Dejunking: My Life and Home, 2015

One of the most frustrating things I’ve encountered recently is my growing desire for a Big Change.

I’ve mentioned it before here, here, and here, my itchy feet syndrome. My inability to be content with the same place for more than a few years. It has hit again. Hard. Especially towards the end of 2014 when I kept looking at 2015 with hope and excitement. 2015 represents a clean slate, a new start, a tangible end to a crappy year and the beginning of a year that isn’t crappy - in fact, 2015 has the potential to be awesome. It is, of course, what we make it, and I am determined! Determined to make 2015 a Great Year!

Back to my itchy feet. About every three years or so, I get the urge for change. Change of jobs, change of location, change of something. Unfortunately, Scott and I have already made the executive decision that a relocation right now is not feasible. We want to get Cyra through middle and high school without another move. We want to save up money so that in a few years Scott can start his plan to go to brew school. To do that we need to do a few things:

1. Stay on target - with our budget and our long term plans.

2. Keep put - no moving or major life changes.

3. Live modestly - we are planning on living on his salary while socking mine away into savings.

These three things…well, actually, just the second item on the list, put a real kink into my BIG CHANGE and ITCHY FEET plans.

What’s a girl to do?

Well, it all goes back to one of the things I’ve been obsessively googling lately: the Small House Movement. Tiny little portable homes, with tiny little footprints, being all handmade, cute, and minimalist.

I. Love. It.

Scott and I talk all the time about buying land in the middle of nowhere and building a tiny little house, a chicken coop, and a garden. Maybe even a couple of tiny little houses, one for us and then an extra one or two for guests. Ah, the dream of living off the grid and off the land.

But, in all reality, I probably couldn’t go that way, at least with the house size. I like my dvds, crafts, and games way too much. Those three things alone could take up an entire 150 square foot room!! But, I find more and more, as I look around my cluttered home, there is a lot of stuff that I really could do without. I might not be able to reduce enough to live in 150 square feet but I can certainly pare down what I have to live in my 1300 square foot home without feeling claustrophobic.

Now, by no means am I a hoarder. I’ve seen that. I’ve got a family member who is one. But I do have a tendency to collect a lot of crafting supplies. You can see my craftway here. It takes up my entire entry hall (that we don’t use anyway). But with so many crafts (I really do know how to do pretty much every. Single. Craft.) I get overwhelmed with all the supplies. It is time to pare down. I have roughly 60 pounds of scrapbook paper. Who needs 60 pounds of paper? Not this girl!! Not anymore!

So, to alleviate my itchy feet and appease my need for Big Change, I’m down sizing my life. I’ve made a list of rooms, closets, and cabinets I want to tackle and each week I’ll put a dent into my life. That being said, I’m not touching the girls or Scott’s stuff. For one, Scott doesn’t actually have that much stuff and what he does have: books and clothes, are already at a minimum. As a child of military parents, he already has a minimalist mind set. As for the girls, I’m hoping that as they see me donate, toss, and yard sale stuff, they’ll get into the dejunking.

I’ve actually already started. Remember I mentioned my recent weight loss? Well, I’ve donated roughly a third of my clothes and thrown away another quarter. My closet is much more accessible now. And I felt great about getting rid of stuff I never wear!

I think I’ve found the cure for my itchy feet and restless urge for change. Next up: The Kitchen!

Burn Barrel Romance

Scott is an early-to-bed-early-to-rise person out of necessity. He has a very physical job and while he isn’t old, he isn’t young anymore either (neither am I for that matter, being a year older than he is). By eight o’clock most nights he is in jammies and ready for bed. So when we came home after Cyra’s concert last week and Scott put his yard work clothes back on I was more than surprised.

“What are you up to,” I asked him as he slipped he shoes on.

“I’m going go burn things and drink a beer…or maybe two. Want to join me?”

“Sure. Sounds fun.”

There’s something about sitting in front of a fire with Scott that makes my insides woozy. Normally when we sit around in front of a fire it’s when we are off camping and marshmallows are involved. Not romantic, per se, but nice enough. And making a big fire in the burn barrel, while it might not involve s’mores, is fun nevertheless.

The moon and stars peeked through a mostly overcast sky and I dragged our two Adirondack chairs into the yard while Scott began building the fire. By the time I brought our drinks out – a nice IPA for Scott and a good cup of Earl Grey for me (ironically although the selling and drinking of beer is our main source of income, I don’t particularly care for the taste) Scott had a good size blaze going.

We turned off the flood lights and sat in the glow of the barrel, quietly sipping our drinks. Cyra, her bundle of nerves exhausted from the concert, had collapsed into bed soon after we arrived home and Ashleigh was glued to the internet, giggling over The Meta Picture and fan-girling to manga. The neighborhood was quiet except for the billions of frogs in the pond out front and the occasionally barking of a dog.

I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow Scott and I ended up having a date night: out of the house, in front of a roaring fire, sharing a drink, and no kids around? Sounds like a date to me. So what that it was in the backyard and mosquitoes the size of Cessnas buzzed around us despite the heavy dose of bug spray and citronella candles.

And somehow, magically, we ended up breaking one of our cardinal rules: never, ever, talk religion or politics.

Our views are so vastly different that we don’t even try to come to a common ground anymore. We just accept that we will never see eye to eye on certain things and so those subjects are not permitted. But on this magical, burn barrel date we talked religion. And, even more surprising, it didn’t end in a fight.

I must be maturing.

I don't know exactly how the subject came up, but it all came down to the way we met. Scott claims fate: some force led us to make the choices that led us to meet – he draws the line at calling predestination (even though it certainly sounded like that to me) claiming that just because we were fated to meet didn’t mean, necessarily, that we were fated to be together.

It reminded me of my days back at Flagler when I took a Milton class (you know, Paradise Lost, that guy). Oh the debates that I demanded we have in class (remember, Sara?) all the arguments I brought up about free will versus predestination to the point where the professor had to tell me to give it a rest.

But I couldn’t. It bugs me even today. If the god you believe in is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving then you cannot have free will because he already knows what you are going to do and you can’t prove an omnipotent being false so therefore you have no choice but to do what has already been seen. That, my friends, is predestination.

Whoops!

I’m breaking my no religion, no politics rule here too! Yikes!

Back to the story! My argument is that if we were destined to meet, then all of our choices along the way are trivialized because it wouldn’t matter what choice we made, we’d still have ended up meeting. Scott argues that my view only works if our meeting is the be all end all of those choices. It got more convoluted as the evening wore on. We teased and laughed, joked and smiled. There may have been some kissing too - but I don't kiss and tell!

Regardless of the conversation, I am more than happy with the choices that led me to Scott. Whether it was predestination, fate handing us a road map, or just simple coincidence, without Scott I wouldn't have my girls, my BFF Sara, or a million wonderful memories and moments with a man I can't imagine my life without.

And that, my Friends, I wouldn't change for the world!

Plight of the Computerless (UPDATED)

Remember that time a few weeks ago when I said I'd keep blogging because I wasn't burnt out or anything like that after the A to Z challenge?

Yeah. I didn't lie, but all of a sudden I became slightly more computerless than I was before. You know back when I had a computer to use and all.

Long story short, I finally got around to installing the new cd/dvd drive my sister got me for Christmas (yes, it took me nearly five months to do it. I'm lazy, remember?) and wouldn't you know it, that even though it only took me about ten minutes to install, I apparently screwed up something somewhere, because the second I turned it on, I got the blue screen of death.

Twice.

So off to the Computer ER I rushed with my ancient tower. And, well...I confiscated my daughter's laptop in the meantime, but I'm taking this time to go a little unplugged. It's nice. And some projects around the house are actually getting done. Amazing what one can accomplish without the Internet to entertain me!

Hopefully, the computer techs will be able to fix whatever I screwed up and I'll be up and running again sometime next week. Until then, My Friends, I'll be putzing around the house and garden - have I mentioned my garden yet? No? Well, just wait!

Cheers!

UPDATE:

Seriously, folks, I got my computer back and they techs were all like..."Um it's $40 bucks and we couldn't find anything wrong anywhere. We had it running all day. No blue screen. No weird noises. Nothing."

Okey Dokey.

So , YAY! Computer! Although they did mention that it was a rather old computer. Old? It's barely five...but I guess in computer years that's about 4,724 years old. Guess that will need to get budgeted in sooner or later.

Z is for Zooted and Zozzled

Way back in my early college days I had two over indulgences with alcohol. And yes, only two because that’s all it took for me to learn that while I could hold my liquor fairly well (as in there was never any puking afterward and I always remembered everything that happened) I disliked the feeling of being out of control.

The first time I was inebriated isn’t a fun story – nothing overly exciting happened, there were no lampshades, no strip poker, no naughtiness at all. Just me being silly.

The second time, however, that’s one of my favorite stories.

I was working at a tourist trap and one of the guys that worked there invited Scott and me to a housewarming party. I didn’t get off work until after ten so by the time Scott and I got there, the party was in full swing. The guy hosting apologized that there wasn’t much left in way of drinks…unless of course we wanted to do some shots. Of course I agreed that this would be a great thing to do. Scott, the designated driver, chuckled and muttered something about me not being able to do shots.

What I heard was a challenge.

We’d only been dating a few months at that point and I was out to make an impression. And boy did I!

Ten to fifteen shots of varying alcohol later – I’ll admit, I lost count – I felt pretty good. Except for the fact that I hadn’t had dinner and my stomach was now grumbling everything was peachy. The party kicked into high gear, but within a few minutes, it became clear that Scott and I only knew a handful of people and so we decided to book out to the beach. A few others joined us and with Scott behind the wheel, we backed out of the driveway.

I was fine.

Scott drove down the street.

I was fine.

Scott stopped at the stop sign.

I was drunk.

I went from slightly hungry and fine to holy crap why is the car spinning in the span of three seconds.

Long story short (because really, let’s get to the good part) I decided that going swimming in the middle of the night in January was the best idea ever. Thankfully, I had some very sober shoulder angels who convinced me that getting in the car and heading back to the dorm was a better idea – although they had to lock me in the car to convince me of that!

Now Flagler has a tough policy regarding alcohol and drug use. As in if you are caught drinking, drunk or high on campus you get kicked off of the campus and put on academic probation. So now, imagine if you will, a very drunk me with a few friends trying to quietly sneak up to my dorm room while avoiding security and the RA.

It was beyond hilarious and amazingly we didn’t get caught (or people chose to look the other way). Once I got back into my very tilty dorm room, I went to my wardrobe to get my pajamas on. Did I mention the tilt-a-whirl way the room was spinning? I required more stability at that point than my own feet and went to lean up against the closed door of the wardrobe. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that door that I always kept closed was wide open! I fell into to wardrobe with a loud crash, upended my laundry basket all over the place and managed to crawl out sporting a bruise that ran from my butt to my hip to my knee.

The next morning Scott came to drop off my car and shook his head in amazement when I demanded a huge breakfast at Shoney’s. He was also slightly irritated at how zooted and out of control I had been. 

But I had learned my own lesson: Never do mixed shots on an empty stomach.

Zooted and Zozzled are both adjectives from the 1990s and 1920s respectively that mean drunk or intoxicated. 

Example: Zinia stumbled and tripped along the sidewalk. A bicycle cop watching her laughed, "That woman is so zozzled right now, it's amazing she can even stand!"

This post has been brought to you by the Letter Z and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

X is for X-tremely Naughty Slang

Okay, Friends, this is a little bit of a cheat but, there really isn't any slang for X that I felt comfortable using. Most had to do with drugs or sex neither of which I'm going to talk about here.

So instead let's talk about the use of the letter X as an unknown factor. And by "let's" I mean "Hey! I found this funny video on Ted Talks the other day that explains the whole thing." Of course, it's really no surprise I found this video since I am currently obsessed with watching Ted videos. I must have gone through about a hundred of them in the past two weeks.

No example today. Please tune in Monday for more!

This post has been brought to you by the Letter X and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

U is for Unmentionables

I’ve seen a number of bloggers around the block in the past year post about hated words and the one that comes up the most is, are you ready for this? Panties.

What do all these people have against panties, I wonder. Sure, it’s kind of an awkward phrase. It makes some people uncomfortable to think about a woman’s undergarments. Private parts, are well, private and therefore the coverings of said private parts should be private as well. Except, we don’t get a squinchy, uncomfortable, awkward silence when we mention boxers, briefs, or long johns. So what is it about panties?

I’m going to go out on a limb here and make some assumptions because I totally don’t feel like doing any research right now and say that the reason we don’t like panties is because women are supposed to be modest.

Okay, so guess what happened? In my quest to refuse to research, I had to go and research because I’m geeky and nerdy and slightly OCD about things like that. So, the original use of “panties” comes from 1845, in which is was a derogatory slur against a man as a diminutive form of pants. The first use of “panties“ being used to refer to a woman‘s undergarments comes from 1908.

And OMG people! The amount of history regarding underwear out there is astonishing!! I’ll leave it at this video and this article and heck! I’ll even throw in a Wikipedia article too because I don’t think I can handle all the panty talk anymore!

Unmentionables is a noun from the 1940s that means women’s underwear.

Example: Ursula undulated in her unique unitard. “At least I don’t have any unmentionables ruining the line,” she said.

This post has been brought to you by the Letter U and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

T is for Thingamabob and Thingamajig

Sometimes my brain works far faster then my mouth does. I think a lot of people have this problem. There is actually a word for it…a condition so to speak…that essentially means that your brain searches for a word so quickly that it lands on an incorrect on. Often call Freudian Slips, these mishaps often end in hilarity.

Once, talking to Sara about one of my kittens, I made the statement, “Wouldn’t it be cool if cats had reprehensible tails?”

Clearly, I meant prehensile. Like monkeys. My brain, though, landed upon the first word that sounded like the word I wanted. Sara still gets a good chuckle out of that.

Once, way back when I first started playing D&D with my best friend’s little brother, I made a comment about fighting a Cthulhu-like creature, “I hate all those testicles.”

I really meant tentacles.

So you see my problem. My existential words often get me into trouble or at the very least an awkward, albeit humorous, situation.

I have since utilized a variety of replacement filler words that allow my mouth to catch up to my brain. I use the word “thingy” a lot. As in, “Scott, I need that thingy in the fridge.” Scott, to his credit has gotten to the point of being able to quickly decipher my filler word with a real, tangible object. I use “thingy” like the Smurfs use “smurf.”

Thingamabob and Thingamajig from the 1940s and 1930s, respectively, are both nouns used to name an object for which the name is unavailable or forgotten. Thingy, my go to word, is a derivative of either or both of these old words.

Example: Trudy dug around in the toolbox, becoming more and more troubled. Tristan, trapped under the the Toyota, tried to explain what tool he needed again. “It’s the thingamabob on the tray to the left of that tri-colored thingamajig!” Trudy slammed the toolbox shut. “You’ll need to get it your self if you won’t tell me what you need!”

This post has been brought to you by the Letter T and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here! 

N is for Nobby

I had a tough time with a slang term for N. I was unimpressed with some of the words and phrases I found and so I settled for nobby. It’s one of the few words on the list so far that I have never used personally and can’t recall ever having heard it used before either.

I am not a fashionable person. My sister threatens me all the time about submitting my name to that make-over show. I wear things that are comfortable, clean, maybe wrinkled, but decent. I wore professional style clothes when I taught but I was able to keep it to a business casual level: khakis, polos, and a few skirts and blouses.

Since I’ve been unemployed, my wardrobe shrank quite a bit and I tended towards my comfort clothes: jeans and tee shirts. Looking decent is different to me than looking fashionable and for as long as I can remember decent won over fashion any day of the week.

When I was hired a few weeks back, I had a quite the panic attack because I really didn’t have anything left in my closet that could pass muster for professional. The polos and khakis I wore in my last years of teacher are what I wore to run around town in, to pick up bags of potting soil at Home Depot, to bake in – do I need to even say how grungy they have become?

Dragging Ashleigh and Cyra with me to the mall to pick out a few outfits to get me through the first few months of the new job was critical. I know what I am comfortable in, but I have no clue as to what might go together – and have you seen the spring colors? Neon pink and orange, lime greens and Caribbean blues. And what happened to just plain solids? Everything is patterned; everything has doo-dads and froo-froo on them. I can’t stand the stuff!! I wanted to find plain things that would easily mix and match. Ashleigh and Cyra insisted on pops of color and no khakis!

An hour later, with Ashleigh and Cyra by my side, I managed to pick out a number of interchangeable outfits. And I kept within my limited budget. I won’t claim to be nobby yet.

Now if only I could find out where Ashleigh hid my khakis.

Nobby is an adjective from the 1850s that means fashionable.

Example: Nora wasn’t especially nobby, but nearly everyone noticed when she started wearing shoes from Nine West.

  

This post has been brought to you by the Letter N and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

L is for Louse

Back in my day, one of the worst things to call someone on the playground was a louse. To kids, there is a stigma attached to having lice. A stigma, that to this day has not been broken. Dirty kids, poor kids, kids that were different always had a better chance of being infested than you did.

Until the day, you actually came home, digging and scratching in your hair and suddenly, you were ashamed.

I've had lice twice in my life. Once as a child and I don't really remember much about it except I insisted on looking at one through a magnifying glass. And once a few years ago when the girls and I bought some beach hats. Ashleigh noticed them first on her head and I asked her if there was a notice from her school - because the schools will do that - and sure enough, there wasn't. We racked our brains trying to figure out where she could have picked them up, when Cyra came to me complaining that her head was itchy. 

We traced the outbreak to the hats and by then, I was starting to itch.

Everyone and everything got treated: all the stuffed animals, bedding, clothes. I put chemicals on the carpet, sprayed so much Rid everywhere, I might as well have called pest control.

Just writing about it makes my head itch!!

Louse has been around for ages as the singular name for lice. As a slang though, it can be traced to the early 1900s where it was a noun used to describe a mean person. Today, I think we use it to mean a jerk or a low-life.

Example: Larry lurked low in the lilacs lying in wait for Lenny the Louse to leave Leona's love nest. Larry laughed thinking about how he was going to lob a loogie at Lenny.

This post has been brought to you by the Letter L and the fine folks at Blogging A to Z. And by the number 744. Check out more A to Z blogs here!

Christmasy Stuff

DISCLAIMER: The following post contains frank discussion about my beliefs and feelings regarding religion. I don’t often discuss serious things here and I’m sure I’ll go back to posting silly stories soon. Please read with caution.

I knew in elementary school that my family was different from other families because if a sleepover at a friend’s house ended on a Sunday morning I would be dropped off at home early so my friend could go to church. Sometimes though I tagged along; I sat on the hard backed benches and watched the people around me. They were always dressed up like they were going to a wedding. It made me uncomfortable because I was not and I knew that I was the odd one out. I stared at the stained glass windows in awe at the beauty of them. I followed along with what my friend did. If she stood or sat or kneeled, so did I. But I didn’t understand a thing.

I knew who Jesus was. We celebrated his birthday every year. And I played with the Nativity every year. I loved the little sheep and donkeys. I loved moving baby Jesus around, trying him out in different places before finally putting him back in front of Mary. I knew the basic story – I watched all the Christmas specials each year and Linus explained it succinctly every single time. I loved Christmas time. It was the only birthday party I knew of where the guests got all the good presents! And boy did Santa bring me great gifts.

I started paying a bit more attention in middle school. My friends talked about church and I listened. They went to Sunday school and confirmation classes. They spoke of accepting Jesus as their Lord and Savior. I wanted to understand. I wanted to belong. One night, I took my mom’s old King James Bible with its fancy thou’s and ye’s and I read it. Well, I skimmed it to get the general idea.

But I was skeptical about the whole Jesus is God thing. Actually, I was skeptical about the whole book. None of it made sense to me. Right about that time I was big into archaeology and paleontology. I was dumbfounded that the bible made no mention of dinosaurs. That it didn’t explain cave paintings and artifacts from civilizations that came ten thousand years before. I put the King James Version away and left it at that. It didn’t make sense and therefore it was of no use to me.

By eighth grade I knew. Well. I didn’t know, know. I had an inkling, a tickle in the back of my mind that I was somehow different from my friends. I didn’t know there was a name for it but I knew. I was a nonbeliever.

In college many of my friends were quite open about their religious beliefs and after learning about my skepticism, encouraged me to attend church and mass with them. I willing went along. I wanted to understand and maybe, back then, I wanted to believe. I mean I believed in aliens, Bigfoot and the possibility of a Loch Ness monster so why was it so hard for me to believe that an all powerful, all knowing, all loving being watched over us? Why was it so hard to accept that Jesus was the Lord and Savior? There wasn’t any real proof of aliens yet I readily jumped on that bandwagon. So what was the deal? It wasn’t until I dropped out, pregnant with Ashleigh and moved home that I really started looking at my beliefs.

Maybe I was searching for a meaning. Maybe I was confused by my sister’s sudden interest in the church when we were raised to look for answers in ourselves and in facts. I tried to understand. I went to midnight mass at St. Joseph’s on Christmas Eve that year thinking that I would find something in the pomp and circumstance of the night. And though I was near to bursting with excitement over the holiday and Ashleigh’s impending arrival, I felt more awkward then ever before. I didn’t belong in this building, I thought, with all these believers. It was hypocrisy. I didn’t…couldn’t…wouldn’t believe and yet, there I was.

When Ashleigh was three and I went back to college I decided to study religion, philosophy and history alongside with my English curriculum. Maybe, I thought, if I understood religion from a factual sense, then I…I don’t know what I expected. But the more I learned, the more I questioned and the more I questioned the more I realized that religion would not be something I would ever benefit from.

History showed too many problems sprouting from religion, too many misunderstandings, too many battles, too many deaths. It didn’t matter what religion or beliefs one espoused the end result was bad. Philosophy introduced me the Euthyphro dilemma – is something good because it is inherently good or because a god says it is good? My religion professor, a deeply religious man himself, made us dig for the historical aspects of the biblical text and asked us to question each verse.

Studying made me question all over again but this time it wasn’t about finding faith it was about how I was raising my daughter.

I gave a few brief thoughts about not celebrating Christmas anymore. I thought if I could eighty-six it when Ashleigh was young, she wouldn’t feel like she was missing out on anything. But then I thought about all the fun that Christmas is: the decorating, the celebrating, the presents. Sure there is a religious meaning behind it all, but Christmas is a conglomeration of different traditions that early Christians adopted to get the so-called pagans to convert. What farmer leaves his flock out in the fields on a winter night? Where in Luke does it mention an evergreen tree lit with candles or a Yule log? Guess who else was begot by a god: Hercules, Helen of Troy, and Julius Caesar.

Once I started thinking about Christmas in that sense I felt better about celebrating. In fact, I probably celebrate Christmas more enthusiastically now then I did before I got a degree. I decorate the house, I make ornaments and gifts, I love giving presents and spend a good part of the year thinking about and planning for Christmas. I start singing carols as early as August and despite my very vocal complaints about stores putting Christmas displays earlier and earlier each year, I secretly love it.

My sister a year or so ago shook her head at my while I was decorating my house, making room on the shelves for ceramic Santas that my mom painted. I was singing, giggling and just about spazzing out with joy that Christmas was coming - something that I have never outgrown.

“What?” I asked.

“You.” She said. “I don’t get how you can love Christmas this much and not believe in Jesus.”

I’m not sure how I responded. Maybe I made a witty comment or just shrugged but as the years have passed I have come to terms with my love of Christmas. Christmas isn’t just about Jesus anymore. Not really. It's about hope. The story of Jesus offers people hope. You don’t need faith to have hope. And in the middle of winter when nights are long and cold it is good to remember hope.

I will never claim that Jesus didn’t exist. There’s factual evidence. And I will never claim that I know all there is in the universe because really? It’s just too big for us to understand. And that’s alright. Besides, who am I to pass up on Birthday Cake? Yes, I celebrate the commercial side of Christmas and next to my beautiful Nativity are Santa Claus’s, nutcrackers, mistletoe, a decorated tree and many other things associated with Christmas that actually predate Christianity. When the girls ask about them meaning of Christmas I explain to them the religious and the secular, the biblical and the incorporation of other beliefs. I may not believe that Jesus was or is the son of God, I may not believe in an omniscient god and my point with this post is not to spark religious debate; in fact, I’m pretty sure that this post has moved entirely too far away from my original point I wanted to make which is:

OMFG!!! IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE!!!!!!

Out of Commission

So remember when I posted a bit about my teeth a couple of weeks ago? Here and Here and also Here.

Yeah. I'm having some work done. Surgery-like work. In the morning.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

I've prepped some photos to go for the next couple of days.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

So. Once I stop hyperventilating, I'm sure I'll be fine.

Fine. Just. Freaking. Fine.

There's a bright side here somewhere, but I can't see it over my panic attack.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

I read somewhere once that a smart person learns from their mistakes but the truly wise learn from the mistakes of others. Today, I think I am neither. Today, I teach a lesson. Teeth are important. Fears can be conquered with enough anesthesia. Accepting the consequences of your actions may be one of the hardest things to do but it is vital that we own up and take responsibility.

I accept that my teeth troubles are my own fault. I accept that my fear has kept me from doing something about it sooner and now I have far worse problems. I accept that I am a big chicken and wonder if the dentist will think it odd if I bring a stuffed animal with me for comfort. I accept that I will not being enjoying the fabulous turkey dinner I cook unless it is liquified (but I will be all over that pumpkin pie).

Do you feel better yet, Self?

Yeah...I didn't think so.

I Broke the Lawn Mower (And They Say it is a Capital Offense)

NOTE: I am posting this despite not being able to solve the photo issue I was having. 

I love wind chimes. I have five right now strung up across the yard. I used to have six.

Remember a few months back when I had all that yard work done? Well, the guys were good enough to take down the chimes and rehang them if they got in the way of their work.

Looks like they forgot to hang one back up.

And I found it.

With my lawn mower.

By the way, notice that fancy star shape in the center? That apparently makes this a "special" blade that needs to be special ordered from a parts depot because NOBODY carries it.

This blade is now good for ripping the grass from the ground in a whirlwind of inefficiency.

Keeping in mind that lawn mower blades need to be replaced or sharpened every season I don't mind having to replace it. And it was sort of fun hearing that thwackity clunk clunk clunk for about 10 nano seconds before I let go of the lawn mower and jumped five feet away from it expecting it to of course blow right the heck up!

But having to spend an entire day searching the stores for the replacement was a prelude to a tantrum. After an hour in Home Depot (where I was told to go to Sears because they'd have it), then waiting a half an hour for Sears to open only to be told that they don't carry that particular blade so I should check the bigger Sears in the mall. At the bigger Sears I was told they could order the part for me to pick up later.

"You don't carry it?" I frowned at the khaki wearing man.

"Nope. This is a special order part." He walked to an in store customer computer. "Here, I can help you order it."

Right, I think, because I can't order something online by myself! Jeesh! I don't want to pay for shipping which was the whole point in coming to the store.

"I'm really trying to understand this." I said slowly, my patience had already worn down to a very thin strand ready to snap at any moment. "I bought the lawn mower here." The man nodded at me. "You were in fact the one who sold it to me." (I have a great memory for faces plus he has been working at this Sears in the lawn and garden department for as long as I can remember). He nodded again, but he was clearly just trying to appease me at that point.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And you are telling me that you do not actually carry the parts for the products that you sell?" I am sure steam is shooting out of my ears and my eyes have rolled into the back of my head.

"I can order it-"

"No," I interrupted, "I'm done. I'll just order it at home."

"I'm very sorry," he said as I turned and walked away.

I nod but just kept walking. I had a lethal weapon in my hand in the form of a rusty old lawn mower blade and I so wanted to shank someone.

Friday Photos

Yay! Friday Photos Returns! Triumphantly? Well...maybe. This week I am featuring photographs of games that we have played over the past few months.

Monopoly is one of our favorites, unfortunately since it always takes us forever to play, we often never declare a winner. Scott won't play this with us because once (a really freaking long time ago) my mom and I cheated taking money from the Bank when he went to use the bathroom. Jeesh! It wasn't like we were going to win anyway! He had hotels on every side!

Risk is another game Scott doesn't often play with me. I'm working on a blog post about it...but let's just say, for now, no one like screaming jihads. Even when its only little plastic army pieces.

I'm green and I totally own South American. All those drug lords are working for me now! (Umm...not really okay? Remember it's just a game - so if there are any drug lords reading my blog...I totally Do Not Own You...or any property in South America at all. I've never even been there!)

Clue is one of my all time favorite games. Mostly because I win. A lot. It is one of the few games that I can consistently win. And that makes me supremely self-satisfied.

I love this photo because it took about twenty shots to actually capture the die bouncing across the board so perfectly. Sometimes awesome shots just happen...sometimes you need to make them happen!

Also this is me winning. I always play Colonel Mustard. Always. And I love it when I am the suspect!

A few years ago, Scott and the girls got me Munchkin for Christmas and every so often they add a booster pack. We have so many Munchkin cards it is almost impossible to play with them all. Up until June of this year, we always played with post-it notes to track our levels. But then I watched this episode of TableTop (and if you aren't watching Geek & Sundry - SHAME ON YOU!) and lo and behold, they played Munchkin on an offical Munchkin board! I didn't even know those existed. Being crafty and perpetually short on cash, the girls and I made our own board! And we use our D&D miniatures as our tokens!

The object is to get from level 1 to level 10 by defeating monsters. It's a spoof of D&D and it makes me laugh every single time we play. The girls and I try to gang up on Scott because if he is playing, somehow he always wins!

The more I look at this, the cooler it gets. Now, I wonder if I can add a 3D effect to the board...maybe some pop-up walls and doors that really open?

More recently, during the Birthday Fiesta O' Fun (I swear on all that is holy, unholy and only slightly sacred I will be posting about this soon) Sara and her husband introduced the girls and I to Settlers of Catan. I vaguely knew about the game, but I hadn't ever played before. But I have to say...I am pretty sure that Santa will be bringing this to Someone because Holy Monkey Butts was it fun. They had the travel edition which seemed friendly albiet a bit small, so I'd be interested in playing a full sized version!

Also during the Birthday Fiesta O' Fun we played a game Sara got me for my birthday: Zombies!!! Trapped in a town infested with Zombies you have to make your way from the Town Square to the Helipad killing zombies and backstabbing other players to do it. Along the way, if you can make it, different stores have bullet and life tokens that will increase your chances to survive.

Players build the town as you go so often the town itself makes no sense whatsoever!

Fighting zombies is mandatory, but luckily only one zombie can occupy any one space - so no crazy hoards piling up on top of you. 

Sara taught me how to play Cribbage just about forever ago. When she went to Japan, I was Jonesing to play so I taught Ashleigh. We don't play it as much as I played with Sara (which was very nearly all the time) but it is a highlight of my day when we do play.

Ashleigh already off to a strong lead!

Coming into the home stretch...Ashleigh still in the lead and even though it was my crib, she had a really strong finally hand and took the game! Curses!

Things I Take For Granted: Bending

I stretched across the tub, the smell of Soft Scrub burning my nose as I scritch-scrubed the bottom of the bath. Cyra gurgled and cooed from her bouncy chair in the living room.

“Almost done, sweetie,” I called as she banged her hands against a tiny piano plinking out a cacophony of notes.

I leaned on the edge of the bathtub and gave one last swipe of the sponge. As I stood and straightened my back out, I heard and felt my lower back pop. For a split second, I thought it was just the typical crack of the joints but as I fell back down I realized just how very wrong I was.

Stabbing, shooting pain arched down my legs as I tried to stand again. I pushed myself up using first the edge of the tub, then the toilet seat and finally the sink. I tried straightening again and more spears of pain lanced down my legs.

I groaned holding onto the sink while Cyra started to fuss and cry from the other room.

“Hold on Peanut,” I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming.

Grabbing the doorframe, the counters and walls, I made it into the living room and collapsed to my knees next to Cyra. She giggled, thinking I was playing with her. I tried to lift her from her play chair but nearly dropped her as my back shuddered.

“I’ve dealt with worse pain,” I told myself. “Labor. Labor hurt more than this.” I pushed myself up. “Blood clots in my lungs hurt more than this.” I stood, rolling my spine, easing upright.

I managed a smile at Cyra. “Nothing else comes to mind.”

She giggled and I gritted my teeth as I bent and lifted her from her chair. I managed to shamble into her bedroom, change her diaper and set her down with some toys all while sweating and holding back a plethora of curses.

By the time Scott go home I was more than ready to have my spine surgically removed and robotic one grafted in its place. Scott got me to the doctor and after an insane amount of simple questions, I was told the trouble was most likely my sciatic nerve and there was nothing they could do for it except pain relief.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked my doctor. “Nothing?”

“No,” he said, “This will just heal on its own. Eventually.”

And it did. But it took nearly six weeks of daily pain for it to do so.

Every now and then over the past nine years, my lower back tells me in no uncertain terms that it is pissed off beyond reason at me. I could be doing dishes, sweeping the floor, working on a craft project, standing still and then a small pop from my lower back shoots spasms of pain down my legs and I am hunched over gasping for breath because of it. 

A little over two weeks ago, as I was cleaning the living room, my back exacted revenge for some small insult (I think I was vacuuming too vigorously) and wham. I was benched. For what ever reason though, this time, it was slightly different and instead of a week of inconvenient pain followed by a few weeks of taking it easy, I struggled for two weeks without any sign of improvement. I couldn’t sit at the computer. I could lie on the couch. It hurt less when I was up and moving, so I walked around a lot. Paced really.

I felt okay enough to spend the 4^th of July downtown with the girls, but a fall on the sidewalk on the way back to the car (stupid uneven concrete) had me in bed for most of the following day. I finally had enough on Friday when I couldn’t even sit to pee without crying and I took myself off to the doctor.

This time around, probably because I went to the ER since my doctor closes early on Fridays, I got the good stuff. While I was waiting to be taken for x-rays, the nurse brought in a shot to help with the pain. I pushed up my sleeve and she just smiled and shook her head.

“Do you want to lie down for this,” she smiled “or just bend over?”

“In my butt?” I frowned at her and covered my tush with my hands.

She nodded and smiled, her head cocked sympathetically. “I’m afraid so.”

Oh it might have stung going in, but Holy Moly did I start to feel better almost immediately.

The x-rays came back clear – no break or fracture - just some minor arthritis. Since nerve damage can’t be seen on a normal x-ray they handed me a stack of prescriptions and sent me out to door with a recommendation to follow-up with an orthopedic doctor in a few weeks if the symptoms don’t lessen.

After three days following a medicine regiment of steroids, muscle relaxers and mega-ibuprofen, I feel much better and best of all I can bend! Ignore for a moment that everything is fuzzy, wonky and slightly tilted. And I am nauseous. Ignore for a moment that as a general rule I really don’t like taking medicine. Ignore for a moment that I wouldn’t trust myself behind the wheel of a car. Or on a bike. Or walking down stairs.

Ignore all that and I am left with the oft taken for granted ability to bend. Freely and without hesitation. And that my friends, makes all the difference.

Friday Photos

Recently, one of the churches in town hosted a carnival. Not realizing how ridiculously expensive carnivals now are, we went. Not much has changed at carnivals since I was a kid. Creepy toothless carnies trying to convince you to play a game, deep fried everything, crowds and of course, rides. Rides that spin you in circles so fast it makes you feel like your head will pop off and your stomach will forcibly rip through your abdomen to save itself...

Rides that I will not ride.

Like teacups...only cuter, right?

As much as I love pirate ships...nope! Not going anywhere near it.

Sure, I want to be spun around while nearly upside down!

I am not even going to discuss the aptly named Zipper. I wouldn't ride it when I was a teenager no way would I ride it now!

This looks innocent enough. Like a giant swing, that flings you in a circle 100 feet above the ground.

The girls went on this mini roller coaster like ride. Go forward in a circle very fast and then go backwards...even faster.

There is a reason why the DOT strongly recommends NOT getting into head-on collisions. But sure, lets make a ride out of CAR CRASHES!! The girls went on this one too. After the first ride, neither of them wanted to go on another ride that spun them in circles.

Ah. The iconic Ferris wheel. So very....circular...

If you hadn't already guessed, I get motion sickness so easily that watching these rides made me queasy.

Friday Photos

Sometimes, in this big, big world we forget that epic things happen every day…on a slightly smaller scale. Animal Planet, Discovery, History and Disney all like to produce shows detailing the lives of great creatures: dinosaurs, lions, whales, chimpanzees.

But who, I ask you, tells the stories of the small creatures? 

Well...today, I guess that would be me.

Witness, for instance, the Epic Battle I almost stepped on while puttering in my garden the other day. 

This is the Epic Battle of a spider wasp named Bronte (because spider wasps have trendy names) and a lone wolf spider, named Murray McGilroy, a good, hard working spider out for his morning coffee break.

 See how Bronte attacks with relentless force, driving the looming Murray back again and again. Fear rolled off Murray like a thick fog in London.

Murray rears back hissing and cursing (I assume that's what it is doing since that's what I'd be doing if a wasp was trying to lay its eggs on my abdomen).

 

 Again and again Murray tries to flee fearing the biting pierce of Bronte's...egg laying sting?

Bronte finally flies off, the action so quick I was unable to determine who was actually triumphant. Did Murray manage to scare the persistent Bronte off? Or did Bronte sneak in with a quick snap of her ova...duct...depositor? and lay an egg on Murray's back as he tried to flee?

We may never know. Murray was gone when I came back to check on him.

X is for X-Ray

I looked up at the parallel bars and took a deep breath. I was next and I knew, I just knew, that I would not be able to perform the task Coach set for us. I fidgeted in the line and tugged at my gym shirt. This was the first year I had to change for gym class. I missed jumping rope and playing kickball. Why did middle school P.E. class have to have units? Why did we need a gymnastic unit?

I watched in awe as the girl in front of me pulled herself up and propelled herself across the bars. I could see her arms straining as she held herself up and was impressed that she made it nearly all the way across before dropping neatly to the mats below.

Coach waved me forward. I tugged at my shirt again. I scuffed my feet across the floor, my sneakers squeaked and chirped. I stopped in front of Coach and listened with half an ear as she gave me instructions.

“Alright?” she asked.

I hadn’t understood a thing she said.

“Please, Coach,” I whispered up at her while my eyes were fixed on the bars looming above my head. “I can’t do this.”

“You need to at least try.” Coach gave me that look. The one that makes you feel small and like crap because you’re afraid. I was overweight in 5^th grade and Coach seemed to think I was trying to get out of any exercise.

“Coach,” I implored and nodded to a small group of girls jumping rope. “Let me do something else. I can not do this.”

“Heather,” Coach was patient but insistent, “Everyone has to give it a try first.” She leaned down, her eyes sympathetic. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. I expect you to try. That’s all I’m asking.”

I nodded even as tears pooled in my eyes.

I walked up to the bars. I could feel all sorts of eyes on my back. It made it worse. I reached up for the bars and had to go on tiptoe before I could grab them. It wasn’t as hard to pull myself up as I thought it might be, but I knew that it was going to be near impossible to lift my body up over the bars. I struggled. I pulled. I strained and grunted. Coach kept giving me very loud words of encouragement. And then I was up, my upper body over the top of the parallel bars. My arms burned and then, all of a sudden I was on the mat, my left arm bent funny underneath me.

I screamed and the tears that I had gotten a head start on flowed freely. Coach crouched beside me, assessed and gathered me to my feet. She walked me to the nurse’s office where a quick phone call to my mom had her speeding to the school. By the time she arrived my arm was puffed out twice the normal size and turning an ugly bluish purple. My tears had yet to stop. I had ice wrapped around my arm and was quickly shuffled off to the doctor’s office.

Back then doctors did everything in-house. There wasn’t a specialist just the general practitioner. Dr. Smith ushered us into an exam room, threw some lead pads over my chest and snapped a few quick x-rays – the first I’d had except for dental x-rays.

I sat as still as I could while the x-rays were being developed. Mom stood by me smoothing the hair from my forehead. The room felt too warm. I felt too clammy. Everything seemed like it was spinning and a roller coaster at the same time. I closed my eyes and gulped. With every heartbeat, my arm felt like it swelled and ebbed like the ocean tides.

“Mom?” I whimpered.

“It’ll be fine, sweetie,” she said.

I wanted to believe her. And then the doctor came back in. He waved a shiny, floppy black x-ray at us.

“It’s definitely broken.” He shoved the picture onto a light box. “Both the radius and the ulna.”

He pointed to the breaks. My bones were clearly not in the right place. The x-ray showed that just above my left wrist, both snapped – thankfully not too much and certainly they weren’t poking out through my skin. My stomach rolled as I stared at the x-ray.

“I’m going to need to set it.” 

He took out a bowl, plaster and rolls of gauze and thick cotton. I watched as he prepared everything next to the exam table setting each tool needed on a shiny stainless steal tray.

“I don’t feel so good,” I mumbled and lay back down.

“This is going to hurt, Heather,” Dr. Smith said. “I won’t lie. But I need you to lie as still as you can, understand?”

I nodded and my mom moved closer to my side. The doctor took my arm in his hands and began to gently rub.

Then SNAP! My arm clicked back into place, one of the single-most disturbing noises I have ever heard. I shrieked, my voice cracking and echoing in the room.Tears exploded from my eyes. The room spun about and tilted oddly. The door pounded open as a nurse rushed in expecting to find someone dead.

“I’m going to be sick!” I screamed and turned my head.

Mom grabbed a plastic bowl and shoved it under my mouth as heaved up my lunch. I sobbed while I puked, the smell stinging my eyes and eliciting more tears. When I was once again calm, with nothing else to come up, my mom helped me clean up and got me a drink of water to rinse my mouth out.

Dr. Smith, working quickly, wrapped my arm in the thick cotton and began slapping on warm strips of gauze dipped in plaster. My arm, throbbing slightly less than before, felt heavy and warm. The shiny white cast weighed my arm down. I felt off balance. Dr. Smith fitted me with a sling.

“The cast will need to stay on for six weeks,” Dr. Smith said. “Keep her calm – don’t let her run around. You don’t want her falling again.”

“Does this mean I can’t go to gym?” I asked staring at my arm.

Dr. Smith nodded. “I’ll give you a note.”

I smiled.