "special".
4. Cherilyn FedExed me some LiceMD which is not available around here and it should be arriving today. Yay?
5. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Funy times 2

Checked my email.  Got a message from my son.  From the computer in the basement.  He's working on a big chapter novel about a place called Arnolia. 

"hi momm

 

i pute toghether a presintation abuot mi arnolia thingiy.

 

goe 2 mi googgle doks akcount andd u will see a videeo icon thate says arnolia.

 

have fun

 

(P.S. I really can spell, just did that because I find horribly misspelled things funny.)

 

luv u 

 

:)"

The "rilly" funny thing?  I didn't even notice that he was misspelling anything until I got to "thingiy".

Daily Gratitudes

1. My friend Katie's husband didn't die.
2. Jude let me sleep in this morning.  Took me a long time to fall asleep last night because I was itchy everywhere for no reason. 
3. Video chatting with faraway friends.
4. My grade one daughter is reading in French!
5. Grey's Anatomy is on tonight.  Vegggggg.

The most botched LDS child's baptism ever

(Remember when I said my next post would be about the fourth agreement of The Four Agreements?  Well, I changed my mind.)

This post is about the most botched LDS child's baptism ever-- my daughter's.

Our daughter turned 8 in August and as is custom and doctrine in our religion, she was to be baptised.  But, I was in the UK for her birthday and the remainder of August.  As well, she wanted to invite her school teacher from last year and the school teacher's phone number is unlisted so we had to wait until school started.

We planned it for tomorrow.  It seems that most baptisms in our ward take place on Saturdays so it didn't even occur to me to have it on a week night-- a brilliant idea because I hate spending my Saturdays on religion.  Saturday is a special day, it's the day we get all our partying in that we can't do on Sunday. Obviously.

So.  I tell our Primary president-- Primary being the children's organisation where they sings songs and learn stuff and meet on Sunday for two hours-- that we'll be having Josie's baptism on Saturday at 4:00 and I ask if she can announce it in our Primary meeting on Sunday.  "Okay!" she chirps cheerfully.

So, they get to the announcements and first it's announced that Tyson's baptism is at 2:00.

GREAT.  No one, including the Primary president mentioned to me that there was already a baptism only two hours away from our intended baptism.

I thought it would be unlikely that in our small ward another child would be having his baptism on the same day.  We're supposed to have joint baptisms when children's birthdays are close together.  Now our local church leaders have to attend TWO baptisms.  On a SATURDAY.  The funnest day of the week.  And they don't get paid to attend because our church runs on volunteerism. 

Not only that, it would mean they would have to rush out of the church or at least be quiet while we were starting OUR baptism. 

I asked the counselor in the bishopric-- we'll call him "Brother Bailey"-- if he'd be okay coming to BOTH baptisms.  He's in his 60's, I think, and I don't think he's overly booked these days and also he's a bit of a family friend, so I thought he wouldn't mind.  He confirmed that he was fine to "hang out all day". 

Score.

But later my friend Pam phoned to ask if we could push the time back to 5.  There's a pianist playing in a nearby city and they are going to the matineé and won't make it back on time for 4:00 and they really want to come.  Rachel, our babysitter wouldn't think of missing Josie's baptism!

"Uh, sure. I guess 5 is okay."

I tell Nicole, Adria's best friend's mom, about the time change. "Oh! We're going to the evening concert.  That's cutting it close.... I guess we'll just leave immediately after....  And try to grab some food before 7."

SIGHHHHHH.  So, now our baptism is convenient for the Thompsons but not so much convenient for Nicole and her family. Oh well.  It will have to do.

So, today is Friday.  I realised that I hadn't phoned Brother Bailey yet to tell him that we've changed the time to 5:00.

Sister Pat Bailey answered the phone.  Gosh, she sounded young.  She sounded like Catherine Bailey. (These are fake names I'm using here.)

I told her that there's a time change, that Brother Bailey said he'd be at the baptism at 4 and it's actually at 5.  And is that a problem because I know he's going to Tyson's baptism at 2.

"There's a baptism at 2?  And he said he'd officiate?"

"Yes."

Murmurs of confusion and extreme politeness followed from Catherine because Brother Bailey was planning on being at the same concert everyone else is going to.  Brother Bailey walked in the house and she passed the phone to him.  HE didn't sound confused at all.  We talked about how this concert was in conflict with both baptisms and how it's too bad that no one in the Bishopric mentioned the schedule conflict. He told me that we're really supposed to have joint baptisms where possible and it would have been great if we could have had it in the morning.  I said I'd phone Tyson's parents on the off chance that we could change the baptisms.

Tyson's parents were not home.  So, I left a message saying I realise they probably have family coming but if it's at all possible that we can combine them, then could they let me know?

I phoned my friend JQ to see if she's going to be there representing the Primary organisation.  She said no, she was going to go as our neighbor, and Sister "Watley" was going for Primary.  I said that it's really becoming inconvenient and I wish we could change the time. She suggested a week night.  I realised that would be brilliant.  I decided to change it.  We didn't have many people to notify.

I let Jude know we're going to change it.  He confirmed that's better, far less stressful. Let's do it Friday night, the 25th.

Josie started to cry.  She wanted it to be tomorrow and she already invited her teachers.

CARRRP.  I forgot about that!  UGH.

Her grade two teacher said she couldn't come but her current teacher said she might be able to attend.

I checked the phone book. Number unlisted. Checked online.  Someone with her last name in her town was listed.  I figured chances were good they knew her.  I was correct.  I got her phone number and left a message, feeling mildly embarrassed that we JUST invited her TODAY and now we're having to change it. 

What a relief, however, that I was able to leave a message.  I'd be mortified if she drove in from a separate town for nothing.  And then what would we do?  Invite her AGAIN?  Ha.

Then Jude casually said, "I guess we have a cake to eat then."

ARGH!!!  I forgot that he brought a cake home while I was on the phone with someone.  I never saw it and we didn't get a chance to discuss it. 

He pulled the cake out.  It's big.  Enough to feed at least 30 people.  It has fruit on it, cream icing and says, "On your baptism".  And the blueberries were clearly frozen and had bled into the icing, which looked terrible and I'm totally going to complain about that, because... 

"How much did it cost? Was it a lot?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Well, I tipped her too so it was $50."

"FIFTY DOLLARS?!!  We just talked about our budget for the rest of the month!  You're supposed to talk to me about purchases first."

(Now, I must confess, I didn't okay my purchase today with him but I didn't spend $50 on a freakin' CAKE!  I spent it on nail polish.) 

(Haha.  That was a joke.  I don't use nail polish.)

"It's not a lot of money.  $50.  We've wasted far more money in the past."  And by "we" he COMPLETELY and POINTEDLY meant ME.

"Yes, but not on a CAKE."

"Well, I didn't want you to have to make a cake."

"WHEN DO I EVER MAKE CAKE?!  AS IF I was going to make a cake."

"We had to buy food and this would have taken care of the dessert."

"Yes, and it's lovely BUT, I was not going to be spending $50 on DESSERT.  We need some supper food."

And you know, had we not just talked about our new budget and saving money for traveling and such, and if were WERE actually having a baptism, I would not have been upset over a $50 cake and I would have thought he was very thoughtful and proactive and lovely and that it was a very nice surprise.  But those were not the circumstances.

"Had I known you had spent $50 on CAKE, I would have said to everyone, 'So sorry if you can't make it but we're having it Saturday at 5 because we have a cake that cost FIFTY dollars.  Yes, we're also having it for Josie but really we're having it FOR THE CAKE.'  Why didn't you say something to me before I started phoning people to cancel?"

And then we argued a bit from there.  I don't remember what all was said except for his comment later that he had said on TWITTER that he bought a cake and didn't I see that because don't I hang on his every tweet?  (I may be exaggerating his words.)  What, like I have nothing better to do but keep constantly on top of my Twitter feed?  Like I just sit there wondering if THIS is the moment that Jude typed out one of his two tweets of the day?

(I actually had seen his tweet in passing while I was on the phone but he conveniently left out the bit of information about how he spent the $50 I could have used toward my dye job or Botox or a new kidney.  Because, the thing is, I DO make cake.  For birthdays.  I have never, ever bought a cake.  Why buy a cake when I make such fantastic cake all by myself?)

So, I phoned Tyson's parents again.  I don't remember my exact wording but my casually spoken message went something like this:

"Hi, it's Natasha again.  We're postponing the baptism so don't worry about my earlier message.  However, we do have this lovely cake here that Jude bought that is fruit and cream. It's from a bakery, and it says 'On your baptism' on it.  It was also $50 and we have no use for it now.  Any chance you want to buy a cake?" I said, laughingly.

"No!  We wouldn't charge them!"  Jude yells, beside me, all annoyed-like, as though I had just invited someone over to dine on our leftover chicken wing bones while we all drink a case of beer each.  As I'm leaving a message on their voice mail.

"Okay! Apparently that was a terrible idea--"

"No!" Josie wails. "I don't want to give away my cake!" 

"Okay! I take it back. We don't have a cake to offer you.  That was a horrible idea I had, clearly."

I'm laughing a bit, Josie is crying, Jude is exasperated and I'm STILL ON THE PHONE.  BEING RECORDED.

"So, this definitely the most ridiculous sounding message I've ever left on someone's voice mail," I say, laughing. "Please ignore it. And good luck with your baptism."

Something like that.  That was my message.  EXCEPT IT WAS LONGER, and MORE PAINFUL.

So, then I realised I needed to phone Brother Bailey back.  I opened the church directory, found Bailey and dialed.  Got the voice mail.  And as I was looking at the name in the directory I realised it said CATHERINE and BOB Bailey.  Not Pat and Dutch Bailey, you know, the people I was talking with earlier?  Right?

Huh.

In fact, there's only one Bailey listed. 

Huh.

Is it possible...

Hmmm.

...that I was speaking to the wrong Bailey's?  Because that would explain why Sister Bailey sounded like CATHERINE Bailey.  Not Pat Bailey. 

SO, I phoned back and got the voice mail again.

"Hi, it's Natasha.  I seem to be uh... trying for a record of how many times I can embarrass myself in one night. ... I'm already at... three uh... incidents." [Had trouble thinking of the right word.] "I just realised that the entire time I was talking with you, I thought you were the OTHER Baileys.  I had no idea I was talking to THE STAKE PRESIDENT.  And I thought it sounded like you, Catherine.  And President Bailey, if you thought at all that I sounded like I was being kind of familiar" [except I'm pretty sure on the message I said FAMILIAL-- a word I totally know how to use properly but why be sensible like that, right?] "that's because I thought you were DUTCH Bailey and he's a bit of a family friend.  So, his number is not listed!  And I was wondering if you had it so I could phone HIM.  And this would explain our confusion over the phone, Catherine.  Heh heh heh.  Alright. Thanks. Bye."

ARGHHHHH!

Idiot!

All that said, however, let it be known that this giant, $50 cake that Jude has started slicing open, this cake that's going to be in my fridge for days, HAS NOT TOUCHED MY LIPS.  Nor will it. I was very tempted to say 'screw it' to my vow against refined sugar because, you know, the cake was FIFTY dollars and because I was stressed out and deserved to celebrate Josie's almost-baptism, right?  But my integrity and my pact with Louise means more to me.  While I may be lacking brain cells, at least I have self-control-- and that part is ALL my own doing.  YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

[I had said after writing this that I didn't have time for Daily Gratitudes and that I was going to see Julie & Julia.  It wasn't there anymore and we saw The Time Traveller's Wife.  Which was OKAY.  But, in editing, I added some D. G.'s.]

Daily Gratitudes

1. Again, I'm so grateful for our babysitter.  And soon, she will be able to drive so I maybe don't have to pick her up and drop her off all the time when it's midnight and I'm tired.  Last night Jude said, "if Rachel was able to drive I'd just say 'Here are the keys to the car.  Why don't you just take it we'll pick it up tomorrow.'"
2. Lulu and I had a very nice time together today.
3. I have basic sewing skills and a sewing machine.
4. It was a beautiful day.
5. My friends.

(I just want you to know...)

(...as I'm looking for imaginary wedding reception stuff, that I'd never do this to myself.)

(And I told you so you could respect me more.)

(Don't we both feel better now?)

N.

Just your average John Thomas, Dick, and Peter

We were playing Risk. Some of us, begrudgingly. *ahem*

Montana, laying out three sixes, said like Gollum: "Oh, my sweet sixes. My sixes!"

Me: "Uh... that's the sign of the devil, my Satanic friend."

Montana: "What?"

Me: "Isn't that even in the bible?"

Jude: "Yep."

Me: "It's like a symbol for the devil or something."

Montana: "I didn't know that!"

Me: "Whatever, Beezlebub."

Later, while bored out of my mind, waiting for everyone to kick my butt, because I couldn't possibly care any less, I rubbed in the fact that these kids have never said thank you for my giving birth to them (something relevant was said-- I don't remember) and hey-- didn't I also teach them English? They never thanked me for that either. And did I mention that I was in pain for a year after giving birth to Montana? A year.

Josie: "I'll birth people, too. Maybe... six. Or... maybe just two or three."

Me: "What would you name them?"

Josie: "I don't know. Jennifer and Mackenzie?"

Me: "You just picked the most popular name of my generation. Montana, what do you want to name your kids?"

Montana: "I think maybe Richard..."

I choked a little and glanced at Jude, thinking of the common nick name for Richard.

Montana: "...and Peter."

Me: "Oh gosh!" I snortlaugh. "Jude! Did you HEAR that?"

Jude, amused: "I heard."

I need to get my head out of the gutter.

Daily Gratitudes

1. Lots of rain equals all our garden rows coming up. We were late getting it in.
2. Had a delicious, lush nap this morning. Or, as the English would say: nappe.
3. Lulu's the cutest 3-year-old ever to grace the world. Curls that BOUNCE. Who can resist?
4. Sun's coming out.
5. Pethidine.

Thank you

I have tried to think of what to say and anything I come up with sounds stupid. I want to say thank you for all the lovely comments. I want to say thanks for reading stuff that I write! I want to say thank you for sharing your thoughts and your time with me and other people who are interested in what you have to say.  Whatever I think to say either sounds bored or over-emphatic.

I made a video in part because a friend told me that I'm a bit intimidating in print and I come off really different in video (better, I assume). Want proof that I'm not at all intimidating? Watch this video. I sound kinda dumb.

Also I wanted to show that you really do inspire me to emotion over the words you write and the pats on the back you give.

And then THAT makes me feel dumb, in a way, because it's not like I write best-selling books. It's not like I'm a politician or anyone who makes a difference in the world that can be pointed to (outside my obviously tangible family). I just write a blog. Whoopdeedoo. It's not even a really popular blog! LOL. But I'm not being self-deprecating. I'm just being honest. I think what I write is important to me and might be important to my family one day and I'm sure there are a few people who have found something that was meaningful to them (like my friend Christina who realised from reading here that our lives have many parallels and it's always nice to relate to someone, especially someone you actually know). But I have no delusions of grandeur here. It's just a little blog and I say the word "blog" with a bit of embarrassment, actually.

At the same time, I share some of my most personal thoughts and feelings and you read them because you care for whatever reason (many of you are real life friends I love more than I can say). And then you sometimes tell me that I've done a good job writing--  me, the girl with a high school education. You even tell me you love me.

I hope you know that I would be so happy if people read what I have to say and shared their thoughts and didn't tell me how great I am.  I don't want anyone to think that I write because I want you to gush at me. I don't. I hope for laughs some days-- yes. Sometimes, if I'm feeling nervous and insecure, I do hope for some really good feedback. But I mostly write because I must; it's my thinking process.

At the same time, it does mean a lot to me, your gushiness. I don't want to sound ungrateful because hey-- I do need love. We all do. It's nice.

ARggggh.  Everything I want to say sounds stupid or self-important AND stupid.

And here's a video to further embarrass me. How many times can a person say UM in a 7 minute video?! (I don't know how people do this for a living.)

Thanks.

P.S. You know how I said in the video that I'm okay with the way I am, for the most part? And remember that blog post a couple of Sundays ago that was really depressing and low? Well, that was an off day. But you knew that, right? ;-)

Talents I do not have

My husband and I are completely different sleepers. He can fall asleep in an instant and just nap for ten minutes. His mom is like that too. He can do well on a lot less sleep than I and he thinks this is a matter of self-discipline and not biology. After years of being forced to get by on hardly any sleep, thanks to babies who woke up ten times a night (each and every one of my babies), I have concluded that his theory is carp. He just needs less sleep. I've ALWAYS needed a lot of sleep. Same with Daisy. 

Anyway. 

I take a notoriously long time to fall asleep for a nap, no matter how tired I am, especially if I feel under pressure to nap. This is why I'm only able to nap on Sunday. I know there's nothing else to do, really, no where to go. I know that I can take as long as I need. And so, after 40 minutes to an hour, I fall asleep and then sleep three hours. Nearly every Sunday. It's fantastic.

I am unable to sleep in a vehicle. I am unable to sleep sitting up in a chair. And unless Jude is home, I am usually unable to relax enough about the well-being of the children and the dog enough to sleep in my deliciously soft bed.

Imagine my surprise when Janice, the lovely school secretary, phoned at noon to remind me that Daisy could not teleport herself home from kindergarten. 

Obviously, the key to napping is to not even try. I was out COLD.

...................

"I hope you don't mind. We gave her a lunch. Another boy forgot his but his mom brought it in so we gave the extra one to Daisy."

I looked down at the white bread sandwich that Daisy had almost finished. 

"And she didn't ask you to take her to a restaurant?" I asked. "I should get you to serve her lunch everyday. All this time I have tried to get her to eat her lunch without complaint and really, I was stealing the job that was meant for you."

Then Mr. O walked by and said to Janice, "I called it, didn't I? All those teenage girls texting."

I loved that I knew he was talking about American Idol. Janice and I discussed the evening's television for a couple of minutes. It was a great show, funny and full of all different kinds of music. Steve Martin! Steve Martin on a banjo playing a song he had written, sung by some guy and quirky Megan Joy, the extremely gorgeous but unfortunately too self-conscious American Idol disappointment. It was so good. I loved the song, downloaded it immediately. What a pleasant surprise. 

I love the way shows like American Idol can provide a common focus, even for an hour, a connection between people spread out over countries. I loved that I was able to connect with Janice just then and Mr. O, whom I do not know at all. 

Ya, ya, the whole Susan Boyle thing. "That's why so many people watched the Susan Boyle video. That's what we loved about that, you humbug!"  Blah, blah, shut up. YOU try having your period and some sort of chronic fatigue problem and brain cancer and four kids and a big neck scar.

Did I say "cancer"? "BRAIN cancer", even. Yes, I did. Well. I could have brain cancer. We don't know, do we?

*cough*

Daily Gratitudes 

1. I still love Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. It's so relaxing.
2. I'm glad that Adam Lambert is not tied to any sort of American Idol contract. Hopefully, we'll see him performing soon. I didn't like him at first. The fake modesty thing he's got going on bugs me. Plus, I thought he looked too much like a beautiful woman and that just freaked me out. Because he's a man. But now I'm mesmerised by him and I love his voice when he sings ballads. He puts a ton of expression into his singing. That little car commercial he did that was on yesterday? Whew! He almost made me cry for him. I wanted to give him a cookie or something to make him feel better. Hyper-talented people make me grateful.
3. Play-doh.
4. Candy. For me. There's a stash under the chair I'm sitting on right now. I need an intervention.
5. My brown winter coat fits me better now. Of course, when I'm done my candy stash, that will all change.

Whine/purge alert

I'm pretty sure that this is logically ridiculous but it's nonetheless emotionally accurate:  I feel like I'm the only person who, instead of steadily becoming a better person, regresses sometimes for painfully long periods.  And I feel like this is one of those periods. And while I know that it's related to being exhausted and unhealthy for so long, that doesn't make me feel any better, any more self-forgiving. Instead, I just feel physically, spiritually, and emotionally spent and any time I try to work on one of those areas, the other spent areas prevent me from getting very far in any of the other areas.  Did that make sense? I hope so because I'm not re-writing the sentence. 

I know this is horrible, and selfish, and weak to say and it's exactly what Satan wants me to say, but it's the truth:  Some days I would just rather die. I JUST... WANT... TO... GIVE... UP. 

And that makes me feel even worse because it means I'm not cleaving enough to God but you know, I try. I really do.  I have very little attention span for praying. I constantly want to fall asleep. 

So, then I tell myself to not be so hard on myself, that this is just a rough spot I need to endure and then I think, well, when isn't there a rough spot? When is everything peachy keen? It's probably not supposed to be peachy keen but I don't really know what's normal because I know very few life stories besides my own. 

What gets me through is the thought that things will get better, that I will be better, that I won't be blessing my kids' lives while also inflicting myself upon them, that maybe one day I will only be a blessing to them. But I'm starting to think that will never be the case because it's just too difficult. After all, I'm doing nearly everything I can do here: praying, reading scriptures, taking my pills and supplements, exercising (when I wasn't sick-- went to the gym almost everyday), going to therapy at LDS Social Services, etc. and I don't feel much better for it. Of course, I'm probably being childishly impatient. 

Then I tell myself that it's all okay because obviously, the Lord trusted these kids to me and he gave them some special gifts to help them endure me. For example, he made them really smart because he knew that I'd have them watch a lot of tv and they'd need some special ability to endure the brain-deadening effects. And besides that, we're not meant to be born in perfect circumstances and all of these trials and imperfections will be for our good. 

But I don't want my kids to have to work at making good out of the bad I've handed to them.  I don't want to be their trial.

Then I think maybe that's just pride. Who am I to argue with the Lord's will?

Even striving to become better could be said to be prideful. Isn't the secret to happiness to forget one's self and go to work serving people selflessly and let the Saviour make up the difference I lack? Then I think, Well, if the Lord wants me to forget myself and get to work (tongue-in-cheek alert) maybe he should stop pointing out all my flaws to me. Because it's quite debilitating. 

It's so extremely hard to strike a balance between caring about self-improvement but not caring too much and between giving to my kids and giving to myself. It's so hard to be self-aware and not overly self-absorbed or -critical. It's hard to find the balance between giving my children hardships they need to grow and giving them enough ease in order to feel the peace and love to which they are entitled. 

Everything is a fine balance made more difficult by hormones and sleep deprivation and moodiness.

For all the people rolling their eyes right now because I didn't post a funny story and I took up your time with my own vanity, on my own personal journal of a blog that I share out of desperation to connect with other people, despite the discomfort it gives to my pride, don't worry-- you don't have to comment. Just mosey on to YouTube to watch some video about a squirrel breastfeeding a cow or something. For the one or two people who might be reading this who totally relate-- this is for you, so that maybe we can tell each other, "Hey-- you're not alone. Just breathe. Everything is okay just the way it is. Let go and let God."  Or something like that. For the rest of you: Hi.

</whine>

Daily Gratitudes 

1. There were no kids for me to teach in Primary today so I was able to go to Sunday School and Relief Society. It really filled me up with that sense of family that I miss, and with the spirituality I need. Man, I love Relief Society.
2. Yummy lunch leftovers waiting for us when we come home from church.
3. Being able to tell Jude anything.
4. We haven't had snow while a lot of other places around us have. Knock on wood.
5. Having bleached out blond hair that doesn't require daily washing. Like on Sunday when I have to get ready for church and I feel like I could go back to bed for five hours.

Great. Take some nekkid photos of yourself and this is what happens

I can't find my camera.

I need my camera so I can put up the white trash yard photos and the funny dog-and-kids-in-bath photos. 

I need my camera to cater to Daisy's compulsion to be a dramatic, modeling ham.

I need my camera to list some items for sale on Kijiji.  Maybe a child, too.

But mostly I need my camera because there's naked photos of me on it. And I'd be pretty embarrassed if someone found it. Not because they're lurid or anything. It's more the way I'm posing to maximize my fatness for some "before" fitness photos. Don't worry-- I was planning on using Paint to draw on some coverage, IF I ever showed them to anyone. But that would only be if they were accompanied by super hot "AFTER" photos, OBVIOUSLY.

So, um, anyone see my camera? I'll pay a $100 finder's fee and we'll both pretend you didn't snoop through the photos. Heh, heh.

Daily Gratitudes

1. Dancing With the Stars and Gilles. Whew! he is entertaining.
2. Cool air.
3. Lower interest rates.
4. Jude's massages. Usually better than professional.
5. Technology when good.

Sometimes family offer the best laughs

Every Saturday morning, Jude and I listen to The Great Debaters on CBC radio one. I believe anyone can get it on Sirius and you should look for it because it's often so funny that my gut hurts afterward and I'm crying.  The guests on the show are often comedic geniuses.  It's one of the best parts about Saturday.

But as I sat here tonight reflecting over the laughs of today, The Great Debaters was in the background of my mind. 

....................

We were eating at Montana's for supper, for Mother's Day and so that I could eat steak, to help combat my anemia.  I've never seen more beautiful menus.  They were really well made and had that nice smooth coating on the pages like on The Naked Chef's cookbooks.  That's probably why the restaurant was so busy.  Other people like stroking the menus too. So, we waited outside with our little electronic notification device and watched the traffic go by.

Jude:  Sometimes I think about getting a motorcycle. But with one of those side cars to carry all my briefcases. 

Me:  Right. So I can worry about you even more. The best accident scenario is that you lose control, go flying onto your face, get road rash, and ruin the best part of you. Those beautiful lips would be all mangled.

Jude:  I'd be missing random chunks out of them.

Me:  Ya. That's hot.  Or maybe you'd just die. 

Jude: True. 

Me:  I could just get a really good taxidermist and mount you to the wall.  Maybe with some kind of soft material so I could move you around in different positions.  You could be like my guard dog. 

Jude:  Or you could just kick me around when you get mad.

Me:  Ya, I could put jelly beans in your torso for that. 

Jude:  It's settled. 

....................

Lulu, three years old, did not want to go home. She wanted to go somewhere else. Apparently the cavernous, under-employed hell that is Home Depot was great fun for her.  It was quiet for a while when we drove home. Then Lulu sweetly and innocently said, "Mommy and Daddy? I'm going to tell you when it's bedtime."  

....................

Tucking her in to bed, I nuzzled my face into her neck and whispered sweet somethings into her ear about how much I loved her and how she was the best three-year-old in the whole world and how she made me happy. 

Lulu: I have no thfwends.

Me, my face still nuzzled into her neck:  What? You have no friends?

Lulu: I have no fwums.

I pulled back to look at her. Her teeny, cute hands were on her face, both thumbs in her mouth. "I have no thumbs," she was saying.  I was professing my tenderest of feelings and she didn't even hear me because she was busy concentrating on just how deep she could get those thumbs into her head. I had never felt such unrequited love.

....................

Lulu got out of bed, walked downstairs and looked at me from the landing. "Mommy, I have to tell you something." Then very matter-of-factly, almost as if in passing, tells me, "I never wanted a dog like Izzy because she's wee-urd [sic] and makes messes." "Okay, thanks for telling me. Bye." Completely satisfied, she turned around and walked back up to bed. 

Later she got back out of bed. Curled up with Jude on one of the living room chairs she said she wanted us to get a black lab.  After watching some Scooby-Doo with him, Lulu said she wanted a dog like Scooby-Doo.  "You don't want a dog like Martha? Who can talk and eats vegetable soup?"  "No, I want a dog like Skits. Can mommy see if there's a brown dog called Skits?"  Because if we go to the animal shelter to get a dog and we find one that happens to be named Skits and also happens to be brown, it's going to be exactly like a cartoon dog and all will be well. Geez, why didn't we think to get a cartoon dog when we were first planning on getting a dog?  So, really, all this diarrhea poop from Izzy lately?  It's only because she's not a cartoon. IT'S ALL OUR FAULT.

"I love Izzy," she said a few minutes later. "She's cute."

How will I ever be able to take her seriously again?

Daily Gratitudes

1. Soon we will finally have our central vac hooked up and I can give the Wests their vacuum back. I hate having other people's stuff. It stresses me out. I looove the convenience of central vac, especially with dog hair on dark floors. Sweeping dog hair doesn't work so well.
2. Good restaurant service.  
3. Sweet potato french fries. The best ones ever, to be specific. 
4. I'm finally feeling better from my stupid cold.  
5. Josie is gone on a trip with her Brownie troup and the house is soooo much more quiet. I do worry about her though. I instructed her again on what to do if anyone tries to grab her or come in her bed at night or tell her to "be quiet or else". 

One of many reasons why I don't make breakfast

I had trouble falling asleep on Friday night.  (Looks like it's time for another cycle of insomnia.) Despite that, I woke up at 6 am, wide awake.  And in case you don't know me, have never read my Twitter feed, and have trouble adding single numbers together... THAT DOESN'T HAPPEN AT ANY HOUR.  I never, ever wake up wide awake unless the adrenaline of a drunk banging on my door at 2 am or a drunk ex-boyfriend trying to beg me back, from the street below my apartment at 1am, is involved.  Basically, if it doesn't involve alcohol and a stupid man that even I can't fix, I'll be groggy for another hour or more.

So, I'm thinking, hoping, that these pills I've been taking are helping. I'm a little bit afraid to say so because I also effused about the warm weather on Saturday and woke up stunned and offended the next day to find this (except worse because this was taken today, after some melt): 

Are tears stinging your eyes? No? Not even sympathy tears? Humpf.

Well, anyway, since I was up and since I had to do something about the dog and cat situation before they each roused everyone else, I thought I might as well glide along in this little dance of productivity and shock my family with breakfast made. Also, I wanted to let Jude sleep in for a change.

I'm terrible at pancakes. I usually forget to grease the pan. Only just this Saturday did I get the flame size right. I have flipping troubles, as evidenced by the photo above.  All that early morning coordination is like asking Denise Richards to dance without bent knees at least sometimes. But never do I drop the eggs, having mastered the task of carrying stuff at about age 2? Sheesh. Even at my best, I'm not a morning person.

I also made an egg, mushroom, tomato, spinach scramble that was great and I GAVE JUDE THE LARGER PORTION. See how I'm working on being less selfish? See??

What else happened that day? Jude walked the dog. I resolved to work really hard at having patience with the dog, having read that they all go through a stubborn phase that can last 3-6 months. (Lord save me.) It went pretty well. In fact, I dare say I no longer hate my dog.  Ah, it's good to be a hormonal woman with a general, well-established prerogative for mind-change. 

After my 9-11:00am nap, I decluttered our kitchen island, reorganized drawers, shed papers, and did other stuff I can't remember.  Then, on a whim, while putting the girls to bed, I cleaned up a monstrous disaster of a girls' room, willingly, and WASN'T EVEN TIRED afterward. 

I was more productive in one day than I was all week.  And the weird part was that it didn't feel out of the ordinary.  It felt natural to be normal again, like when my braces came off.  People told me that my teeth would feel slimy and I'd want to run my tongue over them constantly and I didn't. It was so anti-climatic that I was actually disappointed. 

So, maybe I don't want to declare myself getting better because it's the only part of Murphy's Law that I hold to as faithfully as the Law of Flax Seeds (don't eat them whole, EVER). Or, maybe it's just so anti-climatic that I'm not even sure it's real.  Feeling abnormally tired, stressed, moody, depressed, lethargic is devastating and obvious. But feeling normal just feels... normal.  Don't get me wrong, I'll take without complaint. No, really.

Daily Gratitudes

1. The snow has melted somewhat.
2. Jude got up early to walk Izzy this morning because she's big enough now that one walk is not enough for her anymore. It just happened so quickly. Ugh. 
3. I finally got rid of my beast of a coffee table AKA the source of many a bruised toe.
4. The faint hope that one day Revenue Canada will release our tax return funds to us and we will pay off our debt and shame.  
5. My baby Lulu.  Holding her hand tonight on the sofa I realized I would never trade her for anything in the world. Not even world peace. And I asked Jude, "Did I feel this way about all the kids when they were this age?" and he assured me I did. He wasn't sure about Josie, actually. She was our most difficult child for three years. And then a memory flashed in my mind of little dolly Josie at age 16-months or so, in her linen Gap dress that was size 3-6 months but was overly big.  I was madly in love with her, the same way 10-year-old me was in love with Jordan Knight except WITH SUBSTANCE.  Yes, I hate the messes and yes I hate the noise, even (dare I say it?) the incessant giggling.  But if anyone has ever doubted for a nanosecond that I love my children to a degree that only a pink jelly heart covered in red sparkles carried aloft cotton candy clouds by rainbow-coloured Pegasuses (Pegasi?) would be an appropriate symbol for my love, then they don't know me at all.  Nothing is better than holding Lulu's tiny, dainty hand and staring into her eyes.  Okay, one thing is better: cradling her baby body in my arms and kissing her face.  It's a good thing I'm Mormon because, statistically speaking, it means I stand a reasonable chance of being a grandmother in only... 14 years.

9 of my guilty pleasures

I feel like it's time for a serious, pensive post but my brain is not that brainy right now.  Another silly post to trick brand new readers into thinking this is a fun, humorous blog instead of the boring, analytical blog it is half the time.

1. If I am at the hair salon or dentist's office, it's only because I need an excuse to read People magazine.  I'd never actually PURCHASE a copy. Ahem. Unless the octo-mom is featured within. But then, it's only because there wasn't a long enough line at the check-out.


2. Hot Rod sausage sticks.  They're soooo salty and fatty and divine.  I rarely have any because I'm sure each human being has a quota in his or her lifetime of only 30 Hot Rods and any Hot Rod they consume thereafter is a gamble:  Will THIS one lead to my fatal heart attack?  Will Hot Rod #33 lead to my quadruple stroke? And I lost count at age 27 of how many I had eaten.  I bought a bulk package for food storage because I'm pretty sure that in the event of an emergency 87 years from now, Hot Rods would still be technically food safe, and I ate all of them compulsively and with shame, after about 2 or 3 weeks. Ponder the remarkable self-control, oh Reader.


3. Reading Shakespeare. Every night. Haha, just kidding. How pretentious would THAT be? I hate Shakespeare although I did love Kenneth Brannagh's Hamlet. It was just really, really good.


4. Sometimes I just want to croon along to Stickwitu by The Pussycat Dolls, on my iPod.  I can't believe I just told you that.


5. Sometimes, particularly in the Summer when my children are all home, I wear earplugs with industrial head phone thingies over top.  It's called "survival of the kiddest".  Okay, that was lame. But it IS a true story. 


6. I eat tiramisu, even if it has real coffee in it. And actually, I DON'T feel guilty about that.  I do feel a wee bit guilty about having Ben & Jerry's Coffee Toffee ice cream rarely, but to my credit, this Mormon convert has not had a cup of coffee in 12.5 years.  


7. Jude and I both wanted to get drunk this past Fall because Fall SUCKED so horribly much.  But we didn't even glance lustfully at the liquor store when we drove past nevermind let a drop touch our lips. And you have no reason to believe that I penned the liquor store an angst-filled, sultry poem and slipped it under its door at 3am, in my housecoat.  Because I don't even OWN a housecoat.  (Note to self:  Buy a housecoat. Your kids are getting old enough that it's about time you clothe thy naked self.) It's not a Mormon sin to WANT a glass/bottle/case of wine. Just a sin to indulge. And it's been 14.5 years since I've done that.


8. My Name is Earl.  Tears of profound amusement leap from my eyes. 


9. SecretTweet.com  Interested in sociology? Prepare yourself. People write in their secrets and they're anonymously posted. I'm sure that some are made up but I bet most are not, which is horrifying, really.  I have NEVER posted anything on there but I have found some tweets that sound like they could have been mine. That's the cool thing about the site-- it sure makes the world feel small. Someone has tweeted about me (@somethinggirl) on there. (I think it was @Bonedwarf). 

Daily Gratitudes

1. Took friend Pam out for lunch on her birthday today. So glad she still lives here.   
2. The adjudicator was very smooth at the music festival today and Josie walked away thinking she did great even though she was much better while practicing before the judging.  
3. While it snowed a lot AGAIN today, it's really warm and sticky. Perfect snowman weather.  
4. None of my kids have any health problems.  
5. Not having braces anymore. 

Update from my straitjacket

So, today was mostly horrible.  (I write this at midnight. So, it's technically Thursday but to me it's Wednesday.)

Today was my first day really back at our routine.

I spent ALL OF THURSDAY in bed.  I only got up to pee. Jude brought me every meal on a tray.  The kids mostly let me be.  I had no concentration for reading anything profound or doing anything creative or productive.  If I remember correctly (and that's always a humorous preface these days), I spent some time reading some blogs.  

I spent nearly all of Friday in bed.  Four of my friends showed up on Friday morning to clean my house, look after my kids and then take my kids away.  And I didn't even get out of bed to greet them or show them where anything was, or thank them apologetically 33 times like I would under normal conditions. I was out of bed for an hour or so the entire day, and only when I was alone in the house.

One friend brought muffins on Thursday or Friday.  On Monday another friend insisted on coming to clean my bathroom.  Someone brought supper.  Tuesday: more supper from someone else and muffins from yet another person.  

So, today I ventured out to bring Lulu to preschool and Josie to piano.  I dropped Josie off 8 or so minutes late.  Already a great start.  Once at preschool I realized I forgot shoes and a snack for Lulu AND that it was their Valentines exchange day.  FABULOUS.

So, after my brief chiropractor appointment (he was very dismayed about the state of my body.  Join the club, doc.  You, me, and Playboy.  Okay, so he was referring to my BACK.) I went to the grocery store to pick up some school snacks for the rest of the week and some valentines.  I went home to sign them so I could rush back to the preschool in time for the passing of stuff I will shortly throw in the garbage, and as soon as I walked in the door, the school phoned.  The piano teacher phoned the school to say she was bringing Josie back to school.  BECAUSE I FORGOT ABOUT HER. I was a half hour late picking her up.  I had no feeling that I had forgotten anything, either. In a mere 20 minutes, I forgot that I had to do anything with her.  It's so guilt-inducing.

And since I forgot that Josie didn't bring her whole bag with her into her piano lesson, her whole bag which would contain her LUNCH, it didn't occur to me that she didn't HAVE her lunch.

So, she cried with her teacher a little bit, worried about me and upset that I forgot her.  And the school had to provide her a lunch. AGAIN.

Just lovely.

And then more miserable, difficult, stressful stuff happened.  And I bawled my head off.

Then a friend came to watch my kids while I took Izzy for a walk.  Then I fed them all Tuesday's lasagna.  Then we watched last Wednesday's episode of Lost.  I HADN'T WATCHED IT YET.  Does someone have me on suicide watch?  Oh right-- I said I wasn't that flimsy.  Well, anyway-- me no watch Lost=bad sign.

Then another friend came by with supper for tommorrow and she did reflexology on my feet.  It felt great until she got to the spot that is supposed to match up with my thyroid or whatever.  And you know what?  It was very, very painful.

POINT OF THIS POST:

I feel like I'm just inflicting myself upon my children and almost everyone else around me.  I feel like someone should apply for this job because clearly I'm bombing.  Where's the crook cane thing for someone to pull me off stage by my neck?

It's extremely depressing and disheartening.

Daily Gratitudes

1. It was pretty warm today and Izzy and I had a nice walk in the bushes without  me having to wear a coat.
2. Free foot rub.  
3. If you ask, they will come. 
4. Typepad.  
5. Joshua Radin's music.