I've actually reached a new, personal-best record.
4 doctor visits, in 5 days. This, of course, spans the weekend, and does not include the 1/2 hour I spent on the phone with the doctor, on the only day we didn't actually go into the office.
I am of the opinion, as I have excellent health insurance, that frequent-fliers, of the pediatrician office, should get some perks. I'm not knocking the parent that only comes in two or three times a year. I'm just sayin', that those of us that are on a first name basis with all the staff, who, actually recognize our voice before we identify ourselves, when calling to make an appointment, should be rewarded.
I have, single-handedly, put at least one of the doctors children through college, as well as paid off the doctor's student loans. If you visit sub shops, you get a little coupon, entitling you to a free sub, after so many purchases. As my doctors make about $50, every time I drag one of my germy booger heads into their offices, how 'bout a little kickback?
I'm not asking for much. Maybe a "Frequent Visitors" parking spot, located right near the elevator, as opposed to the back of the damn lot, where I end up having to park, and then lug in sick child, plus whatever extras I happen to have joining the germ soup, that day. Or, perhaps a special waiting room, preferable roped off with velvet cord, that has real books, instead of 27 copies of "Parenting", and "Your Baby" magazines, perhaps some coffee and tea as well.
"I'd like to make an appointment for my son today"
"Ah, Mrs. Blockston, we have an 11:30 opening, which should put you here, just in time for fresh coffee and muffins".
I hardly think, it's too much to ask.
lysol away! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Monday, February 27, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Step away from the snack dip,
party's over.
Pity party, that is...
oh, grow UP already! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Pity party, that is...
oh, grow UP already! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Sunday, February 19, 2006
No Lid = Sonic Boom
It's amazing to me, how the little things really do matter.
I've been having a bit of an attitude problem lately. Shocking, of course to those around me, as my even-keeled nature is known for miles around, LOL. I haven't been able to really put my finger on what exactly, has me so tied up in cranky knots.
This morning, I was in a pretty good mood, getting the kids dressed and out the door, to hit the grocery store, leaving Doug behind to nurse a wicked hangover in peace and quiet. Then, I went to fetch my coffee mug, to take with me.
No lid. No where to be found.
Putting away the dishes is the one task I've pretty much managed to farm out to other laborers in my house. However, this means, that finding any sort of gadget, lid, or basically, anything that is not a bowl, plate, or cup, is a 10 minute process. I've been very clear, about my mug, and my lid. I love my coffee. I cannot function without my coffee, and I adore my mug.
I totally lost my SHIT. I ranted, raved, screamed, cursed, and generally threw a gigantic temper tantrum (mark this one down, for when my children begin therapy, I'm sure it will come up). I put the kids in the car, drove 1/2 to the store, realized I was just irrationally angry, turned around, dropped off the children, and took off.
At that moment, I could totally relate to those people that just get in their cars, and roll the fuck OUT.
After driving around for about 1/2 an hour, I think I pinpointed just *what* has been bothering me.
It may sound silly, but something tells me, that any woman, who is either married, or has children, just may be able to relate.
I am a work-at-home-mom. I stay home with my children, while providing day care to two of my friend's children, as well as being a Mary Kay consultant (don't spread that around, you'll ruin my street cred, LOL), run a part-time ebay business, and have been working on some freelance work as well. I'm a really busy gal. I also cook dinner 4 nights a week, as in, homecooked, and hot dogs don't count. Since the New Year, I've been actually doing really well with my time management goals, and the house has not only been relatively mess-free, but clean as well.
If I'm spending more time (well, more effectively spending time, I suppose is a better way to phrase that), I don't think that it is entirely out of the realm of realistic expectations, to have others that, you know, live in this house, to pick up after themselves. Now, by this, I do not mean I expect my 4 year old, to do the dishes, or scrub the floors. I do, however, expect that when people, including the other tall person that lives here, to put their laundry in the hamper, not on the floor, next to the hamper. I expect people to throw their own trash away, put their dirty dishes in the sink, and, if something is on the floor, not to step over it, but rather, to bend over, and pick it up.
Now, this may seem a digression, but bear with me. On Valentine's Day, which I generally think is a crap holiday, since it doesn't seem very special to me, to celebrate love on the same day of the year, as everyone else, I really, really, REALLY, wanted to go to the Visionary Art Museum, one of my favorite places in the world, anyway, for the Post Secret Exhibit, since the creator would also be there, until 6. My wanting to go, had nothing to do with it being Valentine's Day, it just happened to be the only day that the creator would be there. The timing didn't work out. I get that. It's hard to arrange an outing, on a Tuesday, a work and school night, much less, one that has to occur before dinner time.
The thing that bothered me, is that there was absolutely NO effort. None. In looking back, I cannot remember the last time, that someone in this house, made any sort of an effort, to do something, just because *I* wanted it done.
This brings me back to the coffee mug lid, and the housework. I've finally realized, that the reason I've been so tense, cranky, and generally unpleasant to live with for the last two weeks, has a lot to do with the fact, that I just don't feel like *I* matter.
I know my husband loves me. I do. I also know that my children love me. I also realize how incredibly lucky I am, to have such a fantastic family, a solid marriage, and healthy children. It would just be nice, to be reminded, perhaps twice a damn year, that I matter to them. That my needs and desires, at least make the list, occasionally, of things they are willing to think about, and perhaps act upon.
My husband wants to go to Atlantic City for his birthday. Not my thing. Not at ALL. I can't think of just about anything I'd rather do less, besides an colonoscopy. Yet, I've planned a weekend trip for his birthday weekend, arranged the babysitting, talked to our best friends about going with us (they are), and have spent a few hours, researching the different hotels and casinos.
It would never occur to him, to do the same for me. In looking back, Doug has arranged babysitting, twice. That's two times, in eleven years of marriage. The first time, I told him I wanted him to take me on a date, and he had a week to set it up, and find a sitter, and the second, he was horny, so he dropped the kids off at his parents for an hour. I don't want it to seem as if I am inappreciative of these efforts, especially the last one, since I'm always up for child-free nookie, LOL.
I just don't feel as if anyone gives a shit, about things that are important to me, unless I'm yelling, or crying. The thing that is currently, really pissing me off, is that I feel GUILTY about feeling this way! I feel as if perhaps, I'm being unrealistic, and selfish. After all, men are, obviously different than women. I have a husband with a great job, who is a wonderful father, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, really DOES love me.
I just wish that how I felt, and the things that I want, made enough of an imprint, on the people that I love the best, that they would consider them, and occasionally, act upon them. Even if it's just twice a damn year.
Guilt trips, no travel agent required! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
I've been having a bit of an attitude problem lately. Shocking, of course to those around me, as my even-keeled nature is known for miles around, LOL. I haven't been able to really put my finger on what exactly, has me so tied up in cranky knots.
This morning, I was in a pretty good mood, getting the kids dressed and out the door, to hit the grocery store, leaving Doug behind to nurse a wicked hangover in peace and quiet. Then, I went to fetch my coffee mug, to take with me.
No lid. No where to be found.
Putting away the dishes is the one task I've pretty much managed to farm out to other laborers in my house. However, this means, that finding any sort of gadget, lid, or basically, anything that is not a bowl, plate, or cup, is a 10 minute process. I've been very clear, about my mug, and my lid. I love my coffee. I cannot function without my coffee, and I adore my mug.
I totally lost my SHIT. I ranted, raved, screamed, cursed, and generally threw a gigantic temper tantrum (mark this one down, for when my children begin therapy, I'm sure it will come up). I put the kids in the car, drove 1/2 to the store, realized I was just irrationally angry, turned around, dropped off the children, and took off.
At that moment, I could totally relate to those people that just get in their cars, and roll the fuck OUT.
After driving around for about 1/2 an hour, I think I pinpointed just *what* has been bothering me.
It may sound silly, but something tells me, that any woman, who is either married, or has children, just may be able to relate.
I am a work-at-home-mom. I stay home with my children, while providing day care to two of my friend's children, as well as being a Mary Kay consultant (don't spread that around, you'll ruin my street cred, LOL), run a part-time ebay business, and have been working on some freelance work as well. I'm a really busy gal. I also cook dinner 4 nights a week, as in, homecooked, and hot dogs don't count. Since the New Year, I've been actually doing really well with my time management goals, and the house has not only been relatively mess-free, but clean as well.
If I'm spending more time (well, more effectively spending time, I suppose is a better way to phrase that), I don't think that it is entirely out of the realm of realistic expectations, to have others that, you know, live in this house, to pick up after themselves. Now, by this, I do not mean I expect my 4 year old, to do the dishes, or scrub the floors. I do, however, expect that when people, including the other tall person that lives here, to put their laundry in the hamper, not on the floor, next to the hamper. I expect people to throw their own trash away, put their dirty dishes in the sink, and, if something is on the floor, not to step over it, but rather, to bend over, and pick it up.
Now, this may seem a digression, but bear with me. On Valentine's Day, which I generally think is a crap holiday, since it doesn't seem very special to me, to celebrate love on the same day of the year, as everyone else, I really, really, REALLY, wanted to go to the Visionary Art Museum, one of my favorite places in the world, anyway, for the Post Secret Exhibit, since the creator would also be there, until 6. My wanting to go, had nothing to do with it being Valentine's Day, it just happened to be the only day that the creator would be there. The timing didn't work out. I get that. It's hard to arrange an outing, on a Tuesday, a work and school night, much less, one that has to occur before dinner time.
The thing that bothered me, is that there was absolutely NO effort. None. In looking back, I cannot remember the last time, that someone in this house, made any sort of an effort, to do something, just because *I* wanted it done.
This brings me back to the coffee mug lid, and the housework. I've finally realized, that the reason I've been so tense, cranky, and generally unpleasant to live with for the last two weeks, has a lot to do with the fact, that I just don't feel like *I* matter.
I know my husband loves me. I do. I also know that my children love me. I also realize how incredibly lucky I am, to have such a fantastic family, a solid marriage, and healthy children. It would just be nice, to be reminded, perhaps twice a damn year, that I matter to them. That my needs and desires, at least make the list, occasionally, of things they are willing to think about, and perhaps act upon.
My husband wants to go to Atlantic City for his birthday. Not my thing. Not at ALL. I can't think of just about anything I'd rather do less, besides an colonoscopy. Yet, I've planned a weekend trip for his birthday weekend, arranged the babysitting, talked to our best friends about going with us (they are), and have spent a few hours, researching the different hotels and casinos.
It would never occur to him, to do the same for me. In looking back, Doug has arranged babysitting, twice. That's two times, in eleven years of marriage. The first time, I told him I wanted him to take me on a date, and he had a week to set it up, and find a sitter, and the second, he was horny, so he dropped the kids off at his parents for an hour. I don't want it to seem as if I am inappreciative of these efforts, especially the last one, since I'm always up for child-free nookie, LOL.
I just don't feel as if anyone gives a shit, about things that are important to me, unless I'm yelling, or crying. The thing that is currently, really pissing me off, is that I feel GUILTY about feeling this way! I feel as if perhaps, I'm being unrealistic, and selfish. After all, men are, obviously different than women. I have a husband with a great job, who is a wonderful father, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, really DOES love me.
I just wish that how I felt, and the things that I want, made enough of an imprint, on the people that I love the best, that they would consider them, and occasionally, act upon them. Even if it's just twice a damn year.
Guilt trips, no travel agent required! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Now, I'm sure...
...that when most people say, "I've had a shitty week", they're speaking metaphorically.
I, however, have the distinction, of being able to use that sentence, in a very literal way this past week.
I took a very long, very hot shower, for about 40 minutes on Tuesday night.
At 10 PM, Doug goes down to the basement, where his throne room is set up, immediately comes back upstairs, curious as to why there is water in the basement, out past the couches.
This baffles me as well, especially considering, I was half asleep.
Turns out, it was not the washing machine, or the utility sink. There was a nice big clog, in the main line, causing the..... (I'm building up the suspense here, LOL)....
...toilet in the basement, to, quite literally, explode, with all the water from my long, hot, shower, all over the floor, along with all the waste, from the previous day's, toilet flushes.
For the next day, there were no safe drains, no flushing of toilets, no washing of dishes.
There were, however, turds that had to scooped out of the 1-2 inches of water (the floor on 2/3 of the basement is concrete, and about 100 years old, so not completely level), with the pool skimmer.
Renting the snake, was yet another learning experience. I have an old home. The first house we purchased was another older home, which we rennovated. I'm a rather handy gal, if I do say so myself. So, I walk into the local Home Depot, and tell them I need to rent the longest snake they have. Howdy Doody, tells me, "We have a 75-footer".
I then tell him, I'm going to check elsewhere, I need a 100 foot snake, it's a main line clog.
Him: "We've got a hundred footer (I loathe that word, footer, BTW), if that's what you're looking for.
No. Really, I just wanted to quiz you?
He then proceeds to ask me, "What kind of car are you driving?"
I tell him, I have the Machine of Evil parked outside, and it's a minivan.
He then points to my neice and nephew, who I had with me, and says...."Okay, because you know you can't leave them here, right?"
Seriously?
Is this a question that actually needs to be answered?
"Really? I thought this was more of a 'swap out' kind of place, as opposed to a tool rental. I leave you the kids, take the machine, and when I'm done, I just bring it back, and you give me the kids. No?"
After all of this, I pull the van around to the front, where he argues with me, about my ability to lift the snake into the van. I'm 5'10". I'm not a tiny person. Finally, I just shut up, and backed away, whereupon, he proceeded to almost drop it on his foot, LOL. I just looked at him, and said "You know, it's not going to carry itself out of my car, up my front porch steps, and down into my basement. Eventually, I will be picking the thing up. Perhaps now would be a good time for me to start?"
He graciously allowed me to help him.
Flush away! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
I, however, have the distinction, of being able to use that sentence, in a very literal way this past week.
I took a very long, very hot shower, for about 40 minutes on Tuesday night.
At 10 PM, Doug goes down to the basement, where his throne room is set up, immediately comes back upstairs, curious as to why there is water in the basement, out past the couches.
This baffles me as well, especially considering, I was half asleep.
Turns out, it was not the washing machine, or the utility sink. There was a nice big clog, in the main line, causing the..... (I'm building up the suspense here, LOL)....
...toilet in the basement, to, quite literally, explode, with all the water from my long, hot, shower, all over the floor, along with all the waste, from the previous day's, toilet flushes.
For the next day, there were no safe drains, no flushing of toilets, no washing of dishes.
There were, however, turds that had to scooped out of the 1-2 inches of water (the floor on 2/3 of the basement is concrete, and about 100 years old, so not completely level), with the pool skimmer.
Renting the snake, was yet another learning experience. I have an old home. The first house we purchased was another older home, which we rennovated. I'm a rather handy gal, if I do say so myself. So, I walk into the local Home Depot, and tell them I need to rent the longest snake they have. Howdy Doody, tells me, "We have a 75-footer".
I then tell him, I'm going to check elsewhere, I need a 100 foot snake, it's a main line clog.
Him: "We've got a hundred footer (I loathe that word, footer, BTW), if that's what you're looking for.
No. Really, I just wanted to quiz you?
He then proceeds to ask me, "What kind of car are you driving?"
I tell him, I have the Machine of Evil parked outside, and it's a minivan.
He then points to my neice and nephew, who I had with me, and says...."Okay, because you know you can't leave them here, right?"
Seriously?
Is this a question that actually needs to be answered?
"Really? I thought this was more of a 'swap out' kind of place, as opposed to a tool rental. I leave you the kids, take the machine, and when I'm done, I just bring it back, and you give me the kids. No?"
After all of this, I pull the van around to the front, where he argues with me, about my ability to lift the snake into the van. I'm 5'10". I'm not a tiny person. Finally, I just shut up, and backed away, whereupon, he proceeded to almost drop it on his foot, LOL. I just looked at him, and said "You know, it's not going to carry itself out of my car, up my front porch steps, and down into my basement. Eventually, I will be picking the thing up. Perhaps now would be a good time for me to start?"
He graciously allowed me to help him.
Flush away! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Far be it from me...
to criticize another person's parenting skills...
Oh, wait.
That's exactly what I'm going to do.
Having never been pursued by the paparazzi, since, apparently, getting your children to school on time, every morning of the school year, garners no awards, or accolades (especially from those same children, who inherited their mother's morning people skills), I've never known how scary it must be, to have your every move, videotaped, or photographed. It has to be more than annoying, to have your every grocery receipt published, your trips to the gas station bathroom, tabloid fodder (but seriously, you can get flip flops for like $2.50 from Old Navy), your every move tracked.
However.
There is, just no way, in my own little pea-brain, I've found a way, to be remotely sympathetic, to Britney Spears. I've never been a fan, can't stand her singing (if you even want to call that warbling she does, singing), but in the past two years, she's gone from being a moderately annoying pop celebrity, to being a trainwreck. I find myself wanting to just *shake* the crap out of her. All that changed, the minute I saw the pictures of her driving, on a HIGHWAY, with her infant son, on her damn lap.
What the FUCK?
"I'm being aggressively pursued by people, enough so that I'm scared for my well-being, so I'll just snuggle up my infant on my lap, and hop on the freeway, so as to avoid them".
I'm blown away, by not only her lack of understanding, of just how dangerous that really is, but the local authorities choosing not to press charges.
If I can garner, not one, but two, "Failure to come to a complete stop at a stop sign" tickets, on basically deserted streets, how can they *not* write her a ticket, make her take a damn parenting class, or, even more appropriately, have a little sit down with the parents of a child lost in a car accident? Especially considering, they've got a picture of the crime in action?
Reality check @ Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Oh, wait.
That's exactly what I'm going to do.
Having never been pursued by the paparazzi, since, apparently, getting your children to school on time, every morning of the school year, garners no awards, or accolades (especially from those same children, who inherited their mother's morning people skills), I've never known how scary it must be, to have your every move, videotaped, or photographed. It has to be more than annoying, to have your every grocery receipt published, your trips to the gas station bathroom, tabloid fodder (but seriously, you can get flip flops for like $2.50 from Old Navy), your every move tracked.
However.
There is, just no way, in my own little pea-brain, I've found a way, to be remotely sympathetic, to Britney Spears. I've never been a fan, can't stand her singing (if you even want to call that warbling she does, singing), but in the past two years, she's gone from being a moderately annoying pop celebrity, to being a trainwreck. I find myself wanting to just *shake* the crap out of her. All that changed, the minute I saw the pictures of her driving, on a HIGHWAY, with her infant son, on her damn lap.
What the FUCK?
"I'm being aggressively pursued by people, enough so that I'm scared for my well-being, so I'll just snuggle up my infant on my lap, and hop on the freeway, so as to avoid them".
I'm blown away, by not only her lack of understanding, of just how dangerous that really is, but the local authorities choosing not to press charges.
If I can garner, not one, but two, "Failure to come to a complete stop at a stop sign" tickets, on basically deserted streets, how can they *not* write her a ticket, make her take a damn parenting class, or, even more appropriately, have a little sit down with the parents of a child lost in a car accident? Especially considering, they've got a picture of the crime in action?
Reality check @ Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
I'd like to say
that I'd die if you left me,
but we both know,
that just isn't true.
Because, that's not what I do.
I don't fall apart
I don't pick up the pieces
I just leave them behind.
I'd like to tell you that you are the world to me
but I know, deep down,
that just isn't true.
The world is bigger than both me, and you.
What I can tell you
is that your eyes,
they change colors,
according to your mood,
and that you make this funny noise,
that only I hear, when you chew your food.
I sure would miss that.
but we both know,
that just isn't true.
Because, that's not what I do.
I don't fall apart
I don't pick up the pieces
I just leave them behind.
I'd like to tell you that you are the world to me
but I know, deep down,
that just isn't true.
The world is bigger than both me, and you.
What I can tell you
is that your eyes,
they change colors,
according to your mood,
and that you make this funny noise,
that only I hear, when you chew your food.
I sure would miss that.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Happy Birthday! Clean the bathroom, would you?
I think I aged a year, this past week, not Aidan, LOL.
My sunny, funny middle child, turned 8 last Saturday! He had a wonderful birthday...I hope.
The thing about birthday parties, actually being on the birthday? How can I do my usual completely and totally anal melt-down, over the state of the house, and decide an hour before people arrive that really, the molding around the bottom of the walls, really needs a second scrubbing, if I have to make sure that one of the kids has a great birthday?
Birthday are a BIG deal, around here. HUGE. I have an entire week, myself. Except for my last birthday, The One We Will NOT Name. I grew up in a home, where my mother homecooked meals, EVERY night. It was a very exciting day, when we would get to eat fish sticks, mac and cheese, and green beans, on the occasional Saturday night for dinner. While cooking away, she also managed to have a totally and completely spotless house (seriously, I swear, it looked like a damn model home), and (this one is the kicker), SEWED ALL OF OUR CLOTHES. Seriously. Dresses, skirts, blouses, t-shirts, even JEANS.
Let's just say, that's a tough yardstick to have laying around. Though, in my case, you're more likely to find it laying in the middle of my lawn, after one of the kids have taken it outside to play with, and never brought back into the house.
I find myself eyeing up my house, with a drill sargent's eye, taking in where the cats have played "let's climb the wall", using their claws, usually only making it halfway up, before just kind of sliding down. Because really, why just let go, when you can leave little kitty claw marks all the way down the wall?
Say what you will, my cats are not under achivers.
As are my children, considering I found the "hiding" spot for boogers. None will confess as to whose boogers they actually are, which I find slightly comforting. I don't think I really want to know, who is wiping them on the wall, right beside the molding, in the upstairs bathroom.
I'm afraid it may be the large one, and then I'll have to divorce him.
My sunny, funny middle child, turned 8 last Saturday! He had a wonderful birthday...I hope.
The thing about birthday parties, actually being on the birthday? How can I do my usual completely and totally anal melt-down, over the state of the house, and decide an hour before people arrive that really, the molding around the bottom of the walls, really needs a second scrubbing, if I have to make sure that one of the kids has a great birthday?
Birthday are a BIG deal, around here. HUGE. I have an entire week, myself. Except for my last birthday, The One We Will NOT Name. I grew up in a home, where my mother homecooked meals, EVERY night. It was a very exciting day, when we would get to eat fish sticks, mac and cheese, and green beans, on the occasional Saturday night for dinner. While cooking away, she also managed to have a totally and completely spotless house (seriously, I swear, it looked like a damn model home), and (this one is the kicker), SEWED ALL OF OUR CLOTHES. Seriously. Dresses, skirts, blouses, t-shirts, even JEANS.
Let's just say, that's a tough yardstick to have laying around. Though, in my case, you're more likely to find it laying in the middle of my lawn, after one of the kids have taken it outside to play with, and never brought back into the house.
I find myself eyeing up my house, with a drill sargent's eye, taking in where the cats have played "let's climb the wall", using their claws, usually only making it halfway up, before just kind of sliding down. Because really, why just let go, when you can leave little kitty claw marks all the way down the wall?
Say what you will, my cats are not under achivers.
As are my children, considering I found the "hiding" spot for boogers. None will confess as to whose boogers they actually are, which I find slightly comforting. I don't think I really want to know, who is wiping them on the wall, right beside the molding, in the upstairs bathroom.
I'm afraid it may be the large one, and then I'll have to divorce him.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Friday, January 20, 2006
Momma, don't let your babies, grow up to be....
gay, repressed cowboys...
*sigh*
Jen and I went to see Brokeback Mountain, figured that this way, we wouldn't have to, A: find sitters for the sprats, and B: defend a beautiful love story, to two men, who, while they may be comfortable in their manhood, revert to middle school boys, who think it's funny to wipe snot on a seat.
It was beautiful. It was SAD.
Jen, however, lost her SHIT, she started sniffling, then it progressed to hands on the face, to full-on, shaking in her seat, making noises, sobbing. It was a lovely movie, I highly recommend it. Heath Ledger, and Jake Gyllenhaal's performances were astounding, especially given that in every other movie I've seen Jake in, I can't shake the image of Frank's head in the mirror, in Donnie Darko, LOL.
It makes me sad, for all the people who end up, so disconnected, from that which they really want, in life, because of society's conventions, or fear of what others will think. Why *do* we care so much for other's thoughts? As if our self-worth can be measured by a stranger's second glance, or friend's opinions of our mates, outfit, house, or life choice? Why do we spend so much damn time, trying to just be "normal"? I would love to say that I never fall into that trap, but I do. I suppose it's human nature. I'm just glad, that it's never cost me, a life of happiness with the person I truly love.
Because, he's upstairs, very much, NOT wiping boogers on seats.
waste no time: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
*sigh*
Jen and I went to see Brokeback Mountain, figured that this way, we wouldn't have to, A: find sitters for the sprats, and B: defend a beautiful love story, to two men, who, while they may be comfortable in their manhood, revert to middle school boys, who think it's funny to wipe snot on a seat.
It was beautiful. It was SAD.
Jen, however, lost her SHIT, she started sniffling, then it progressed to hands on the face, to full-on, shaking in her seat, making noises, sobbing. It was a lovely movie, I highly recommend it. Heath Ledger, and Jake Gyllenhaal's performances were astounding, especially given that in every other movie I've seen Jake in, I can't shake the image of Frank's head in the mirror, in Donnie Darko, LOL.
It makes me sad, for all the people who end up, so disconnected, from that which they really want, in life, because of society's conventions, or fear of what others will think. Why *do* we care so much for other's thoughts? As if our self-worth can be measured by a stranger's second glance, or friend's opinions of our mates, outfit, house, or life choice? Why do we spend so much damn time, trying to just be "normal"? I would love to say that I never fall into that trap, but I do. I suppose it's human nature. I'm just glad, that it's never cost me, a life of happiness with the person I truly love.
Because, he's upstairs, very much, NOT wiping boogers on seats.
waste no time: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Thursday, January 19, 2006
You know that thing I said yesterday?
Ignore it.
I fucking hate it.
I actually have to psch myself up, to get out of my chair tonight.
Billy Blanks is an ASSHOLE.
I fucking hate it.
I actually have to psch myself up, to get out of my chair tonight.
Billy Blanks is an ASSHOLE.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Shhh!
Don't spread this around or nuthin', but I think, that I just may...
be enjoying exercise.
ruining my street cred on Krispy Kreme Lane: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
be enjoying exercise.
ruining my street cred on Krispy Kreme Lane: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Saturday, January 14, 2006
All Hail the powers of inconsistency!
For their powers are mighty!
I swear. If I live to be 100, I will NEVER be able to fathom my mother's motives.
The last time we saw each other, she was freaking out about not knowing which drawer I keep my kitchen utensils in. Seriously. As if, not knowing where I store my sporks, is a metaphor for our relationship. Which, granted, blows, but sporks? C'mon.
The last time I talked to her on the phone it was:
Me: "hey mom"
Her: "hang on, I'll get your father"
My father dropped in earlier this week, where I was treated to a rather lengthy treaty, on how all things in the World of Bob, suck. The end of which, was...'Just to give you a heads up, your mom is PISSED at you".
Me: "Why?"
Him: "I dunno."
How informative.
So, when my cell rang this evening, and I read the display, I seriously thought about not answering. Then, I thought, "you know what? BRING IT ON SISTA!"
Her: "HI!!"
Me: "Um..hi." (What the fuck?)
Her: "So, 8:40 tomorrow morning. You can just drop the boys at my house!"
Me: "um, okay."
Her: "It's much nicer, now that they changed the morning service time, it lets you sleep a little later."
Me: "uh, yeah, it does. Sleep is nice. It's good. Everyone loves sleep"... it was as if a sheepdog momentarily took over my brain.
Her: "Okay babe, you have fun tonight, and I'll see you when you come pick up the boys tomorrow afternoon. Bye!"
WHAT THE HOLY FUCKING HELL?
See, normally, we follow a routine. We start the board at "You are so totally fun to hang out with!"..this leads to: "Now that we are hanging out, how about I beat you with a bible?? Doesn't that sound like FUN?!?!?!?! This, invariably leads to the weepy: "Why won't you trust me? I know what I'm talking about! I would rather that you hated me, and loved him (him, being god)" phase. Then we leap on over into Frosty disappointment-land. From there, you head around the block to: "You know what, I RAISED YOU BETTER THAN THIS! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER".
Now, she's skipping steps in a game we've been playing for years.
Apparently, she DOES have something left to teach me.
*sigh* drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
I swear. If I live to be 100, I will NEVER be able to fathom my mother's motives.
The last time we saw each other, she was freaking out about not knowing which drawer I keep my kitchen utensils in. Seriously. As if, not knowing where I store my sporks, is a metaphor for our relationship. Which, granted, blows, but sporks? C'mon.
The last time I talked to her on the phone it was:
Me: "hey mom"
Her: "hang on, I'll get your father"
My father dropped in earlier this week, where I was treated to a rather lengthy treaty, on how all things in the World of Bob, suck. The end of which, was...'Just to give you a heads up, your mom is PISSED at you".
Me: "Why?"
Him: "I dunno."
How informative.
So, when my cell rang this evening, and I read the display, I seriously thought about not answering. Then, I thought, "you know what? BRING IT ON SISTA!"
Her: "HI!!"
Me: "Um..hi." (What the fuck?)
Her: "So, 8:40 tomorrow morning. You can just drop the boys at my house!"
Me: "um, okay."
Her: "It's much nicer, now that they changed the morning service time, it lets you sleep a little later."
Me: "uh, yeah, it does. Sleep is nice. It's good. Everyone loves sleep"... it was as if a sheepdog momentarily took over my brain.
Her: "Okay babe, you have fun tonight, and I'll see you when you come pick up the boys tomorrow afternoon. Bye!"
WHAT THE HOLY FUCKING HELL?
See, normally, we follow a routine. We start the board at "You are so totally fun to hang out with!"..this leads to: "Now that we are hanging out, how about I beat you with a bible?? Doesn't that sound like FUN?!?!?!?! This, invariably leads to the weepy: "Why won't you trust me? I know what I'm talking about! I would rather that you hated me, and loved him (him, being god)" phase. Then we leap on over into Frosty disappointment-land. From there, you head around the block to: "You know what, I RAISED YOU BETTER THAN THIS! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER".
Now, she's skipping steps in a game we've been playing for years.
Apparently, she DOES have something left to teach me.
*sigh* drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Friday, January 13, 2006
Delurk, dammit!
I may be setting myself up, for colossal disappointment here, but it's come to my attention that someone in blogger land, has appointed this week, as de-lurk week.
So, any and all, who read blogs, on a regular basis, read them occasionally, or you know, just, read, are hereby, commanded (okay, requested?) to delurk yo' ass, and leave a comment, on those blogs. So, humor me. It's been a rough week.
Even, if it's a big, fat, YOU SUCK.
Who decides these things, anyway? drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
So, any and all, who read blogs, on a regular basis, read them occasionally, or you know, just, read, are hereby, commanded (okay, requested?) to delurk yo' ass, and leave a comment, on those blogs. So, humor me. It's been a rough week.
Even, if it's a big, fat, YOU SUCK.
Who decides these things, anyway? drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Okay, SERIOUSLY??
I'm frustrated.
Actually, I don't think that frustrated, covers it.
I spoke to my youngest son's teacher today. He's 4 1/2, with a will of iron, and a control freak to boot. This is the kid, who, as a toddler, would scream to get out of his crib in the morning, and when you'd go to pick him up, he'd drop like a stone, and cling to the bars. So, I'd then leave the room, wait a few minutes, and try again.
Rinse and repeat.
Some mornings, it would take an hour just to get him out of the damn crib.
He's a challenge. As well as excellent birth control.
I adore him. I do, he's funny, and can charm your socks off, when he's not being so infuriatingly difficult, that you'd like to strangle him with your socks.
Now, I had spoken with his teacher, a lovely woman, named Mrs. Baker, last week, about his progress. The first time we met his teacher, he performed. In rare, and humiliating form. My husband had some sort of freaky virus that had given him headaches, so sudden and severe, that we had spent the whole weekend in the hospital, while they tried to figure out if it wasn't an aneurysm, or a stroke. So, Momma operating on about...4 hours sleep, in a 48 hour period, and Lucien, who smells weakness the way a bloodhound senses...well, blood, I guess, performed. He twirled, he wouldn't sit in the chair, he whined, he slumped, he like to got strangled by his own mother, who, fortunately, was too tired to summon the upper-body strength .
Now, after this less-than-stellar introduction, he actually settled in quite nicely, enjoys school, listens well, etc. He's a good kid. You just have to prove that you are, in fact, the boss of him.
So, last week, she calls to tell me that she's concerned. He's inconsistent, with what he knows. Somedays he can pick his name off the board, others, he can't. Somedays he knows his colors (one of my other son's is colorblind, so this was a concern with Lucien), and other days he doesn't. Then...she says the magic words.
"When I'm working with him, one-on-one, he'll say to me, that he doesn't want to do this anymore."
*TA-DA*
I explained to her that she was going to have to prove to him, that it was in his best interest to work with her, and do his best, because I know for a fact that the little crapper knows ALL of his colors, and can pick his name out of a line-up. He just didn't want to.
She said that she was still concerned about his fine motor skills, so she was going to have the school OT, take a look, and do a quick eval, to see what her thoughts were.
I know the school OT, she works with Aidan, my 8 year old, who is dyslexic.
She met with Lucien today, and then Mrs. Baker called me...Apparently, given the family history (after Aidan's diagnosis, we discovered that virtually all of the men, on my mother's side of the family, are dyslexic, both my uncles, 2 out of 3 great-uncles, etc.), and what she saw today, she has some major concerns, and wants to do a full evaluation. The upshot of the conversation, was when his teacher told me that after informing him, that if he didn't finish up his work, when they're working together, he wasn't allowed to go play at ALL, he suddenly had a whole new skill set, LOL.
However, he's having trouble with directionals.
fuckmotherfuckerfuckshitFIRE.
That is exactly how Aidan first presented. I don't want this for him. I didn't want it for Aidan. Selfishly, I wonder how much more this will take out of me. Aidan is doing really well, thriving, even. His tutoring has helped immensely, he's almost at grade level, and is starting to enjoy reading, even if it is, just a tiny bit.
But, he tutors for an hour and a half, twice a week. Between that, sports for both older boys, how the hell am I going to find time, to have Lucien tutored as well??
I realize, I'm borrowing trouble. Nothing definitive. No way to know. If it even is the case, that's what moms DO. They do what needs to be done, so their children can thrive.
But damn.
I thought, at some point, I'd have enough of my own life, my own time, to finish my degree before 40. Like 40 is all that unreasonable of a goal?
But I don't WANT to be the grown-up! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Actually, I don't think that frustrated, covers it.
I spoke to my youngest son's teacher today. He's 4 1/2, with a will of iron, and a control freak to boot. This is the kid, who, as a toddler, would scream to get out of his crib in the morning, and when you'd go to pick him up, he'd drop like a stone, and cling to the bars. So, I'd then leave the room, wait a few minutes, and try again.
Rinse and repeat.
Some mornings, it would take an hour just to get him out of the damn crib.
He's a challenge. As well as excellent birth control.
I adore him. I do, he's funny, and can charm your socks off, when he's not being so infuriatingly difficult, that you'd like to strangle him with your socks.
Now, I had spoken with his teacher, a lovely woman, named Mrs. Baker, last week, about his progress. The first time we met his teacher, he performed. In rare, and humiliating form. My husband had some sort of freaky virus that had given him headaches, so sudden and severe, that we had spent the whole weekend in the hospital, while they tried to figure out if it wasn't an aneurysm, or a stroke. So, Momma operating on about...4 hours sleep, in a 48 hour period, and Lucien, who smells weakness the way a bloodhound senses...well, blood, I guess, performed. He twirled, he wouldn't sit in the chair, he whined, he slumped, he like to got strangled by his own mother, who, fortunately, was too tired to summon the upper-body strength .
Now, after this less-than-stellar introduction, he actually settled in quite nicely, enjoys school, listens well, etc. He's a good kid. You just have to prove that you are, in fact, the boss of him.
So, last week, she calls to tell me that she's concerned. He's inconsistent, with what he knows. Somedays he can pick his name off the board, others, he can't. Somedays he knows his colors (one of my other son's is colorblind, so this was a concern with Lucien), and other days he doesn't. Then...she says the magic words.
"When I'm working with him, one-on-one, he'll say to me, that he doesn't want to do this anymore."
*TA-DA*
I explained to her that she was going to have to prove to him, that it was in his best interest to work with her, and do his best, because I know for a fact that the little crapper knows ALL of his colors, and can pick his name out of a line-up. He just didn't want to.
She said that she was still concerned about his fine motor skills, so she was going to have the school OT, take a look, and do a quick eval, to see what her thoughts were.
I know the school OT, she works with Aidan, my 8 year old, who is dyslexic.
She met with Lucien today, and then Mrs. Baker called me...Apparently, given the family history (after Aidan's diagnosis, we discovered that virtually all of the men, on my mother's side of the family, are dyslexic, both my uncles, 2 out of 3 great-uncles, etc.), and what she saw today, she has some major concerns, and wants to do a full evaluation. The upshot of the conversation, was when his teacher told me that after informing him, that if he didn't finish up his work, when they're working together, he wasn't allowed to go play at ALL, he suddenly had a whole new skill set, LOL.
However, he's having trouble with directionals.
fuckmotherfuckerfuckshitFIRE.
That is exactly how Aidan first presented. I don't want this for him. I didn't want it for Aidan. Selfishly, I wonder how much more this will take out of me. Aidan is doing really well, thriving, even. His tutoring has helped immensely, he's almost at grade level, and is starting to enjoy reading, even if it is, just a tiny bit.
But, he tutors for an hour and a half, twice a week. Between that, sports for both older boys, how the hell am I going to find time, to have Lucien tutored as well??
I realize, I'm borrowing trouble. Nothing definitive. No way to know. If it even is the case, that's what moms DO. They do what needs to be done, so their children can thrive.
But damn.
I thought, at some point, I'd have enough of my own life, my own time, to finish my degree before 40. Like 40 is all that unreasonable of a goal?
But I don't WANT to be the grown-up! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Saturday, January 07, 2006
You're a doctor, not a detective, dammit!
Oh, how I love all things, Quincy.
He was my first crush, and will always have a place in my heart...
There's just something about the way he calls his long-suffering galpal, Lee, "Honey", so much, that I actually thought that was her name, his wild gestures, his ability to write out prescriptions on bar napkins, how he's ALWAYS right...
*sigh*
Long live, Jack Klugman.
Bring me proof! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
He was my first crush, and will always have a place in my heart...
There's just something about the way he calls his long-suffering galpal, Lee, "Honey", so much, that I actually thought that was her name, his wild gestures, his ability to write out prescriptions on bar napkins, how he's ALWAYS right...
*sigh*
Long live, Jack Klugman.
Bring me proof! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Friday, January 06, 2006
"No pain, no gain"
Were his last words, eyewitnesses on the scene reported.
Apparently, while his wife, walking gamely, if extremely slowly, up the steps, to tuck in their children, after two straight days of kickboxing, he made the tactical mistake of saying, "No pain, no gain!", while shoving a 5 ounce hershey bar, in his perpetually thin, face.
Amazingly, she found not only the strength to move at an alarmingly fast pace, but to choke him to death.
She'll be acquitted.
"and step left, that's right, lift your arms at an unnatural angle to your torso, while kicking forward with the left leg, and sideways with the right! Just two more!"
*BANG* drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Apparently, while his wife, walking gamely, if extremely slowly, up the steps, to tuck in their children, after two straight days of kickboxing, he made the tactical mistake of saying, "No pain, no gain!", while shoving a 5 ounce hershey bar, in his perpetually thin, face.
Amazingly, she found not only the strength to move at an alarmingly fast pace, but to choke him to death.
She'll be acquitted.
"and step left, that's right, lift your arms at an unnatural angle to your torso, while kicking forward with the left leg, and sideways with the right! Just two more!"
*BANG* drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
When state delegates have too much time on their hands...
You get crap like THIS:
http://leg1.state.va.us/cgi-bin/legp504.exe?061+sum+HB187
I'm vehemently pro-choice, I make no bones about it. It's *my* body, it's *my* choice, and neither you, your neighbor, or anyone else for that matter, gets a damn say.
But, SERIOUSLY? This is worth the time and money of our elected officials? Delegate Bob is the same manly man, who attempted to pass a law, about a year ago, that would have required, that's right, REQUIRED, women to report miscarriages to their local law enforcement officials, within 12 hours. Under penalties of actual jail time ( http://democracyforvirginia.typepad.com/democracy_for_virginia/2005/01/legislative_sen.html ).
Seriously.
Because the blob in my toilet is any of your fucking BUSINESS?
I've had a miscarriage. It wasn't fun, it wasn't pretty, and it wasn't anyone's business but mine, and my husbands.
P-E-R-I-O-D
But, I digress.
I get it. He's pro-life. However, apparently, all those poor little cells, waiting to find a nice, warm, snuggly uterus to climb into, that there is a movement within the pro-life community to adopt (once again, not teasing: http://www.nightlight.org/snowflakeslanding.asp), are not valuable enough, to go to an unmarried woman.
I'm awed by the hubris.
put THAT in your pipe and smoke it: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
http://leg1.state.va.us/cgi-bin/legp504.exe?061+sum+HB187
I'm vehemently pro-choice, I make no bones about it. It's *my* body, it's *my* choice, and neither you, your neighbor, or anyone else for that matter, gets a damn say.
But, SERIOUSLY? This is worth the time and money of our elected officials? Delegate Bob is the same manly man, who attempted to pass a law, about a year ago, that would have required, that's right, REQUIRED, women to report miscarriages to their local law enforcement officials, within 12 hours. Under penalties of actual jail time ( http://democracyforvirginia.typepad.com/democracy_for_virginia/2005/01/legislative_sen.html ).
Seriously.
Because the blob in my toilet is any of your fucking BUSINESS?
I've had a miscarriage. It wasn't fun, it wasn't pretty, and it wasn't anyone's business but mine, and my husbands.
P-E-R-I-O-D
But, I digress.
I get it. He's pro-life. However, apparently, all those poor little cells, waiting to find a nice, warm, snuggly uterus to climb into, that there is a movement within the pro-life community to adopt (once again, not teasing: http://www.nightlight.org/snowflakeslanding.asp), are not valuable enough, to go to an unmarried woman.
I'm awed by the hubris.
put THAT in your pipe and smoke it: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Take my word for it. Really.
You need The Donna's new CD.
Seriously.
Worth every penny, and that's not something I say about most CD's which have buttloads (see! Still no "profanities") of filler crap.
Cry and beg for mercy: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Seriously.
Worth every penny, and that's not something I say about most CD's which have buttloads (see! Still no "profanities") of filler crap.
Cry and beg for mercy: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Now, normally, I'd be the first one to call these a crock...
...of poo (I've been chastised for the prolific use of profanity in my entries, so there's your token). However, this year, I've actually made up a list of so-called "New Year's Resolutions". Now, since I'm inclined to think that most resolutions are just fun things you toss out while toasting on New Year's Eve: "This year, I'm going to lose weight, stop smoking, stop banging my secretary, volunteer at the soup kitchen, go to church every Sunday, AND cure cancer! Another round?"
However, as much as I've bitched, and moaned, and drug my damn feet about turning 30 this year, it's been, dare I say...liberating?
I'm a grown-up now.
a grown-up.
Now, you may read that and say, "But you've been married for over 10 years, have 3 kids, 3 cats, a dog, and a mortgage! How is that not being a grown-up?"
My answer?
Beats me. It just didn't really feel like being a real, live, adult. As opposed to being a dead adult, LOL. Seriously though, I sort of fell into my life, so to speak. Biology dictated (along with some Jim Beam), the creation of my first-born. That huffed the train on down the "yeah, I'll marry you", track, he insisted that we buy a house, even though I didn't think we could afford it, he's the one that busted his ass, and now makes a great living. I...stayed at home, popped out a few more sprats, currently in the process of attempting to raise them to be at least marginally normal adults, started about 4 SAH jobs (all of which I still have, thank you). I've yet to finish college, though I've finally settled on a degree...life just seemed as if it was living me, not the other way around, you catch?
So, in the spirit of a real, live, grown-up, I decided that New Years was as good a time as any, to make some life, resolutions. So, here they are, in all their attainable-if-I-get-my-shit-together, glory.
1-I will work out on a regular basis.
To explain that one, I used to be fat. I mean, FAT. Not like, need a forklift to get out the door fat, but big. I lost about 70 pounds, and I'm a fairly normal weight now, though I'd still love to lose about 20 pounds, but that is not what this resolution is about. I carry my weight in my midsection (however, I feel compelled to add, I have KILLER legs, LOL). My father is a brittle diabetic. I, don't want me, none o'dat. With my genetic history, and the way I carry my weight, I'm more likely to develop it. So, this isn't about looking good in a bathing suit, it's just about being more sensible, and getting more exercise, on a regular basis.
2-I will finally learn how to knit. To that end, I bought myself a little starter kit, and a nice roll ( wait, skein?), of pretty black yarn, and will attempt a scarf. If I ever figure out how to post pictures on here, I'll post the probably, laughable attempt. I tried to start it last night, but got distracted by all the pictures of the models, in their ever-so-lovely matching sweater vests, with big 80's hair, and frosty pink lipstick. My husband, could not see the humor, as I cracked the hell up. My friend Jen, however, like to peed herself when I showed her, LOL. Really, they're great pictures. The poses are lovely. I digress.
3-I will take a class, for real college credit. Even if it's the pathetic, "math for losers who can't help their 5th grade son, with his math homework" class, that is only worth about 1/2 a credit. I also feel compelled to add, that he is in GT math classes.
4-I will write, diligently, at least every other day, and make at least marginal progress on the damn book (and there's no cussing in it! Well, not much, LOL) I've been working on for about...10 years? No, just 9. I think. Even if it's crap, it's progressive crap.
5-I will pin down the damn artist to help me finish the layout of the children's book I wrote (that one, really doesn't have any profanity, of any type. I swear.). The book has been done for 2 years, just been dicking around with picking an artist, layout, etc.
6-I will flay my fingers, at least twice a month, on my guitar, on which, I can play a wicked, "Old McDonald had a Farm", but that's about it.
7-I will find books that Aidan (my 8 year old, who is dyslexic) enjoys to read on his own. His reading is so much damn better, it's not the constant struggle it used to be. He's beginning to discover how great books can be. It is so over-the-top important to me, to impart a love of books to him. I love my husband, but damn if I'm not totally having an affair with the written word.
8-I will figure out a way to make a fondant that doesn't taste like elmer's glue, rolled out on a cake. Seriously, that stuff tastes like shit.
I think that's about it. Oh wait. One more. We're adopting a person at the nursing home that I worked in as a teen. It was a disgusting job, but I met the most fascinating women there! It's small, run by polish nuns (literally, from Poland), the convent is on the grounds. I want the kids to have that same opportunity.
I'm not sure that's really a resolution though.
I really wanted one that said I got to eat more cake, but, I'm thinking that directly counteracts the first one, so I crossed it off the list.
Eat me! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
However, as much as I've bitched, and moaned, and drug my damn feet about turning 30 this year, it's been, dare I say...liberating?
I'm a grown-up now.
a grown-up.
Now, you may read that and say, "But you've been married for over 10 years, have 3 kids, 3 cats, a dog, and a mortgage! How is that not being a grown-up?"
My answer?
Beats me. It just didn't really feel like being a real, live, adult. As opposed to being a dead adult, LOL. Seriously though, I sort of fell into my life, so to speak. Biology dictated (along with some Jim Beam), the creation of my first-born. That huffed the train on down the "yeah, I'll marry you", track, he insisted that we buy a house, even though I didn't think we could afford it, he's the one that busted his ass, and now makes a great living. I...stayed at home, popped out a few more sprats, currently in the process of attempting to raise them to be at least marginally normal adults, started about 4 SAH jobs (all of which I still have, thank you). I've yet to finish college, though I've finally settled on a degree...life just seemed as if it was living me, not the other way around, you catch?
So, in the spirit of a real, live, grown-up, I decided that New Years was as good a time as any, to make some life, resolutions. So, here they are, in all their attainable-if-I-get-my-shit-together, glory.
1-I will work out on a regular basis.
To explain that one, I used to be fat. I mean, FAT. Not like, need a forklift to get out the door fat, but big. I lost about 70 pounds, and I'm a fairly normal weight now, though I'd still love to lose about 20 pounds, but that is not what this resolution is about. I carry my weight in my midsection (however, I feel compelled to add, I have KILLER legs, LOL). My father is a brittle diabetic. I, don't want me, none o'dat. With my genetic history, and the way I carry my weight, I'm more likely to develop it. So, this isn't about looking good in a bathing suit, it's just about being more sensible, and getting more exercise, on a regular basis.
2-I will finally learn how to knit. To that end, I bought myself a little starter kit, and a nice roll ( wait, skein?), of pretty black yarn, and will attempt a scarf. If I ever figure out how to post pictures on here, I'll post the probably, laughable attempt. I tried to start it last night, but got distracted by all the pictures of the models, in their ever-so-lovely matching sweater vests, with big 80's hair, and frosty pink lipstick. My husband, could not see the humor, as I cracked the hell up. My friend Jen, however, like to peed herself when I showed her, LOL. Really, they're great pictures. The poses are lovely. I digress.
3-I will take a class, for real college credit. Even if it's the pathetic, "math for losers who can't help their 5th grade son, with his math homework" class, that is only worth about 1/2 a credit. I also feel compelled to add, that he is in GT math classes.
4-I will write, diligently, at least every other day, and make at least marginal progress on the damn book (and there's no cussing in it! Well, not much, LOL) I've been working on for about...10 years? No, just 9. I think. Even if it's crap, it's progressive crap.
5-I will pin down the damn artist to help me finish the layout of the children's book I wrote (that one, really doesn't have any profanity, of any type. I swear.). The book has been done for 2 years, just been dicking around with picking an artist, layout, etc.
6-I will flay my fingers, at least twice a month, on my guitar, on which, I can play a wicked, "Old McDonald had a Farm", but that's about it.
7-I will find books that Aidan (my 8 year old, who is dyslexic) enjoys to read on his own. His reading is so much damn better, it's not the constant struggle it used to be. He's beginning to discover how great books can be. It is so over-the-top important to me, to impart a love of books to him. I love my husband, but damn if I'm not totally having an affair with the written word.
8-I will figure out a way to make a fondant that doesn't taste like elmer's glue, rolled out on a cake. Seriously, that stuff tastes like shit.
I think that's about it. Oh wait. One more. We're adopting a person at the nursing home that I worked in as a teen. It was a disgusting job, but I met the most fascinating women there! It's small, run by polish nuns (literally, from Poland), the convent is on the grounds. I want the kids to have that same opportunity.
I'm not sure that's really a resolution though.
I really wanted one that said I got to eat more cake, but, I'm thinking that directly counteracts the first one, so I crossed it off the list.
Eat me! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net
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