Thursday, November 29, 2007

Cuts Above the Rest

Books this year that were a cut above the rest:

  1. The OBVIOUS: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (although I thought the Epilogue was stupid.) Forgive me, but I thought the link unnecessary. Everyone in the free world (and probably quite a few in the unfree world too-) knows about the Harry Potter books.

  2. The Twilight Series- Juvenille but so enjoyable

  3. America the Beautiful- it's a picture book with the words of the song and beautiful watercolors throughout. The cover-art is terrible but don't let it put you off opening it if you ever get the chance.

Blogs this year that were a cut above the rest:

  1. The Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks- totally funny if you have a fundamental working knowledge of punctuation.

  2. The Pokemon Card Lady- I sent a lot of you the link to her post on ebay. Turns out she has a blog which is also pretty funny.

Movies this year that were a cut above the rest:

  1. Hairspray- Loved it, can't say enough about it. Way better than the first one (which was ok).

  2. Live Free or Die Hard- Surprised? A cut above all the other Die Hards and a very pleasant surprise. Incidentally, if you go to rent it, you will only find the "unrated" edition. This is ok because once you put it in you get to select whether you watch it rated PG-13 or the unrated way.

  3. The Lake House- I really liked this one too but it's not one you can scrapbook to. It requires your undivided attention. Also, this is not a good one for watching over and over again.

Events this year that were a cut above the rest:

  1. Amish Work Day

  2. Husband's promotion

  3. Monster Trucks

  4. Family Reunion in Milltown

Hairdos this year that were cut above the rest:

(Hear the record scratch?)

Yep. You heard me right. Little Mommy(9) strikes again. In an effort to NOT clean her room, she did any- and every- thing else she could possibly think of instead. When she ran out of ideas she just got "sick of [The Pinkiest's(5) ] bangs hanging down in her eyes" so she HAD to cut them. (Incidentally, it may be relevant to know that The Pinkiest(5) has been growing out her bangs forever. Since the last time they were cut by a not professional.) It's sad really. Her hair was getting so long and pretty that people were starting to comment on it everywhere we went. So now, The Pinkiest(5) has bangs between 3/4 of an inch to one inch long- depending on where you're looking, which start just behind her ear on one side and go to above her temple on the other side. Plus that one other piece. It looks terrible. I'm afraid we're going to have to just cut off the lot of it and start over. At the very least she is going to need a bob. I'm guessing it'll be shorter than that.

My personal feelings about how to handle this situation are that Little Mommy(9) should have to get her hair cut in the same style as The Pinkiest(5). Considering that this is her fifth infraction with a pair of scissors and "hair" of some variety, I think it only fitting. I'm willing to give her the first three which happened between the ages of 2 and 4, but the most recent one was last year and well- to me, the fact that she is now 9 makes this pretty inexcuseable. (By the way, the reason "hair" is in quotation marks is because one incident involved several victims from Mother-in-Law's doll collection, most of which have yarn for hair. Or used to.) Now, last year when she cut her own hair to the scalp in a three inch square patch, I told her she was going to have to get it cut short like a boy while it was growing out. I would put mousse in it and make it curly and we could tie ribbons around her head and maybe it would still look really cute. The workers at the Beauty Shop however, all thought this was cruel and talked me out of it. I think now the time has come because I, like Gracie Lou Freebush, believe in harsher punishments for parole violators. What do you think?

The good news is that The Pinkiest's(5) hair won't be a total waste. *Shelbie needs a wig and I heard her family is collecting hair donations. Since The Pinkiest(5) and Shelbie are both blondies and The Pinkiest's(5) hair is so long, hopefully they will be able to use her hair to help. (See below for info on Shelbie.)

The only other cut I want to mention in this post is the one on my self. It has been put above the rest as well. Above the laundry, the cooking, the hair fixing, the bathroom cleaning. (DANG! Maybe I don't want to get better.... No, wait. I guess I do.) Anyway, this week, I got to cut down to having PT ONLY TWICE A WEEK!!!! This is very exciting news. I played some Clementi on Tuesday, and it was not horrible. And also, I am typing like a real person right this very minute.- Only it hurts more. So today I looked around and realized that it was time to stop putting my cut above the rest. I did a load of dishes (turns out- that is still pretty challenging. I can't grasp things very well.), cleaned a toilet, walked Mr. Yuke(4!) to preschool while pushing the stroller and everything, and then sat down to blog. Because let me tell you- when you've put your cut above the rest for a month and a half, there is a ton of crap to do and I have no idea where to even start- so I'd rather just blog about it instead. And there is no rest when there is a cut. I guess I'd prefer it this way though. I've had about enough of resting for a while.

*Shelbie is an amazing little girl who is 9 years old. A while back she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. They did a surgery where they went in through her eye and removed it. The biopsy came back as cancerous. Later they removed a second tumor. They thought she was in remission at that point. However, just recently they discovered a new tumor on her brainstem that is inoperable. Because of this, Shelbie has started an 18-month course of chemotherapy which I think is going to be either followed by or overlapped with radiation treatments.

Shelbie's lifelong dream is to be a cheerleader. Specifically, she wants to cheer with the 49'ers cheerleaders at one of their games. I wonder how many degrees of separation there are between me and someone who could make that happen?

Through everything, she has remained positive and sweet. All this is remarkable, but the real reason Shelbie is remarkable is that she has attended Church and Primary/Activity Days as often as possible for the last year without her parents. She gets rides with neighbors or the Primary presidency. She is an amazing example and a wonderful missionary. Visit her website. Sometimes there are pictures, although there aren't any right now.

Friday, November 23, 2007

Gratitude and Retractions

In honor of Thanksgiving, I am thankful for-

  1. My Husband
  2. My Family
  3. My Mom
  4. Church
  5. A home
  6. Food to eat, clothes to wear, a place to sleep,
  7. Friends
  8. The Internet
  9. That I didn't open my RIGHT hand,
  10. Reconnecting with an old friend through MySpace
  11. Chick flicks
  12. Chocolate
  13. Cell phones
  14. The Internet
  15. Amish work days
  16. Good Neighbors
  17. Bottled water (the water where I live tastes like poison.)
  18. My Beautiful
  19. Pizza
  20. The blessings of Tithing
  21. Hot showers
  22. My piano
  23. Music
  24. The Olers (although they are both friends and family)
  25. Muhloo(7m) who is the best baby in the world
  26. Dual automatic sliding doors
  27. Good Books
  28. The Durfeys
I would like to retract any negative things I posted about my mom on this blog months and months ago before anyone but me was reading it. I love her and I don't know what I'd do without her. You should all be so lucky.

Also, if anyone read my entry about the Pil-gruhm feast at school, apparently the Indian Nation or whatever they are called, lobbyed for the segregation. I guess unlike everyone else, they don't want to be integrated because the white man stole their land. So, yay for segregation I guess.

Now I chow my A-B-...Z's?

Mr. Yuke(3) loves to sing the A-B-C song. He sings it often and at the top of his lungs. It goes like this:

W, X, Y and Z.
Now I know my A-B-Z's.
Next time won't you sing with me?"

Every time he sings it, I gently correct him that it is A-B-"C", because the song has "Z" at the end. He looks at me like I am stupid and corrects me back that it is

W, X, Y AND Z!!!"

I try to convince him that no, it is "C" (I'm saving the battles of "M", "Q" and "S" for after I win this one). He won't have any of it.

The Pinkiest(5), I fear, is going to be dependent on some substance or the other for the rest of her life. Currently she is hopelessly addicted to anything sweet. She steals them, hides them, and eats them every chance she gets. It is quite sad actually and I am at a loss for how to help her. This is such a problem that any time we go anywhere, she scavenges the parking lot for gum any moment my eyeballs are not directly on her. Then, all of a sudden I see she has gum in her mouth and I know she didn't get it from home because she has had gum in her hair (and the car upholstery, and the baby's hair...) so many times that she is banned from chewing gum at all. So I ask her, "Where did you get the gum?"-

The Pinkiest(5): I don't know.
Me: Well, that gum didn't just appear in your mouth.
The Pinkiest(5): I don't know.
Me: What do you mean 'you don't know'? How can you not know?
The Pinkiest(5): I don't know.
Me: Just tell the truth. You get in more trouble for lying.
The Pinkiest(5): The ground.
Me: Was it already chewed up?!!!
The Pinkiest(5): Yeah.
Me: Well SPIT IT OUT!!!!!

This exchange is usually followed by a lengthy conversation about germs and how disgusting it is to pick up ABC gum and that she should never, ever do that, at the end of which she promises never to do it again. Until the next time.

So I'm doing battle with Mr. Yuke(3) over "A-B-C" and the only explanation I can come up with is the one foremost in my mind: ABC gum. This of course will do me absolutely no good whatsoever and I am rendered impotent in both situations.

Score: Kids-2, Mom-0

Monday, November 19, 2007

Sing. Sing a song.

The Pinkiest(5)(singing to herself in the car. Loudly.): "The Indians and the Pil-gruhms decided to have a par-tay,
The Indians and the Pil-gruhms decided to have a par-tay,
The Indians and the Pil-gruhms decided to have a par-tay, --"

Me: How was your pow-wow, honey?

The Pinkiest(5): "The Indians and--"
"The Indians and the Pil-gruhms--"

Me: What did you do?

The Pinkiest(5): Well, we ate swedish fish and goldfish crackers- 'cuz that's what they ate at Thanksgiving. And jerky. "-- The Indians and the Pil-gruhms decided to have a par-tay--"

Me: Swedish fish?

The Pinkiest(5): Yeah. "--And they decided to have a tur-kay for their PAR- TAAAAAYYY!!!

Me: Hmm. Big finish. Wow. The Council of Native American Tribes would be so proud.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Adventures in Home Maintenance: Toaster Edition

This is an adventure in home maintenance you just have to see to appreciate- life at my very tidy friend's house: as seen in the wake of a toddler. A Photo Essay. Take a look.

Now, on to the adventures on the homefront.

We have only had two toasters since Husband and I got married. The First was a wedding present which was oft-used and well-loved. (Husband is a gifted toast chef.) The First (toaster, not husband, try to keep up-) died some time ago. I had suspected it was on its last legs for a few months leading up there to the end. I could tell because of the burning smell that emanated from it whenever toast was being cooked, even after we had just emptied all the crumbs out of the bottom. That last day when I smelled the burning, it occurred to me that a few remaining crumbs should not make this kind of smell. I peered into the toaster, noticing that one of the little heat filament-y things was broken, bent, and touching the bread that was in there. "Look!", I said to Husband. "It's broken inside. No wonder it smells so bad." To me, this was the end of the subject. Husband, however, waited until the toaster was cooled off to do a little further investigation. What he found was (surprise, surprise) a broken filament-y thing. And a lot of crumbs. And a hand-painted wooden magnet from preschool. (!) It had not only burned up, but the magnet (which had once presumably been just stuck to the inside of the toaster), was melted to the toaster's innards. He couldn't even pry them apart. Clearly, the magnet had been in there for quite some time. Fortunately, I don't make toast all that often and the house therefore has not been burned to the ground.

Needless to say, we got a new toaster. Then, last week, The Pinkiest(6) needed an empty oatmeal can to make an Indian drum for her Thanksgiving pow-wow at school. (Please direct all political correctness complaints here.) And she needed it Right NOW. I don't know about the rest of you, but I just don't keep empty oatmeal boxes lying around, stored up for pow-wow emergencies such as this. I happened to have a nearly brand new oatmeal box filled with- you guessed it. Oatmeal. So after she politely requested that I give her a box NOW about fifty-seven times, I finally relented and dumped all the oatmeal into a bowl, directing her to "go put that in your backpack right now" (which she didn't) "so you don't forget it" (which she did. Three days in a row.). So there I was with a huge bowl of oats and no rubbermaid to put them in. I realized I could Food Save them- but that requires TWO hands so I'm going to have to wait until Husband has time to help me. My Extreme Kitchen Sports are running him a little ragged. Poor man. He works too hard. Anyway, I decided to leave the bowl of oats there on the counter until I could take care of them later. Apparently I am a slow learner. Enter Monster Truck(2) (we assume, based on catching him red-handed in subsequent attempts to repeat the following scenario): He sees that new shiny toaster up there and a bowl of wonder-mystery-stuff and he thinks- Hmmm. Holes. Interesting. We definitely need to do something about that. If only I had some sort of filler.... Ah-hah! Oatmeal! That is a perfect filler. (I guess he did not get the memo from Taco Bell.) I will take this wonder-mystery-stuff and fill those holes. Pure genius! How do I do that? It's like I was sent here at this very time, just to correct this problem.

Little Mommy(9!) came in later that day to make herself some toast. After pointing out that the toaster was filled to the brim with oatmeal, she actually tried to put a piece of bread in there with it. I am not making this up. How ironic would it have been to burn the house down NOW with the new, less dangerous toaster? We would get an honorable mention in the next annual Darwin Awards, at the very least.

This may not be the right time to state that Little Mommy(9!) is very smart. She is. I can't believe she is 9! It seems like just yesterday she was 5 pounds and fighting for her life in an incubator. It makes me realize that life is just like making toast. Time flies when you're doing it and it is only as good as what you put on it- or into it. (Make sure it's not oatmeal!) You just get it all ready and before you know it, it's gone. The message: Enjoy the adventure at every possible moment- even in the wake of a toddler or two. Be glad they're leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for you to remember later.

And see that they don't burn the house down.

Jacob watch

The results, so far, are compelling. Has anyone voted more than once, I wonder? And how interesting is it that so far, everyone who has voted knew what the question makes reference to? How did I go along in the world completely oblivious to something so totally mainstream for this long? I live a life untouched by pop culture, apparently. And yet, I happen to be privy to the fact that Owen Wilson tried to kill himself last month but has now completely recovered according to someone who walked the dog of someone who used to know Owen's second cousin. With responsible journalists so hard at work, you'd think there would have been some sort of headline clueing me in to the more important issue at hand. Good thing I am making up for their oversight. Be sure you vote- (at the real polls too)!

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Can't HANDLE the truth

We try to date as much as possible. This is for several reasons. They are, in no particular order:

  • I like my husband and want him to continue to like me,
  • to strengthen our relationship,
  • incentive to go to my weigh-in,
  • adult conversation- outside of discussing what the appropriate consequence is for the offending child of the moment,
  • our church leaders recommend it,
  • my sanity,
  • it's the only foreplay I have time for (-sorry, Jay, if you still come read this-),
  • we didn't really date before we got married and we're trying to make up for lost time

Let me briefly touch on a few of these.

I Like My Husband and Want Him to Continue to Like Me

Husband is wonderful. He is supportive, patient, a good listener, and he helps around the house. He lets me warm various parts of my ice-cold body on him in the night, even if he has been sound asleep and toasty for hours before I come to bed. He sticks up for me and appreciates how much (or sometimes how little) I do to keep our lives running. He protects me from sickness, bugs, bankruptcy, and things that go bump in the night. In return, I try not to greet him with a completely messy house, hot dogs for dinner, and a seething lack of patience due to the way I have already repeated every single thing I've said all afternoon about fifteen times. Clearly, I am getting the better end of the deal at this stage in our lives together. I need to date him just to get me out of my element; my "mom"-role, my frustration, and my sweatpants. Dating gives Husband a chance to see me with fresh make-up in good lighting, discussing something other than decorating Bubba's(6) Thanksgiving-turkey-art-project like Optimus Prime. Suddenly I get to be interesting and funny and beautiful. It does us both wonders.

It Strengthens Our Relationship/Adult Conversation

We have a rule when we date: no discussing the children. I will admit that this is much more difficult when we have a three-year-old; they are always doing some truly hilarious thing- but we try to stick to it. If you've been a parent for a while and can't remember the last time you went on a date, let me warn you: although the benefits from the "no discussing rule" are many, it is extremely difficult to do in the beginning. "Supermom" is a pretty all-consuming job and can easily take over if you do not carefully cultivate your secret identity. (It's a secret because small children will not believe you have a life outside of them, and teenagers will not believe you have a life at all.) The more effort I put into my alter ego*, the more we have to talk about over a plate of Italian food. It helps us stay friends. (*See The Refrigerator section for my current alter ego expansion project.)

We try to date our children as well. That is to say, we take them on individual parent dates so that they get some undivided attention from each of us. One of us will take a child out each month so that by the end of the year they have all gone on one date with Husband and one with me. The one-on-one time is nice, plus, it gives us the opportunity to take them somewhere we could not afford if we had the whole family along, for example- the full-price show at the movie theater complete with the works at the consession stand. I bring up the kid dates because I found out this weekend just how high-maintenance a date I am. Granted, there are reasons stated above for me to milk it a little, but nonetheless- I think maybe I should be a little less picky about what constitutes a date. I came to this conclusion after Mr. Yuke's(3) Daddy-date.

Mr Yuke(3) started out just like me, making all sorts of crazy demands about where they were going to go and what they would do when they got there. He chose going to "cowboy town" (Tombstone, Arizona) to buy a cowboy hat and ride a stagecoach and drink sasparilla and watch a gunfight and get some ice cream and then maybe buy some handcuffs and a sherriff's badge. This would be followed by a light lunch of four bread baskets and the mimi mouse pancake platter at Mimi's Cafe. They would then return home and watch a movie of Mr. Yuke's(3) choosing for the rest of the day (or until Mr. Yuke could think of something else to demand instead). Now, when he began listing off the itinerary, Husband and I both immediately became a little high-strung. See, going to "cowboy town" is somewhat problematic, seeing as how it's two states away and that means he of course can't go there and so one of us is going to have to break it to him gently and hold our breath the entire rest of the day because, as cute as he is- the boy CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH. And when he decides he is upset by anything in the world that has not gone his way, he will shriek his high-pitched noise at you until your eyeballs explode, as a punishment. And that makes it a little difficult to drive him to a "plan-B" destination. I was not feeling up to dealing with the "cowboy town" aftermath, so I steered clear of Mr. Yuke(3) the rest of the morning, rationalizing that this was Husband's date and therefore not my problem. I did feel a little sorry for him. Just not enough to get in the line of fire. I watched them leave, wondering what would happen when Husband broke the news to him? What would Husband try to do to make Mr. Yuke(3) happy? and how was he going to drive with exploded eyeballs?. Imagine my surprise when they returned not much later, Mr. Yuke beaming, full of pancakes and a spring in his step. I looked quizzically at Husband, the questions burning in my eyes- "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR SON? AND WHO IS THIS KID? AND DO WE GET TO KEEP HIM?" Mr. Yuke chattered happily away at me as I stared in amazement, racking my brain trying to figure out if Husband maybe could have taken him to some other crappy tourist-trap western town that is close-by but had somehow slipped my mind before? And then I got my answer-

Mr. Yuke(3): Come on, Dad! Let's finish our date! Remember? The part WHEN WE EAT COOKIES!!!
(said in a way that could have meant- We're going to meet Santa Claus! in Disneyland. and he's going to give us money.)

Ah hah! A classic dad manuever. Bribery. With sugar. lots of sugar.

SIGH. This is one of those things in life that is not fair. Because there is some unwritten law that says moms cannot shamelessly throw half a dozen chocolate chip cookies at a child in order to prevent the eyeball explosion tantrum, yet from dads, this is totally acceptable behavior. Oh well. I experienced a satisfied state of happiness over the facts that:

  • Mr. Yuke(3) had a marvelous time with his dad,
  • Husband had an enjoyable time with his son,
  • all of us had a great time not hearing the shrieking,
  • and EVERYONE loves my chocolate chip cookies. They are divine.
The bitter aftertaste in my mouth was due to the realization that Mr. Yuke(3), the shrieking eel, was a much easier-to-please date than I am. There we were, waiting for the meltdown, and he was completely ecstatic. I, on the other hand, can just imagine what my own reaction would be if Husband ever dared suggest we go home and eat some cookies together for one of our dates. And realizing that I am more trouble than our most temperamental child?- when my main reason for dating is that I like Husband and I want him to like me?- That just doesn't go down so easy. Well... maybe. With chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk. And a Husband too good and patient for words.

Sunday, November 11, 2007


Just so there's no misunderstanding- choosing Jacob is completely fine. Understandable even, seeing as how I myself am back on the fence about that issue every other day. (I like to spend my time and energy thinking about life's truly important matters.) I am so consumed with being torn over it that I was prompted to use it for this month's poll. That and I'm fascinated by the fact that everywhere I go people are having this discussion. So much so that Im actually considering getting a t-shirt made with the question "Edward or Jacob?" printed on it so that I can see just how many people out there will discuss it with me in a day. Did I mention I need a new hobby? : )

Please don't ever feel the need to apologize for your opinions, especially when I requested them. I only feel the need to say something because I actually know some people who consider it rude to express a dissenting opinion. Having an opinion is pretty much the privelige of whatever person happened to utter his or her thoughts first. I am offended by this value system. Ludicrous. (I am so opinionated, you can see why this approach to human interaction might chap me.)

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Revenge of Hocker Ooze

Well, it's here. Again. Flu season. That time of year when I take a half dozen kids for a round of group therapy (immunizations) because- hey, that would be fun. We are working toward the goal of screeching hysterically in harmony. Sort of like the VonTrapp's; hypodermic-style. We're not there yet, of course. Muh-loo(6m) holds us back.

Interestingly enough, I have a theory that going through this annual ordeal makes us sick. Now, I'm not talking about the school of thought maintained by rabid anti-immunization lobbyists. I think getting shots keeps us all much healthier and I'm all for it. No, my theory centers more around the location of the ordeal. (No- I don't mean arm vs. leg. Keep reading.) See, we go to the pediatrician's office for our shots. (You've gotta go back and read that with a southern accent.) But do you know what? There are Others who also go to the pediatrician's office. They're called SICK PEOPLE.

Did you know that sick people have germs? True story. The last four years, (when I decided I could no longer abide the Domino Effect caused by the barrage of Just-arrived-from-a-random-third-world-country-illegal-immigrants, and snot-nosed, school-aged children we have nearly constant contact with and that flu shots were not as unnecessary as my mother always tried to make me believe-) after I have taken my clan for their flu shot, they- and I am not making this up- have been sick with Croupe within 48 hours. Every time. And for some reason, about this same time every year, either Husband or I becomes EXTREMELY sick with Bronchitis and/or Walking Pneumonia so that- when a feverish child is up all night wheezing and coughing in such a bark that dogs in London actually start looking for lost puppies, I never know if it is Croupe or if this is the year the child has actually caught Bronchitis from the doting (hacking) parents. So now somehow, half the half dozen children are oozing- well we'll call it "stuff"- from every orafice in their heads, and I'm thinking that if there is a Hocker Ooze out there somewhere, my blog must have pissed him off and now he is wreaking his havoc in my personal corner of the universe. So eventually I end up taking them back to the doctor where (insert pediatrician's name here) says, "Yup. Sounds like croupe. Use a humidifier. Maybe try cold air." and then the receptionist is like, "That will be ten dollars, please." and I'm all, no- you pay me ten dollars! and then clean your waiting room. with lysol. And then I shell out the cash, cringing as I watch to see whether or not the mag strip on my debit card has worn out from all the physical therapy co-pays in the last two weeks. (DANG! No such luck.) So while I'm waiting for the little paper to print out, I take a mental inventory of all the children's decongestants currently in the cupboard at home and I realize that I have tons of it. It's all for the ages of the healthy kids in the family. For the sick ones, I'm going to have to go buy some more, and that's going to be another fifteen bucks. And then I begin to feel nauseous and try not to hurl as I total up the cost of our healthcare in the last month and I wonder how many of our kids will be in college before we can afford to go on a date again.
And THAT is how getting flu shots makes you sick.


Suddenly, the polling feature doesn't seem so useful. Because someone out there picked Jacob, and now I don't even know who it is! I think I need a new hobby.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Those sweet, idyllic moments

You know the ones I'm talking about. The ones that make you very nearly forget that your children are the spawn of- well, anyway- Those rare, precious times when everyone is cooperating and playing together and using their very polite manners and making the kind of choices that help you to feel good about being a parent. Because you know that somehow, sometime, some of that good stuff you tried to teach them managed to ooze in (in spite of all the other things, such as the phrase "Holy crap!" and a penchant for eating brownies before 8:00am). Those times that you are filled with satisfaction and you get a teeny glimpse of what it means to have joy and rejoicing in your posterity. At such times, you gaze at your children (because they are not just "kids" right then) and visions of other scenes flicker through your mind. You see them how they smiled at you when they were babies. You imagine other happy children running to launch a kite, only you see it in slow motion. You see radio flyer wagons being dragged to the sandlot for a neighborhood baseball game and then there's the Ice Cream Man with his truck. You hear the music tinkling in the background- while for a moment in time, your family has been transformed into a Norman Rockwell painting. And it is good.

We had one such moment two Sundays ago. After church the children all decided to play a quiet game together. Bubba(6) was dressed in his suit so he was the Bishop. He sat at his desk (piano bench) and each of the other children came one by one to pay him their tithing and also to get a piece of candy. They conversed amongst themselves quietly in this fashion as I sat with my elevated injury and Husband prepared food for the family. It was one of those sweet, idyllic moments for Husband and me. We gazed lovingly at each other and I smiled a peaceful smile. I was somewhere near the Ice Cream Man part of the hallucination when our heads both jerk up in response to Mr. Yuke(3) saying, "NOW I'm going to KILL you, Bishop!!!"

Me: What?! Why is anyone killing the Bishop?!

Husband (able to explain because he was not hallucinating as vividly as me- maybe it was the percocet?...): Bubba(6) is the Bishop, they're paying their tithing, and Mr.Yuke(3) is the Jedi that has been sent to kill him. (duh.)

Me: The Jedis don't like the Church? Or is it just tithing they're opposed to?

Mr. Yuke(3): I was just trying to make their game more incher-resting....

SIGH. Well, I guess it was nice while it lasted.

WARNING!: I had a bad day

So the following entry may be the sort Husband was referring to when he tried to discourage me from blogging those months ago. I apologize for the negativity. You maybe just want to skip on down a few to the funny ones.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Where everybody knows your name

You know how when you're in the kitchen baking a round of EXTREME CINNAMON ROLLS and you lose? and stick a knife through your hand (turns out I damaged a lot more than a finger) and then it all hits the fan because suddenly you can't do jack by yourself even though you would like to, and you feel like an absolute moron because- as far as injuries go- the ones resulting from EXTREME CINNAMON ROLLS afford you no bragging rights whatsoever- and then you find out who your REAL friends are? Yeah. That sucks.

So- no surprise that MyBeautiful jumped to my aid and actually came to my house to cook me and my family a fabulous meal the day of my surgery and called to check on me about a week after and has had me over for therapeutic hours of artistry and book discussion since then. Not the least bit surprising, though no less appreciated. Everyone should be so lucky. She's the kind of friend you might find once in your life. That's not the part that sucks. MyBeautiful lives two cities away and so I don't get to see her nearly as often as I'd like. She's the friend that no matter what happens or how much time passes, I love and admire her every bit as much.

The part that sucks are the rest of the people that I DO see on a regular basis. There are a handfull of people that I would have thought were good friends I could count on- friends who I would have bent over backwards to help if the situation had been reversed. Friends who it turns out- couldn't care less. Yep. They don't give a rat's hiney that I need help. They are not really even concerned about the fact that I got hurt. And THAT is what sucks. Finding out now. Like this.
This story has a bittersweet ending though. It turns out I do have a couple of friends that I was not even aware of. Friends who know my name and what's going on with me. Friends I can count on when life beats me at extreme kitchen sports. It's nice to know that somebody knows my name. And I didn't even have to get sloshed to meet them.

Second verse, same as the first

I got my stitches out. More importantly, I got out of that nasty splint. Into a slightly less nasty, marginally more comfortable, exceptionally more festive splint, which I will be sporting throughout the holiday season. Still can't change the diapers.

My father disappeared again. Wonder how long he'll be under the radar this time?