Where do I begin?

Summer - so much drama, so little time. To lessen the crap-ability factor, think of my family interactions as being episodes of a sick and twisted reality TV show, only no David Hasslehoff.

Sunday, June 11

My mom’s step-dad, the only Grandpa from that side of the family that I’ve known growing up, turned 80. Grandpa Ray’s health has not been great up to this point (he has suffered from emphysema and battled pneumonia constantly), so making it to 80 was a big deal; he told my grandma that he always hoped to live long enough to see his 80th birthday.

To celebrate, we had a party over at my aunt and uncle’s house at the coast. They live in a three-story spread on 15 acres of land tucked in the back woods of the central Oregon Coast, so the venue was perfect.

I made a cool card for Grandpa – a litte scrapbook of sorts of my family at the beach. In the card, I wrote about the great memories I’ve had of spending time at the coast with my grandma and grandpa beach combing, digging for clams, and exploring the woods in an acre of land that my grandpa half-logged near their house over there. My children and husband have been fortunate to enjoy that legacy too.

Visiting with family that day was surprisingly pleasant, although Grandpa Ray never made it to the party. He wasn’t feeling well. My mom and dad stayed with him and tried to get him to eat some broth. They didn’t want him to be alone, particularly on his birthday.

After enjoying several hours of pleasant conversation with cousins and aunts and extended family and knowing for sure that Grandpa Ray wouldn’t be attending his party, Poetroad and I decided that we should head home. But as we were gathering our troups to head back to the valley, my sister-in-law “Floralei,” my oldest brother’s Cuban wife, cornered me. “I gave some clothes to your mother to give to “Flora” [my other brother’s wife – yes, my brothers married women with similar names, oddly enough], but Flora never got them.“

She then proceeded to rattle off an inventory of items that were in this particular bag of hand-me-downs. All very nice clothes, she reminded me, from Nordstrom, the Gap, and other botique-ey type stores. She wanted to know if I had them, as the package never found its way to Flora’s hands.

“Oh yeah, I do have the green pants and the striped hoodie,” I replied casually.

Then I got the loud and stern lecture – in front of my entire extended family – about how those clothes were to be given to Flora’s daughter, and how she divided them evenly between my four-year old and my neice, how she told my mom specifically what was supposed to go to who, and that those clothes were not meant for my daughter. Basically, Floralei was making it clear that she thought I was a greedy theif.

Trying to calm the mood, I reasoned in low tones, “It’s no big deal Floralei. I’ll make sure she gets the two items I have. But I don’t have the rest of the stuff.”

She raised her voice louder, and then more venomously retorted, “It is a big deal! I asked your daughter which things she liked, and the rest of the clothes were not meant for you to take. I divided the items equally - [again with the invetory of items in this other bag of clothes] were meant for Flora’s daughter.”

I understood what she was saying perfectly, but more pressing was my intense need to crawl under the nearest shrub. So I didn’t explain that my daughter got wet at my parent’s house one day and was in need of some dry clothing temporarily.

Instead, I replied, “Okay. I’ll make sure Flora get’s the two items I have.”

And then we left.

Monday, June 12

Grandpa Ray had a heartattack in the middle of the night. Grandma was worried that he would be angry with her because she called the ambulance. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life being hooked up to life support.


More of the continuing saga tomorrow...

Desire

Yes, the cheesecake scam is indeed brilliant. In order to combat any attempts to build up my ass-flab rather than my muscles, I took the decadent chocolate cheesecake over to my parent’s house. There, we had a picnic, I took the kids for a walk up the creek, and then I ate my slice. It tasted divine. So rich and creamy it was that I had to put a dollop of Coolwhip on top in order to soften the bite of the sweetness.

And I left the darned thing there in their freezer, too. Poetroad – with an almost painful look on his face – implored, “What did you do that for!?”

At that moment I knew for sure that the power of the cheesecake was strong, stronger than I had anticipated.

“If we take the cheesecake home,” I reasoned, “then I will eat it all for sure. This way it’s a good 15 minute drive away from us.”

Hopefully the distance will put a damper on desire.

I am a big Winner.

I love the group dynamic of the various exercise classes I am a part of at the local “club.” In particular, because of peer pressure, I tend to work out harder when I exercise with a group of people than if I were to work out on my own. And there is also the added bonus of having a leader that has a work out plan all figured out so that I don’t have to think about what to do next.

Today, I tried out a new cycling class (my regular class is on Tuesdays and Thursdays), and, wow, talk about some kind of dynamic going on there. As we are biking our buns off, the instructor yells out music trivia questions (who sings this song, what movie was this song in, what year was this song written, etc.). You’ll never guess what I won from guessing a “softball” trivia question (Joe Jackson sang “Steppin' Out” – easy 80s music trivia, people)…I won a chocolate cheesecake. No, seriously. I won a whole chocolate cheesecake.

Apparently, this instructor bakes 5 or 8 of these cheesecakes in a week, and freezes them. On Fridays, people can win a cheesecake in class.

I don’t know about you, but the winning the cheesecake thing is kind of counter-productive to my whole weight loss plan. If I want to drop a few pounds, I don’t think chocolate cheesecake is really an option on my menu.

If I cut out a few meals, however, maybe I can eat a tiny slice…

School Recap

Yes, school is “out.” It has taken me a few days to recoup from the stress of trying to take care of my family and wrap up my classes over the last few weeks too. And since I’m sure you all (all three of you) are dying to know how things went, here’s the poop:

The college course: If you recall, things were a bit rocky for a while with the College Writing II crew. First, there was the dreadful “they don’t get it” shtick. After re-grouping and re-teaching “how to write a paragraph and incorporate borrowed material,” things seemed to go more smoothly.

Then, there was the whole “cheating” incident. You remember - that strange student who totally borrowed his paper from various Wikipedia pages (and from a site where comfortable beds are sold). That ended well, as the student never returned to class to face the consequences.

Finally, (and this is the new-to-you dish) there were the “mixed reviews” I earned from the end-of-the-year student evaluation process. A total of five students (of the 20 that completed the course) reviewed my teaching skills, and I think my overall average was a strong “C+.” Unfortunately, another adjunct was teaching the same class at the same time in another room, so our mixed reviews were mixed up. How do I know? Well, several of the comments penned by the anonymous reviewers referred to the other teacher, “Mrs. Smith,” by name. Consequently, the registrar mixed up the reviews, and I inadvertently saw the reviews for both sections (so much for confidentiality). Let me tell you – I was just glad that I didn’t get some of the reviews that Mrs. Smith got. Let’s just say that the comments directed to her were less than nice (better than barfing orange juice, but worse than eating worms). At least my students (if in fact any of the students reviewing my class were actually my students) had the sense to direct their evilness at me by without using my name. The head of the department seemed to think that my reviews were really positive (wow – I’d hate to see what these kids say about their other teachers). I laughed at that, and asked him, “I’m sorry, but did we read the same reviews?” He was quick to point out that “We tend to assume that the students who were satisfied with the class didn’t review your performance, but those who felt disgruntled did.”

All in all, I made many mistakes in teaching that college writing class, and I will be sure to adjust my approach next time around in order to avoid the same pitfalls.

The online school: At the other end of the teaching spectrum, the online school end of the year went well. Although I graded papers for 80+ hours in the span of two weeks (yes, that is about 40 hours of overtime work there), the students I had this year seemed to really learn something from the curriculum and my mentorship. And, I had more “thank yous” from students and parents this year than ever before – which is always nice.

Hopefully, I’ll get re-connected with my blog buddies this summer. Maybe I’ll even write something that will be worth your time to read.

Oh, that is sad

As you may have guessed, I've been a bit preoccupied with grading the last few weeks. Bleck! It's the most un-fun part of my job. It's what I do the most of, however. Grade papers, that is.

So the last time I posted was May 31. That means that every minute I've spent on the computer over the last two weeks was, basically, ahhhhh. Not thinking about it. Avoid. Denial.

It's as if I just woke up from a two week drunken binge. Time went by, and I don't really know what happened. I'm waking up, and it's JUNE.

Very sad, people. Now I have to figure out a way to make it up to Poetroad. He's awesome. What would I do without him?

Hard Worker

My kids are the encouraging sort. Each are quick to give well earned accolades - or to spur another on to reach that goal. Heck, even the clear looser gets a firm and hearty hand-shake.

As a matter of fact, I took the two oldest on a neighborhood trek the other day. While they stopped to play on the school playground, I continued my workout by jogging around the school track. Of course my jog is more like "falling forward while walking," but I was moving faster than a stroll. On the last lap of my mile, I picked up the pace and was attempting to sprint to the finish line. As I rounded the last corner - sucking wind, panting hard, moving barely faster than a slow jog - I could hear my darlings shout from the playground, "Way to go Mom! You can do it! Wow, you're doing really great!" Not wanting to disappoint my fans, I pushed my body to its limits all the way to the finish line.

Recently, however, I've been wondering if they are taking this encouragement thing too far. In the down-stairs bathroom right above the toilet paper dispenser I found a sticker that read, "Hard Worker." At first I thought it was just a random attempt to find a place to put a sticker. Now I'm not so sure.

I mean, yeah, we all need a little encouragement some time, but do we really need to pat a person on the back for having a successful bowel movement?

Speaking of Core

I just saw an ad for a new workout video called "Dance Core." No, it's not hard-core dancing where dancers jump up and down aimlessly, yet pummel each other with their appendages nonetheless. It's a new work out craze that focuses on - you guessed it - the "core" (aka "the power house"). See, I'm not the only one throwing around this terminology.

So, apparently, by wiggling your midsection furiously in an almost belly dancing fashion, you too can develop a firm core. Maybe you'll even wiggle your way into a six pack (they, of course, have a few testimonials from women and men who have done as much). Or you could just drink a six pack while watching men and women feverishly dance away the mid-section.

If professional ballroom dancers can dance away the flab, so can you. (Pay no attention to the very tiny fine print that explains, "the professionals that appear in this video have all been surgically altered, and some images may appear smaller on screen than in real life.")

Go ahead; dance your way to a tighter core.

Right now...

I am working on my "core." You know, my "power house." Those are two other words/phrases that make me giggle. The "core" or the "power house" are quite simply the abdominal muscles. It may even include other muscles. Is there a nutritionist in the house who can set us straight?

So as I sit here typing and grading papers, I am sitting up straight with gut pulled in. Even if the skin around my abs is amazingly flabby, I can feel the strength building in my core. I might just grow up to be a super hero.

What's up with that attitude?

Speaking of yesterday, I'm over it. I forgive you, body. It's not your fault.

Today I am taking a break from exercising. Well, strenuously exercising that is. We may take a walk later.

This week has been a bit like living as a cave dweller - hiding in a hole due to the unseasonably cool temps and excessive rain. I did jog in the rain yesterday, though, and that was actually fun. I would have really enjoyed myself had it not been for the, well, painful jogging part. You know, the legs straining, heavy breathing, heart pumping kind of hurting. If I want those effects, I don't want it to be from running. But the rain on my brow was nice. Keeping my mind on being sure footed actually kept my mind off of all else for a bit.

Fitness for Fats...

or "Fatness for Life." That's what we used to call the required college PE course that was really entitled "Fitness for Life." The required PE course, I guess, was the college's attempt to rid itself of the nickname, Big Women's College. But that plan never really worked out, and they simply added a few masters degree programs so that the name of the college could be changed, thereby avoiding the whole fatness issue altogether.

Seriously, though, about five weeks ago I embarked on a new exercise/diet lifestyle journey - a routine that was inspired by that class I took all those years ago. Back then, we were required to run three miles, four times per week. Not only that, in order to earn an "A" in the class, a person had to be able to run a particular three mile cross country course under 20 minutes.

So I began running three times a week - only now it takes me 20 minutes to run two miles. Then a few weeks into the routine, needing to mix it up a little, I started going to a cycling class (aka spinning) and a pilates class two times a week (that is, I do both back to back two times per week). On the off days, I walk or jog two to three miles. At first I was exercising like this three to four times a week, but starting this week I'm a five times a week girl.

As for the diet changes, I've cut out junk food and have limited my calories to between 1400-1600 per day.

Weight loss to date = 0

Am I feeling better and looking more trim and toned? Am I probably gaining muscle, so the weight loss doesn't register yet?

What the heck do I care about that when the poundage isn't melting off like fat dripping from a skewered pig hung rotisserie-style and spinning over hot coals?! I want results! Results I can measure on a scale!

Obviously, I need to lower my BID (Body Image Dissatisfaction) rate. Or I need a TRC (Total Reality Check).

Women, why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we have unrealistic expectations of our bodies? I would say that I am retarded to expect my body to remember its pre-child-bearing shape, but it's not p.c. to say retarded anymore.

Anyway, both the spinning and pilates classes are fun. I hate every minute of each. Seriously, every day before class I say to myself, "I don't want to go to class today. I'm gonna work too hard because I am too darn competitive." But I go anyway. And I love hating every minute of those classes too because I know darn well that had I been actually riding a bike up steep hills, for example, I would get off and walk. A couple of times in class I was tempted to do just that.

So, I will continue down the current fitness path regardless of the little to no results phase. If I'm going to be pushing MLD anyway, however, I think I'll start eating more chocolate.

Also Only Mostly Dead

Okay, I really need to get back into the swing of things as far as blogging is concerned. Things are fine, but the end of the year is always hectic for me - particularly when I have to deal with high school seniors attempting to graduate. Plus, I taught that college class this semester (that turned out fine, btw; only one F). So I'm jumping on the survey train; enjoy reading every mind-numbing bit of it.

IN THE PAST 24HRS HAVE YOU

• Cried: No
• Worn jeans: No
• Met someone: Yes
• Kissed someone: Yes - five people several times
• Said I love you: Yes, lots and lots
  

FRIENDS AND LIFE

• Do you ever wish you had another name? In first through third grade, I wished that I had a nick-name because I thought nick-names were cool. I attempted to get people to call me by certain names, but no nick-name really worked out.
• Do you like anyone? I like most people.
• Which one of your friends acts the most like you? My daughters act a lot like me, but most of my friends have personalities that complement mine rather mimic mine. Although CLA and I often act alike a lot...
• Who's the loudest? LE
• Who's the shyest? CW
• Who's the weirdest? LF
• Who do you hang out with the most? Poetroad and my kids, but I chat with CLA the most, hang out with LF, and I exchange e-mails the most with CW.
• When you cried the most who was there? Poetroad
• What's the best feeling in the world? Helping someone accomplish something, holding a newborn baby right out of the womb, holding hands with Poetroad as we are driving down the road and the kids are laughing in the back seat, and a few others that I won't describe here....
• Worst Feeling? Knowing that I've disappointed someone, being disappointed, despair, helplessness, flu symptoms
  

FINISH EACH SENTENCE:

• Let's walk on the: wild side.
• Let's look at: the bright side.
• What a nice: thing to say.
• When will they: ever learn?
• How is: the weather over there, Grandma?
• Why: are you still reading this?
• Show me: how to gut this fish.
• The house is: quiet.
• Tell me: about you.
• Love me: forever.

WHICH IS BETTER

• Chocolate or vanilla? Chocolate
• Coke or Pepsi: Diet Coke
• Girls or Guys: Depends on the situation
• Scruff or Clean shaved: Depends on the situation
• Blondes or Brunettes: both

WITH THE OPPOSITE SEX

• What do you notice first: Smile and teeth (particularly whether or not brushing is a regular habit)

THE LAST TIME YOU...

• Showered: this morning
• Stepped outside: an hour ago (I spent most of the evening outside)
• Cried: a few weeks ago
• Had a romantic memory: I think of those all the time
  

WHO

• Makes you smile: All my friends and loved ones make me smile
• Who can make you smile no matter what? CLA
• Has a crush on you: No one that I know of

DO YOU EVER...

• Sit by the phone waiting for a phone call: Hardly ever, but sometimes when Poetroad is out of town I wait for him to call
• Do you save AIM conversations: No
• Forward secret E-mails: I don't get secret e-mails
• Wish you were someone else: no
• Wish you were a member of the opposite sex: no way
• Wear perfume/cologne? Yes
• Go online for longer than eight hours at a time: Only when I am grading papers.
  

HAVE YOU EVER

• Made out with JUST a friend? No
• Kissed two people in the same day? Two different guys? No.
• Done it in a car? While driving down I-35...
• Cheated on someone? No
• Been cheated on? Yes
• Done something you regret? Yes

WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON...

• You saw? JG
• You talked to? JG
• You hugged? JG
• You instant messaged? That has been so long ago that I can't remember.
• You yelled at? Champ
• You thought about? Poetroad
• Who text messaged you? CLA, and that was also a long time ago
• Who told you they loved you? JG
  
  

DO YOU?

• Color your hair? Highlights
• Have tattoos? No
• Have piercings? Yes, three in one ear, one in the other, and one in a nostril
• Have a crush? I have a long-standing Crush on Larry Mullen Jr. (going on 21 years)
• Own a webcam? Yes
• Own more than 10 pairs of flip flops? No, but that is my favored footwear
• Like someone? I like people in general
• Hate someone? No way - I don't have the time and energy to do that, although there are a few people that I've disliked a lot for short periods of time - but I got over it.

HAVE YOU / DO YOU /ARE YOU

• Smoke? I am not smoke.
• Schizophrenic? No, I am notyesyouarenoImnotyesyouare
• Obsessive? Definitely

HAVE YOU EVER?

• Kissed your dog: Yes
• Ran away: In my mind
• Skipped school: Lots - sometimes I was the teacher
• Broken someone's heart: Several, but not intentionally
• Been in love: I am right now
• Cried when someone died: Yes
• Wanted someone you knew you couldn't have: Well, I thought I couldn't have him at first, but it turns out I could. So I married him.
• Done something embarrassing: Every day
• Cried in school: Yes, and once I was the teacher.

Nine out of Ten

I'm not married to "Man o' the 80s" for nothing.

Complete the 80s lyrics!

I got 90%.. click here to take the test.

Bird Flu Hits Florida!

Hey, is that at Great Aunt Edith's house?

It tastes like chicken.

At my house, we are not vegetarians. We eat vegetables, but we are very much carnivorous too. I guess that makes us omnivores. Or eatatarians. We eat.

But I digress. I can't exactly recall how it all started, but over the course of raising four children (which, of course, I am still in the process of doing), I've developed some strategies to get my reluctant eaters to eat. One of those strategies has been to call what ever food it is by the name of a food they like. In short, I lie about the source of the food.

Most often, I've had to do this regarding meat sources as my children never really balked at eating vegetables. So, when serving steak, a child who was reluctant to eat it because it was a brown color heard, "What?! It's chicken. You like chicken. Eat it." And she complied.

Last night, I realized that I've completely muddled the minds of my little darlings. I was serving steak. My six year old questioned, "Mom, what kind of chicken is this?"

My reply? "Beef."

April Fools

Did anyone pull any great April Fools pranks on Saturday? Just curious. I am not a fan of the April Fools thing, but I did accidentally pull a few pranks of my own. Are they really considered pranks if what was done was unintentional?

When I woke up Saturday morning - after spending eleven hours on my bum the day before - I was understandably anxious to get out and do something. I noticed an advertisement in the paper that read, "Fuschia and Geranium starters, two for a dollar." This is an annual special sale that a regional grocery/stuff market chain holds. The best part of the sale is that a person can bring his/her own planters, and the starts will be planted for free - with premium soil provided (also free).

Knowing that the fuschia/geranium Saturday can get pretty busy, even in a torrential downpour, I knew I had to get going quickly. So I rushed around to find empty planters. Of course I knocked over a few empty kerosene lanterns in the garden/lawn mower shed. The spill wouldn't have been as bad had one of the lanterns not sprung a leak. When I tried to remove it from the shed so that the kerosene didn't get near the gasoline, like a toddler boy going pee, some sprayed uncontrollably on my hands and sweater.

After I quickly changed my clothes and started a load of laundry (kerosene on favorite sweater = not good), I got back to the task at hand - the gathering of flower containers. Not wanting to lug around large pots at the store, I opted for the six or seven clay and plastic planters of manageable size (although there were a few people who had HUGE flower pots there - the one meter across size). Of course my planters all needed to be washed out, so I went at the scrubbing in the kitchen sink.

While I wildly scrubbed my pots - still in a hurry - Poetroad breaks my concentration with, "Hey, what's this in my coffee?" I knew in a glance what it was. Without hesitation I said, "It's dirt. April Fools!"

Yeah, it was all planned. Only next time I plan a joke like that, I think I'll skip the "spill the kerosene on favorite sweater" step.

In the end, I got my plants and my dirt and my plants planted. [Insert your own something pithy and Shakespearian here - I have to get back to work]

You knew this was coming...

Perhaps that's not the best choice of words. Anyway, a search.blogger for "Girl on Girl Pics" got my blog. What a huge disappointment. And if they went over to MLT, well, we all know that the evening didn't end in accidental touching, heavy breathing, and orgasmic screaming. All touch was deliberate (and ALL was touched). But there was pain involved, and, truthfully, I am just not into the S&M thing. If anything was learned by this experience (besides the details on how to give a good waxing), I now know that pain does not equate with pleasure in my Kama Sutra thesaurus.

Girl Fun

Tonight I got the best birthday present EVER. And it feels SOOOOOO good. It was a full on waxing in the, ehemmm, beautiful place, done by none other than our friend Gracie. Maria was there for moral support - and even held and helped.

I knew I would feel much more comfortable having the waxing done by someone I knew, and I was. Now Gracie (and Maria) know me better than they ever wanted to...

For kicks afterward, Gracie did her make-up so she looked eerily like Frida Kahlo. We even have the pics to prove it, but getting her to post those might take a few more shots of Patron.

yadhtrib

fiesta with friends
food, fun, laughs, poem, spirits
thirty-six went fine

Nuts

Yesterday Poetroad saw Mr. Swell and his kid in the field behind our houses playing ball. It was nice to see father and kid enjoying the afternoon together. And then his son threw the ball short. The ball bounced hard on the ground once, and, in an attempt to continue on it's original trajectory, the ball shot into the air. To bad Mr. Swell and his nuts were in the way. Good times.

With haiku and bells on

no, rather, we six
poets are coming for you...
with our pink and tulle.

well, there is one dude
in the pack of six also;
he has his music.

there is nothing like
a mouth full of decadence;
brownies are good too.

Going to Cali...

in a few days, and I am almost beside myself with excitement. I have the supplies for a "professional" waxing, and am hoping to talk Selene into helping me do the deed. I will get to try on my "new" swimsuit, and most likely will get a chance to hang out with PJD and Maria.

Another birthday in paradise - I can't wait!

My Apologies

So we never really went around to poll the neighbors to see who hates us. Actually, the more we thought about it, the more Poetroad and I became convinced that Mr. Swell is a bit mental (as if there were ever any question). We did get a chance to chat with one set of neighbors, however, and this is how the conversation went:

"Oh, by the way, we've been told recently that we are terrible neighbors. The whole neighborhood has been supposedly polled, and we suck. So we just wanted to apologize for being snobs or whatever."

[laughing] "Oh, yeah. We are sorry too. We suck too. So let me guess who told you that [wife points to Mr. Swell's house]."

"You would be right. And we were thinking that it sounded kind of weird, but, hey, you never know. Maybe we did something to offend everyone."

[more laughter] "Consider the source."

Turns out that the kids across the street cannot play with Mr. Swell's son anymore. Such has been the case periodically with another set of kids in the neighborhood. We are the only parents that will allow our kids to play with his kids, in fact. And where does that get us? With a slipper-pajama wearing earful of nonsense.

After he had a day to get over the initial shock of being publicly reamed by Mr. Swell, Poetroad helped me see the situation with better perspective. Not only does Mr. Swell not see that the main culprit of the situation was his son (the instigator), but he doesn’t blame the “kicker” either. What kind of person would shift the blame and make an innocent bystander the evildoer in a situation? He's nuts.

Expansion

76
24 Hours
24 Hours

Sign redundancy.
"We can always pump your gas."
Interstate exit.

I forgot to mention that Poetroad wants to go around to each neighbor and apologize. Since he tends to act passive-aggressive towards jerk-type people, I was surprised that he wanted to call Mr. Swell's bluff. I am glad that Poetroad came up with that idea on his own. I had secretly planned to do the same.

Today...

class went well. I feel like I have a new crop of kids. Perhaps they feel my passion and sincerity. Perhaps I've done a better job of communicating my expectations this time around.

But better than that - and this is something you will all be very interested in knowing - my neighbor (the-cherry-tree-cutting- KC-hating-neighbor, Mr. Swell) paid us a visit at 8:45 AM today. In his slippers and all.

When I answered the door, I knew it wouldn't be good. I could tell by his demeanor that he was out for the kill. Immediately, he began to attempt to ream me - in front of my children and a neighbor girl - with, "Your daughter's friend kicked my son. He has severe bruising on his leg and may have to have surgery to remove bone spurs....blah, blah, blah...'

It reminded me of a time when at age 10 I kicked the crap out of a neighbor boy. I can't even remember why I did it, except for he wouldn't stop touching my friend. Not inappropriate touching, mind you. Just touching. The boy came over the next day and told me that his mom said a person could die from being kicked too many times. I apologized, agreed to not do it again, and then closed the door and giggled with my friend.

Back to the present, I tried to deflect immediately with, "Well, Mr. Swell, it seems as if you have a problem with KC's friend, so then you ought to take that up with her mother."

However it became abundantly clear that he was not as angry about something KC's friend did, but rather about something KC didn't do. He continued with, "The fact is that your daughter did nothing about this. She just stood there and let it happen; my son told me so. Violence is not the answer, and we ought to be teaching our children blah, blah, blah...."

At that moment, I was wishing that violence could be the answer.

Mr. Swell just kept on talking and accusing and raising his voice at me. I stepped outside and shut the door in attempt to shelter the children from being exposed to his rant.

"Mr. Swell, this is not the time and place to talk about this," I pleaded. "Our kids are getting ready to leave for school in a few minutes..."

I could see that there was just no stopping him, and I was getting more upset. I found myself yelling to drown out his incessant rant, "I am not talking to you! I cannot have this conversation! Stay here, you and you can speak with my husband about this matter."

And I went and got Poetroad. Then, while Poetroad was outside dodging verbal firebombs, I took a second to get to the bottom of the alleged assault. Apparently, Morgan, the son, was verbally abusing this girl - a tall girl for her age (she looks as if she is a big sixth grader, but she is only in the fourth grade). When he called her "fat," she kicked him. He punched her back. The poor girl was sitting in my living room crying, and I hugged her and said, "Oh, honey, you have every right to defend yourself. But next time, it would be better to just walk away and then tell your principal. In the meantime, do not talk to Morgan or to Mr. Swell. Just stay away from them."

Outside, Mr. Swell was throwing all kinds of accusations at my husband regarding my daughter and our family. No one in the neighborhood likes us, he says. All of the neighbors across and down the street think that we are snobbish. "And your wife won't speak to me anymore," he said. Then he accused Poetroad of getting defensive.

Poetroad asked Mr. Swell how he thought a person would respond to being berated by all sorts of accusations, and then told Mr. Swell, "My wife does not speak to you anymore because I told her not to."

The best part, though, was when Poetroad said, "I'm sorry if we haven't lived up to your expectations of us." To that, Mr. Swell blurted, "Don't try to use that on me. I have a doctorate in psychology!"

Wisely, Poetroad responded with, "Okay, what is the real issue here. You say that it is one thing, but what is it that you are really angry about?"

Oh, I don't know, could it be because he feels totally emasculated since he decided to be a full time stay at home dad, that he doesn't have a job teaching at a college as he bragged was the case last summer, that he has a kid with a heart problem, another kid that is not adjusting well, a wife who had a cancerous tumor removed from her face last fall, and that his unmanned car rammed into the front of a neighbor's house a few short months ago and landed well into the front room? It all kind of makes me feel sorry for the guy.

And I do feel sorry for him, but I would feel a lot more compassion if he weren’t such a jerk.

In not so many words, Mr. Swell said that he feels as if the Swell family has been made out to be the bad family of the neighborhood. He feels as if we should have a more "community approach" to raising our children.

Apparently he thinks that means that when he comes over to tell each of our families how we should correctly raise our children that we should respond by lavishing him with attention.

It sucks to be lonely. It sucks more when the isolation has been self-created.

So Poetroad has decided that he needs to go over there this weekend to let the guy talk it out. I told Poetroad that all of the money that we dished out for the master's level counseling classes he took before he decided to quit the program was well spent today. I really admire my husband - he knows how to deal with jerks.

I, on the other hand, will not be invited to the meeting. My presence seems to bring out the worst in Mr. Swell.

Yesterday...

my house was clean. Selene's bro and fam were in town, and they came over. It was a blast getting to visit with them and their sweet daughters. Today, my house is a disaster. JG said that she can no longer be happy because Noe had to go home.

I wish that I could say that my College Writing class was going better. Truthfully, only two of my twenty students have written anything close to a paper that resembles scholarly research. Tuesday is a big day for me as I will have to enlighten each to the heavy crap factor ratio within the papers. If major changes are not made, then only a handful of students will pass this class. This is not good...not good at all.

But things could be worse. I could be allergic to chocolate.

Invasion of the Cottage Cheese Thigh Body Snatchers

"I'm cute - I fit in a size six jeans. But when the close come off, I say, 'What is this body, and how did it get in my clothes?!'" This was Gracie's internal dialogue when trying on swimsuits in the dressing room. She continued, "I can't even look at myself in the mirror and see that. Maybe if I am 80 years old, I might say, 'You look HOT!' But I'm not 80. I don't want to look at that."

So went the confession while I chatted with Gracie tonight. It's a mutual sentiment. We bought a swimsuit the other day. I say "we" because Gracie bought it, but it's mine. When I get there in a few weeks - and if I can stomach seeing myself in the suit, I will buy it because it is a "Miraclesuit." That's right - the swimsuit that makes every body look good. It's a friggin "miracle." But miracles cost these days - a lot. One hundred plus bones for a little piece of fabric. I was ready to pay for the miracle too - and then Gracie found the suit for around 30 dollars. She was kind enough to snatch it up, take it home, and let me see how it looked via the web cam. Indeed, it is a cute suit, and hopefully it will look as good on me as it does on her. But the suit did make me take a closer look at my legs and thighs. Ewww.

The quest for the suit began last Friday - the day I hit rock bottom. I would not go swimming with the family because I did not want to be seen in public in my swimsuit. Not only is my swimsuit a worn out faded piece of crap, but my body does not look attractive in the suit. At the local club, I would surely see people I know. I might have even been seen by some student of mine. This was a risk I was not willing to make.

Thanks to my good friend, Gracie, however, I found out about the "Suit." We will see if the miracle really works. In the meantime, I'm doing all the leg lifts and crunches I can.

Bean "RE: Bean"

That was the sender and title of an e-mail I received recently. I don't know anyone by the name of "Bean," so I knew right away it was spam. I’ve been getting a LOT of spam over the last year – mostly advertisements for out-of country pharmacy offers. I know this because I was tricked into opening a few of these e-mails. Sure, I was curious to know why Aileen was e-mailing me about “omelets,” so I bit. And you know what, it wasn’t my friend Aileen at all. Go figure.

Anyway, all of the e-mails I was tricked into opening up were the same, “Buy your prescriptions for Vicodin, etc., etc., etc, in Canada for pennies.” If you remember, I had a C-section over a year ago – and I took Vicodin for a short time – well, I took it until I could move around without swearing so much. I didn’t even re-fill the prescription, but they knew. Somehow they always do know. How did they find out – the spammers, that is?

So since then, Tyrone Robles wants to discuss “unilateral exterminations.” Whereas George Sneed just wants to talk about “crack.” Lloyd Capps knows something about the “ductwork apocrypha.” Funny, I thought the apocrypha was something one reads rather than builds. In other spiritual news, Nathan wants to tell me about, “batik and whitehorse churchwoman.”

A few people I think know of St. James and the infamous birthday party last year. A person named Waters says that, “colonist ape at a sensitive time in Middle commonplace.” Zeigler says that it’s, “advantageous in ambling with Bruno.” Perhaps Zeigler thinks that de-appendaging humans is fun.

On the medical scene, Ofelia Dixon wants me to know about, “duma for urinal possession.” I’ve got news for you, Ofelia – “It’s not a duma.” Roxanne Hammer retorts that “droopy aorta on yow.”

I even got an e-mail from “Larry Flint,” but when the subject heading wasn’t about sex, I knew it was a sham. Besides, I’m just too old to shoot a spread for Penthouse. Unless of course droopy boobed, big-hipped women are “in.” Even if that were the case, I would have to say, "Sorry, Larry, I’m not available." I'm too busy to be able to fit a photoshoot into my schedule.

I aim to please.

One more thing

I mentioned something about the interview for a job in Colorado. Just an update: Colorado is officially a "no." Poetroad actually heard the news via a third-party source, and sent off an e-mail to let the interviewer know that we know we are "out." The response e-mail read, "Poetroad, You are class act. You will surely be blessed." And that was that. End of prospect.

Now Poetroad was disappointed; this is the first time he hasn't been chosen for any job he ever wanted, after all. But more than that, he was disappointed that he would not move to Colorado. You see, his dad, "Russ," lives in Western Oklahoma, and moving to Colorado would have meant that we would have lived closer to Poetroad's family for a change. Poetroad was surprised by the fact that he had that yearning inside of him because we haven't been particularly close to his family in the past. Since Russ retired a few months ago, however, things have been different. For one, Russ calls once a month. Before, we were lucky to get a call on Christmas. Birthdays were never acknowledged, nor were other holidays or important dates. Russ is just funny that way - he's lived like a bachelor for a lot of years, and, truth be told, he's been a little egocentric. Not in a bad way, mind you; his life just revolved around him and his many activities and interests. But that has changed, somehow.

Anyway, that's the story of the job. Gracie said that she is glad because she didn't really want to move to Colorado anyway.

Book Recommendation

First of all, I would like to suggest that Gracie ought to write a blurb about each book she's read as she strives to read the fifty-whatever books she plans to read this year. I'd like to know if she thinks each read is worth a person's time - particularly since I know it takes me twice as long to read a book than it takes her. So I guess I'm wondering if in your reviews you could double the amount of time it took you to read it so I can realistically have an idea of the type of time commitment I will need to make when I dive into the book?

I didn't really read a book in February - I just read parts of several books (and a slew of student papers). But way back in January, I read an excellent book graciously mailed to me by a friend: The Solitaire Mystery, by Jostein Gaarder. It really is, "a novel about family and destiny." While the surface level of the story - the one that centers on the dynamics of "family" - particularly of "dysfunctional family" (and who can't relate to that?}, is wonderfully entertaining, on a deeper level the writer challenges the reader to consider how much destiny plays a part in our every day lives. Can we escape it?

It took me several days to read this book, but I probably spent six to eight hours reading it in all. I enjoyed the reading experience completely from start to finish, and perhaps being caught up in the moment is why it took me a bit longer to read the book than it should have. Not that there is a time limit on these things.

I'll see that "ewww," and raise you a "disgusting."

My eyes glaze over a little, and I'm rendered momentarily comatose whenever I think about a news story I heard earlier this week. Warning - do not follow this link if you have a sensitive gag reflex.

Yes, apparently great-granny was doing more than baking cookies in her double wide trailer.

It's not fathomable think how terribly this kid will be disturbed for eternity by seeing a volume of wrinkles and equating that with - ugh. I can't even type it.

But the good news, kid, is that it does get better. So sorry that this "Mrs. Robinson" was 83.

Pruning

My neighbor to the south (the guy who doesn't like my oldest daughter because she speaks her mind) owns two cherry trees that grow on the fence line between our back yards. The trunks of the trees are on his side of the fence. Half of the limbs reach into our yard. The fence is on our property and belongs to us.

I used to hate cherries, which stems from a horrible cherry flavored lifesavers choking/barfing incident that happened when I was three. I'm still not particularly fond of cherry flavoring, but I love to eat fresh cherries. One of these trees produces Bing cherries - deep red almost black colored fruit when ripe that are sweet and juicy. Even in season, a pound of Bings is costly. The other tree produces Rainer, a more reddish colored cherry - also sweet and juicy, but not as sweet as the Bings are.

But I digress...

On Saturday, Moose was pruning ALL of the trees in his back yard. These two cherry trees were targeted for selective pruning as well. The trees are already set with buds for this season's fruit. I was curious when my dog alerted me to some type of activity in our yard. Just before the limbs being pruned landed into our back yard, I made eye contact with Moose and gave him a neighborly smile.

What is odd is that Moose only trimmed off those two huge limbs from those trees. Both limbs that he trimmed grew directly above the fence, running parallel to it. The branches, of course, jutted out into our yard.

What is more odd is that he just left them there. No, "Oops, I'll come over later and take care of that." No, "Oh, I didn't mean to cut off limbs that were in your yard." No nothing. Just the eye contact and me smiling.

The next day, Poetroad asked me, "Why did you cut off those tree limbs?" "I didn't," I said. "Moose was pruning his tree." Three days later, I finally went out there and chopped up the limb so it would fit into the yard debris can.

I don’t get it. Is the Cherry Nazi trying to send me a message? “No cherries for you!”

Sweet holy Moses

Two weeks after the initial dental visit, the patient returns in order to put the permanent crown onto the exposed tooth stump.

And this is what I had to do today. Of course, like a boxer who steels himself for the one two walloopa punch so that he doesn't end up kissing the canvas (or worse, end up dead), I have been steeling myself for the past two weeks for this procedure.

I knew going into this appointment that the doctor would not give me drugs, shots, gas, or any helpful hints regarding how to tolerate the intense pain I would feel once the temporary came off and the permanent was cemented onto the very sensitive stump. At least Selene got, "Do jumping jack." I got nothing...except for this...

(As Dr. S & M is cleaning the old glue off of the sensitive, exposed stump, I wince in pain)

"Is something a’ matter there?" he said annoyed.

So I mumbled through the mouth filled with tubular gauze (you know, the kind of gauze thingies that are stuffed up bloodied noses - a tiny tampon with no string), "Ah Huts" (translation: It hurts.).

"Well, yes, it will feel a little sensitive to the touch." And then he adds, "When we put the permanent tooth on, it will feel really cool at first. It will take a minute or three for the initial ZING to wear off."

Cool. As in a little cold. Kind of icy. That's the first time in my life I've heard someone equate "coolness" with "intense pain."

But what do I know; I'm just the poor sap who broke her tooth and had the fortunate misfortune of having Dr. S & M, a highly skilled dentist, fix it.

The great thing was that since I've been building it up in my mind for two weeks that this procedure would really, really hurt (and it did hurt - really, really bad), this time around, the procedure didn't hurt as badly as it did when I had another broken tooth fixed a few years back. Of course I had a C-section between the first broken tooth fixing incident and this one.

Although this time around I had the added pleasure of having him put the permanent on and off a few times for adjustment purposes. That was...real...fun...kind of...cool... He's lucky I didn't vomit.

Decisions, decisions

Today I woke up to the pleasant feeling of fire in my bladder. UTI. I knew it from the moment I opened my eyes. Poetroad was not home from the Men’s Retreat yet, the doctor’s office is closed on Sunday, and I had two little ones at home (the two olders were at grandma and grandpa’s, thank the Lord).

After first mentally debating whether or not I could make it through the day, I finally decided to have the doctor paged, and I tried not to think about the discomfort while I waited for the return call. I had two options, he said. Go to Urgent Care or go to Urgent Care. So I took option one…and two.

I despise going to the doctor’s office anyway, but I particularly despise going to a place where there are bound to be high volumes of sick people in one little room. In fact, the only difference between Urgent Care and the Emergency room is that the room is smaller at Urgent Care.

The on call doctor advised me to get there 15 minutes before they opened so I could get in and out in a jiffy. Good call because when I arrived, the waiting room was already 1/3 full. Luckily only four of those people were patients. That made me patient number five.

To make a long story shorter, I was in and out of UC in about an hour with prescription in hand – amazing. By the time I left, there were hoards of coughing and other sorts of sickly people waiting to be seen…it was a longer line than the lines I’ve seen at the DMV. I was sure to make the little ones use hand sanitizer as soon as we stepped out of the building.

And now I am only partially delirious. I’ve taken one dose, but I’m not really feeling the effects of the meds yet. That flu-like brain fog and achy body feeling is not gone. Perhaps I’ll take the next dose now…and go back to bed.

I don't have anything to say,

but I'm tired of looking at that donut. Perhaps if I write enough, then the donut will be pushed far enough down the page that I won't see it. Seeing the donut makes me think of the untamed flesh on my body that got that way from eating donuts. Well, not really from eating donuts - it was the few boxes of chocolate that did me in. Darn Valentines Day. So I'm posting a post about nothing. That's right, nothing. I could blather on and on about nothing until the cows come home, and then I could say more about the same subject. Perhaps the reading of the freshman college papers has put me in this catatonic love of nothing state. You know, the paper that drones on and on - talks in circles - appears to have length and possibly gets close to saying something, but in the end, it really says nothing? Yeah, I still have a stack to finish reading that I put in my coat closet. I put them there so I wouldn't have to look at them. There they sit buried in coats.

be done with donuts
chocolates and freshman work;
all hidden in coats

Spot On

You Are a Powdered Devil's Food Donut

A total sweetheart on the outside, you love to fool people with your innocent image. On the inside you're a little darker, richer, and more complex. You're a hedonist who demands more than one pleasure at a time. Decadent and daring, you test the limits of human indulgence.

What Donut Are You?

enchanted

shapely winter girls
draped in velvet em’rald cloaks;
Costal Mountains sigh

Okay, that was kinda weird...

seeing my post on someone else's blog. Four comments and everything - of course I ruined that by also commenting.

Things have been strange around here. First there was the out of the blue call from Colorado from people we don't even know wanting to interview Poetroad for a job. They flew out here that weekend, and we've chatted a few times since. Still, there's no resolution to that, and I have been laughing at the idea that I had learned to wait patiently on the Lord.

Next, a new semester began at the online high school. We added a few orientation assignments into the mix, and the result was that each teacher was welcomed into the semester with about three hundred assignments needing to be graded. As you can guess, that caused a few rumblings. I was so immersed in the grading that I hardly noticed any difference from that week and the last few weeks of the previous semester. "Welcome to my world, " I wanted to say to the rest of the staff. "Yes, this is what it is like to actually have to grade papers. Oh, and, shut yer yapper, you big cry babies!" Of course a few of the more negative people on staff want heads to roll for this. Good thing the only weight they can hope to throw around is the extra hundred pounds hanging from their butts and bellies. On the up side, at least they aren't fat heads.

Speaking of mutiny, for a second in class yesterday I thought I might be mobbed and burned at the stake. My little darling freshman college writing students turned in papers that read equivalent to garden compost - although people shouldn't really throw human waste into the compost pile. Wondering how to handle this exactly, I took said papers to the Doctor of English (aka head of the department). He encouraged me to mark a point off for every error in conventions (grammar, punctuation, etc.). So I did just that. The result was that a few of my students earned negative scores. This was for a two-page paper. And most were dumb mistakes, too. I asked for a show of hands, "Who exactly had someone edit your paper for you?" Not one hand went up. Still they protested with drivel such as, "I thought you would just grade on content. I didn't know that we would have to write it good or anything like that." I responded with, "Yeah, well this is an English class. In fact, it's a writing class. What would ever give you the idea that I wouldn't be editing for errors in spelling, grammar and punctuation?"

I made it out of class alive just in time to get some major dental work done at Dr. S&M's. Dr. S&M is a minimalist, and that philosophy works great for Interior Decorating. Dentists, however, should employ every gas and drug invented to minimize patient pain. One would think that a painless trip to the dentist would have a patient running back for more, in fact. But my dentist deals in pain. The patient gets two shots to the gums, and a few minutes for the Novocain to do its thing.

One time the dentist was putting a new crown on the stump where a broken tooth had been, and he didn't even offer me a shot to numb that up first. Instead he said, with new porcelain tooth in one hand and the other rubber gloved hand shoved in my mouth, "Now the nurse told you this is going to hurt a bit, right? The pain will subside in a minute or two, though, and you won't have to be bothered by a numb face for half the day."

It hurt like hell.

I cried - this is a woman who has birthed four babies, two without the help of pain medication. On a positive note, I was glad that I had another real life situation in which to utilize those Lamaze breathing techniques.

Anyway, the dentist trip was a travel through painsville, but at least I had that near-student-mob experience fresh in my mind to help distract me from the agony.

And that's the news from my side of the world where the dentists are tough, the women are buff, and the children hand in papers that score below average.

I also like lavender.

You Are A Lily

You are a nurturer and all around natural therapist. People see you as their rock. And they are able to depend on you. You are a soothing influence. You can make people feel better with a few words. Your caring has more of an impact than even you realize.

What Flower Are You?

Uh, for someone who is supposedly leaving mediocrity in the dust, I sure am not going far.

No
more
time
to
post

It's that time of year again...the dreaded end of the semester. This means I will be trying to dig my way out of a virtual pile of papers (a few hundred worth and counting).

This is my least favorite part of my job. The least. It ranks right up there with eating poop.

Talk to you all next week.

Boat Show

I got a phone call from my mom a while ago.

Mom: "Your dad wants to know if Selene is going to be in town this weekend."

BSP: "Why?"

Mom: "Well, the boat show is coming to town, and he wants to know if she would like to go."

BSP: "What a coincidence! I think she will be up this way to visit her parents."

New Class

i had forgotten
how much i liked in class group
dynamics; good times

The Naughty List

Poetroad was out of town for five days, and being a single parent of four those few short days did not wear well on my nerves. I sincerely don’t know how you single parents survive; you are my heroes. Oh, things started out well, but life slowly descended into a mime-loving, decapitating, hellish existence with the final hours definitely being the worst.

Pick-up time for Poetroad’s flight was approximately 9:00 PM. My plan was to glide through the evening – perhaps get a few things done while the older two were at Girl Scouts, get all the children into their pajamas, and then at 8 o’clock jet on over to the airport that is a good hour drive from here.

The unraveling really began around 5:30 PM when I couldn’t get everyone to eat at suppertime. If I were wise, I would have packed a snack so that the four-year-old who did not eat could snack on something while we sat through the Girl Scouts parent meeting. I was not that wise.

So at the meeting, JG could not be happy. The whine was relentless, and my usual powers to comfort and distract an unhappy child were crippled due to the proximity to kryptonite (aka the extreme embarrassment of being the parent of the obnoxious, disruptive child in the room). My admonitions for her to “Shush” weren’t enough to scare her into silence (does that ever work?), so I did the only thing I knew how to do – exit the room in full shame.

The descent was gaining momentum. In mid-dash to our car during a torrential downpour, JG stopped in here tracks and wouldn’t move. I kept going. But there she stood with hands in the air holding what was left of a torn, rain-soaked, sagging cookie order form while screaming as loudly as her little vocal chords could manage.

After I quickly buckled one child into a car seat, I ran back to fetch the drenched JG – seriously, she looked as if I had dumped a bucket of water on her. She looked much like a cat after it fell into a bathtub.

Things got worse from there. I won’t go into all the details, but eventually I found myself screaming, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” from the other room. Being that is the “s” word in our house, I had clearly crossed the line. It wasn’t pretty for all who were involved.

Then from out of the stunned silence in the other room, I heard a meek yet resigned voice say, “Mom, Santa won’t be giving you any presents because you are on the naughty list now.”

That was fine because I was quite frankly in no mood to be on the good list.

Eventually, after I gathered my wits, got some food into her system, and calmed down, I apologized for yelling and for using the “s” word (“shut-up”). JG acknowledged my apology with, “Good, mom! Now you can be on the good list again! Now Santa can bring you presents.”

Later that evening, we were able to successfully pick up Poetroad with out too much drama (my biggest worry was being able to avoid the local flooding and navigate through the downpours).

And I spent the rest of the night – which continued until 1:00 AM - getting back onto the naughty list. It was very nice indeed. Good times.

Best Gift Ever

I know I mentioned this previously, but only in passing. I forgot to dish the details! So sorry!

For Christmas, Poetroad took me to the U2 concert (their last stop of the tour for the year). Since I have such a long-standing and vast love for the band (particularly Larry Mullen Jr. - I've always had an affinity for drummers), this was the best Christmas present ever.

When we got to the concert, I was surprised to see the diversity in age. Both young and old were there - some people even brought their children. Just as varied was the flavor of concertgoers. From the multi-tattooed, fish-net-stocking, black lipstick wearing peops to the overly dressed sparkle shirted high-heeled big hair multi large jewelry wearing folk, all types were enjoying the same tunes.

Of course I felt in kindred spirit with those who cheered and grooved and sung out the words to songs from the early albums (Boy, October, Under a Blood Red Sky, Unforgettable Fire, etc.). And they played a lot of the old tunes too. This concert did have a decidedly political message, but what can you do? The Irish know how to promote a cause.

So for over two and a half hours we soaked up the music and media presentation - it was divine. After the concert, Poetroad bought us concert t-shirts. Then we spent over an hour and a half getting back to our ride that was parked in the city. Thank you public transportation planners. Perhaps you people could plan to have the public transport come a little more frequently than every half hour after a huge concert? Luckily, we were able to squeeze onto the third tram.

Anyway, Poetroad, you did good. You know what I like! (Oh, and the jewelry and the new U2 cd were just a bonus on Christmas morning). How did I get so blessed as to catch him?

What is in a Word?

Awhile back I had to take a trip to the Social Security office. Trips to government offices are always loads of fun - interesting people watching spot, that's for sure. Anyway, while I was waiting in line (a forty-five minute wait it was for a three minute transaction), I noticed this pamphlet:

"Social Security: If You Are Blind Or Have Low Vision - How We Can Help"

First of all, if a person were blind, he or she would not be able to see the pamphlet let alone read it. So why, "If You Are Blind..." Might I suggest, "If Someone You Know Is Blind."

Second...okay, there really is no second point. That first one was my point. But if you turn to page two, there is a special note that reads:

"Note: This publication is also available in Braille and on cassette tape. SEE Pages 31-32."

Again, a blind person would not be able to "see" pages 31-32 to know how to order the Braille or cassette tape publication because he or she is, uh, BLIND. Sure, there are the "low vision" types that potentially could read pages 31-32, but if your vision is so low that you need to read in Braille, chances are that you wouldn't be able to read the instructions on pages 31-32 (or even be able to see that there is a pamphlet that is addressed to the "Blind [and] Low Vision") to find out how to call and order such publication.

Which brings me to this point: why are we so crazy in America to have things "in writing." In most courts here, a firm verbal agreement has value (but not as much value if the printed word is notarized and signed in blood - even if the document is a farce).

Maybe I'm just fooling myself, but it seems to me that we hold to much stock in print - and this is coming from an Englishy type, mind you. There were many great works that survived via ye ole Oral Tradition (not to be confused with Orai Leland, who was a missionary in Africa). And the Word of God was written on our hearts (that's Truth with a capital "T") long before printing presses were ever invented. So to say that a word has worth only if it is written is an overstatement of the value of the printed word. Words first exist in our brains, do they not?

One time I worked as a banker. I was, in fact the Vault Teller. A stringy haired grungy looking guy in rumpled clothing walked up to the Drive Thru and wanted to deposit a wad of cash. I took the cash over to my drawer, counted it, and noticed that he was fifty dollars short. I walked back to the Drive Thru and let him know. "What?! What did you do with my fifty dollars?! When I counted it this morning, there was 1,500.00 there."

To make a long story short, the Manager told me that I had to take him at his word since I didn't count the money right in front of him - even though he could see me counting it at my till from the Drive Thru window. I couldn't argue with that. She was right. I made a mistake. I "ate" fifty dollars that day, and I had to be written up for it.

So you see, a person's word does have worth - no matter who speaks it. Of course, not everyone will tell the truth, but chances are that doesn’t change whether the word is written or spoken. Not everything has to be “in writing.” Yes, there is great comfort in things we can “see,” but argue that with a blind person.

Feeling Snappy...

Still in cleaning mode here. Emptying a house of clutter is a ginormous task (ginormous is my four-year-old's new favorite word, btw). On Monday, we officially moved the TV into the front room, and turned the family room into a play area. The drums are set up in the corner of the new play area, and the couch will be leaving that room at the end of this month (the soonest I could arrange for a Salvation Army pick up). Woo hoo!

Basically, I am quite happy about the results of the purge so far even though the organizing is only partially complete. In fact, in general, I am by far the happiest I have ever been during the rainy season. I would even go as far to say that I am content...and those of you who know me know that is saying quite a bit.

Why am I content? That's a loaded question. Nothing has really changed externally. As I mentioned a few months back, though, I've made an internal change - a commitment to get rid of fear and to listen to the Lord - not just to speak to Him, but also to listen. My New Year's resolution is to continue on that path. Of course this means that I've had to leave the mediocrity behind because even though every thing I do may appear to be half-ass, I am no longer striving for half-ass. Goodbye fear.

Intention - that's the key change. But the follow through is what counts.

Which reminds me...has anyone ever seen the "infomercial" on PBS for the guy who espouses, "The Power of Intention." What a joke. I could "intend" to do a ton of things. That's my problem, really. I intend to do things all day. What I really need is a program for, "The Power of 'Follow Through.'" Give me ten steps to do that, why don't ya.

Anyway, I'd love to chat, but I have to get back to my other daily duty as the house laundrarian.

I almost forgot...

...to say that I accidentally drugged Poetroad on Monday - that would have been the highlight of my week had I not been at my parents's house last night where my niece is staying (her argument with her father - my brother - resulted in all sorts of drama, including a visit from the ex-wife, the ex-wife's new boyfriend, the ex-wife's mother, and the sheriff).

So Poetroad woke up with a terrible sinus headache on Monday, and we were out of Sudafed. The old kind - you know, the kind that actually clears the passages so one can breathe. Anyway, one cannot procure Sudafed around here without a trip to the pharmacy, a blood donation, and a first-born sacrifice. I happened to have a little bit of a prescription allergy medication laying around, so I gave that to him instead. Bad idea.

Apparently, there is something in allergy medication that acts as a sedative in his system. I might as well have given him an intravenous anesthesia - he was out cold for hours.

It reminds me of the time when he went to get his wisdom teeth pulled - he had to be "put under," and the nurses were getting a little nervous when they couldn't wake him up. They came out to the waiting room and asked me to pull around to the back door. Then they carried him out to the car. No kidding. Well, he was sort of walking. He was upright anyway, but he was definitely being drug to the car.

Later, after he had slept all day long and I worried if I hadn't accidentally poisoned him, he told me, "Yeah, I can't take allergy medication. It makes me pass out."

Now he tells me. Seems like that would have been some important information to know before I dispensed the drugs. Well, at least he didn't die.

Pilot Program

A mass of paper.

"Paper, Paper everywhere.
A mighty mass; a flood.

Paper, Paper everywhere.
But paper bound in tomes is good."

from "Rime of the Ancient Flat Surface"
Blue Sugarpoet

We bought a bookshelf to house my volumes. Poetroad has volumes too. Books are always welcome here - go ahead and send them, Mimi. Besides, I am going through my kids's books to eliminate the "unloved" volumes, so I should definitely have some room. I will make room for Nancy Drew.

Poetroad, by the way, describes his paper organization style as the "Pilot Program." "Pile-it," actually. "Pile-it here, pile-it there." It's good to eliminate the piles. It's called cleaning, I think. Still, I like to think of it as, "reclaiming the space." I've been trying to reclaim the space for fifteen years.

Not that I am some kind of "Neat Nancy." I'm nothing like that. I have my own Pilot Program going on in my room - it's called "laundry." I also have piles of books, mostly next to my bed - but who will deny an English teacher her books? Actually, I didn't always want to be an English teacher. This was the one career I could think of having that would allow me to justify my piles and piles of books (and papers).

Come to think of it, I really like books. I like the way they look. I like the way they feel in my hands. I like that they come in all different sizes and colors. I like that the words in them can entertain me and make me think and teach me to cook Fudgy Cappuccino Crinkles (which taste better rolled in the granulated sugar than in the powdered sugar, by the way).

Holiday

I’m glad we are on a holiday - seeing as how I seem to be more busy not working. Does that make sense? Of course it could have something to do with the fact that all four kids are at home all day long and it has been raining since Christmas break began.

“Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.”

From “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”
Samuel Coleridge

Did I mention it has been raining? For a WEEK. For a FEW WEEKS. Yes, there is standing water in my back yard, which boggles the mind since I live on a hill. Because of that, we have been indoors for that long. If only it was snow… Remember how I said it was in the 20-degree range a few short weeks ago? It’s almost hard to believe that it’s been in the upper 50s and 60s lately. Crazy. It’s that darn “Pineapple Express.” That’s what weathermen out here have dubbed it anyway. Apparently, the weather makes it’s way from Hawaii (hence the “Pineapple”) and douses us with warm wetness.

Poetroad was referencing this weather pattern the other day, but only he accidentally called it the “Banana Express.” I was quiet for a second before I queried, with stifled laughter, “Did you mean to say the “Pineapple Express? You men – everything is about the “banana” isn’t it.” We couldn’t stop laughing.

Christmas was fantastic, by the way. As usual, Poetroad and I stayed up most of the night working on gifts for Christmas morn. This year, he enthusiastically tackled the project of refurbishing his first drum set (a very nice Junior set) for our soon to be eight year old. He had spent weeks ordering the necessary parts (buying some new hardware, new wraps, etc.) and cleaning some of the original hardware, and it only took us three or four hours to put the things together. The drums look SWEET!

I was going to mention something else, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what. Oh yeah – what I have been doing this week….

This week I have been (with Poetroad’s help) reorganizing the entire house. The fact is that we have a large family living in this small space (it’s a six people, a dog, and a cat, to approximately 1500 sq feet ratio). Europe. I pretend, often, that I live in one of those fancy apartments in Europe. I tell myself, “If the Europeans can live in small spaces, so can I.” That’s what IKEA is for – to help us live in small spaces, right?

So, in an effort to maximize our productivity, we are purging the contents of our home with a “top down” approach. That means that we have been clearing out all of the contents from the closets, from under the bed, from the storage areas, etc., starting upstairs in our room. Next, we tackle the kids’s rooms, and then we eliminate stuff downstairs. The final project will be to clean out the garage (if we can get to it by then).

I asked Poetroad, “How long do you think it will take us to finish this project.” He paused, and then replied, “Conservatively speaking, six months. But I’d like to finish our room this week.”

Okay, then. Guess I’d better get back to cleaning.

And now for something completely different...

I've been taking all of those quizzes, but I just keep getting the same results as all of you have. Here is one I haven't seen yet, though.

You Are Pink!

Tough. Sexy. Tough. Soulful. Tough. Guys are both attracted and scared of you. "I've been the girl with her skirt pulled high Been the outcast never running with mascara eyes"

Who's Your Inner Rock Chick?

Merry Christmas

Lovely little Poets, aren't they?

Besides avoiding the frenzy of pre-Christmas stuff, I went to the U2 concert last night. Wow. Larry is hot.

Anyway, have a fantastic Christmas and New Year everyone!!!

Worst Gift

I'm thinking that the worst gift I ever received has to be the homemade tee a boyfriend gave me when we were in high school. Now I'm not sure if spelling is a trait valued by cowboys, but it matters when you plan on writing something on the back of a Hanes Beefy-Tee...with a Sharpie.

Yes, that's right, my hunky horse riding guy, that I thought was quite handsome at the time, decided to make us "his" and "her" shirts with a black Sharpie. It was a nice thought, but my shirt - with "He's my Sweetie" scrawled on the back - was spelled more like "He's my Sweaty."

I never mentioned anything about that shirt, and I even wore it once in public. Like it was yesterday, I remember the muffled snickers and jeers coming from behind us at the TCBY.

Conveniently, I tossed – uhm “lost” – the shirt. Eventually, I tossed the guy too - but not because of his inability to spell. Although, that didn't help his cause any.

I don't have a pithy title for this post

Okay, I am sick again. This time, however, it's a respiratory thing. West Coast SARS or Avian Flu? Let's hope not. But I have work to do, so being the dedicated employee that I am, I am still working while I am at home hacking up loogies. I'm not sure how one should spell loogies - I just know how to hack them up, spit them out, sneeze them out my mouth, or blow them out my nose.

Just in case you were wondering, having the nose piercing has not complicated the common cold as one might expect it to.

Anyway, the purpose for this post is to give everyone some things to chat about at the office today. Here are a few ideas. Talk amongst yourselves:

1. Should Novels and other reading material be banned from airline toilets? Notice: they are not "bathrooms," so there absolutely should not be any bathing in that space. Please, people are waiting in line to get in there!

2. Votes for worst Christmas tunes? I've heard a few ("Christmas Shoes" and the "Jew Girl" one - that's a terrible song, Mimi, btw...no one wants to think about Mrs. Clause's penis). Now it's your chance to chime in here.

3. What was your worst Christmas gift ever?

Have fun chatting!

Freezing Friday and other randomness

It’s chilly over here on the West Coast (a mere 27 degrees when I pulled into work this morning). This is nothing, really. Twenty-seven is downright warm for some of my readers. Still, 27 degrees isn’t the moderate winter temperature of the mid-forties/mid-fifties fare I’m used to feeling.

Although colder temps unusually don’t seem to affect North-Westerners the same way others are affected by the chill. For example, most people would have the sense to bundle up in a warm coat (a down or frost-free parka perhaps), put on gloves, and wrap a scarf around the gullet in chilly weather. I do have a scarf on (for decorative purposes only – a fuzzy black scarf that I could stretch out and wear as a hat or a tube top should I get the notion to do that). The rest of my attire? Jeans, a long sleeved deep pink shirt, and an apple green corduroy blazer. Come to think of it, I do feel kind of chilly. But not chilly enough to make me break out the frost free jacket (which is mostly reserved for skiing, snow, and enduring any other frozen precip.). Oh, I own a warm coat, but I usually don’t get it on before I leave the house.

I’m such a hypocrite too because I make my kids wear that kind of stuff; they walk to school, I reason. Although it’s almost torture getting the bulky stuff on them every morning. Not wanting to bundle up could be a kid thing. Maybe it’s genetic. One thing is for sure – there is a lot of this non-bundling up going on out here. Heck, I frequently see people walking around in shorts or Capri pants no matter what the temperature is (regardless if snow is falling). Socks are optional. Flops, even in winter, are the favored footwear. Which is crazy because it’s not like it’s warm around here ever (July, August, and September are the exceptions).

But we are a rebellious people who don’t care what people think about our fashion sense. Once my family went for a visit to the Bay area to stay with Selene and Gracie for a few days. While there, we spent one of our afternoons at the beach over near the Golden Gate and Alcatraz. It was 58 degrees that day, and our children were running around in their bikinis and playing in the sand and water. I noticed as Selene and I were watching our kids run around and have fun that the passer-byers were practically shivering. All were bundled in polar fleece type garments, scarves, hats, etc. A few were wearing ear muffs. Those passer-by-ers looked at us with puzzled looks too - as if we were crazy for letting our kids run around with only swimsuits for clothes.

Hey people, it’s chilly here most of the year; we get used to it. We even cope. It rains most of the time here too, and I don’t use an umbrella very often either. Umbrella usage is reserved for extended outdoor activities in highly stormy conditions. Otherwise, we all just walk around with or hoods up - or we are simply content to have wet locks.

Other random thoughts:

Don’t you hate being the next person who has to use the one toilet bathroom after someone deposits a stinky odor in that tiny space? Selene – you know what I’m talking about. Anyway, the staff bathroom here is a one-toilet locked door model (almost the indoor equivalent of a port-o-potty), and every time I have to use it, I am forced to plug my nose. The worse part is that when I walk out of the bathroom and someone is waiting to use it, I feel compelled to say, “It stunk before I went in there.” But I never do. And it’s funny that I would even feel that compulsion. Is there anyone out there who doesn’t have stinky crap? Sure, I’d like to think it comes out smelling special, but it always stinks. Always. Don’t think you’re improving the bathroom-air-environment any by being a vegetarian either. Cows are vegetarians, and their gas is depleting the ozone layer.

Damn Ovaries!

All men and other squeamish people, avert your eyes. You don’t want to be reading about my female problems. Really you don’t. But I want to talk about them, and since this is my space, I will.

So I went to the gynecologist the yesterday (men, if you are still reading this, you really don’t have a comparison experience. You think you do, but you don’t. Try having a conversation with a woman while she has a finger stuck up your penis and your ass. Yeah, it’s not a pleasant image, is it?). Since my periods have been heavy and erratic (and since Poetroad will not do the deed with me when I am bleeding – it’s rather traumatizing for him, really), I had to do something. Of late, my periods are lasting a full two weeks (and sometimes I will have another little period in the three week off time). A full two weeks without sex is pure torture. Yes, I am spoiled because I get to have a lot of sex otherwise.

The great news is that there aren’t any overtly physical indications for my symptoms – this means there are no fibroids and that it’s probably not cancer or endometriosis. The bad news is that due to the lack of physical evidence, it means my ovaries are just not working correctly.

In order to fix the bleeding problem (and I might add here that Poetroad suggested I am now very Biblical since my problem sounds very similar to the woman’s problem who reached out to touch the hem of our Lord’s garment in order to be healed; that’s a very pastorly response), I have three options: option one, do nothing and bleed most of the month; option two, have a surgical procedure done in which the lining of my uterus is basically scraped away to prevent me from ever having a period again; and option three, start taking birth control pills in order to get my progesterone levels up to counter the excess estrogen in my system which stimulates my uterus to excessively line it’s walls each month.

None of the three options sound like fun. Doing nothing means I bleed all the time. Having a surgery means that I would have to “go under” with anethstisia (and if I am going to have any surgery that requires total anesthesia, I want to wake up with slimmer hips and bigger boobs). Taking the pill means that I have to, well, take a pill every day. I am not a good pill taker.

The hilarious thing about option three is that I had a tubal ligation after my last birth in order to avoid having to worry about birth control ever again. It is highly ironic that a very viable option to control the bleeding would be that I may have to take birth control pills to control a uterus that, quite frankly, will never house a baby again.

I laughed out loud with my doctor at that thought.

My gynecologist is lucky I like him. Not that my non-working ovaries are his fault, but when people go to doctors, they want easy answers. And it was probably nice for a change for him to not have to tell a woman that she needs a total hysterectomy or that she has cancer. It was nice that we could sit there, me with my nakedness covered with a sheet, and him with his young looking face, dyed hair (except for the white side burns – not sure what that look is all about), and quiet, matter of fact tone, laughing about all of this.

All in all, I definitely have some serious thinking to do.

When Harry met Suzie...

Wouldn’t you know it – I took a quick jaunt to the store this morning to replenish our milk supply, and I ran into a guy I went to high school with – Lan Darkin. Of course I hadn’t showered, but at least I had the good sense to put on a bra before I went out. Anyway, Lan was a friend of a neighbor/friend I had when I was in high school – Harold Dawkins.

At the store this morning, Lan said, “Hey, I had lunch with Harold a few weeks ago, and your name came up.”

“Oh really?” I choked. “Well, I’d better be going.”

Harold, the star tennis player and ASB President, apparently had a crush on me when we were in high school. I hung out with Harold, I jogged with Harold, I got a ride to school with Harold, I went out to the movies with Harold. I never kissed or held hands or did anything romantical with Harold. At the time, I never knew Harold was pining away for me just a few houses away. I didn’t find this out until ten years later at the class reunion. How did I find out? It went a little something like this:

Harold: This is my wife, Suzie.

Me: Oh, hi, Suzie! It’s so nice to meet you. Harold and I were such great friends in high school. You have a fine husband.

Harold: Suzie, this is Blue Sugarpoet.

Suzie: Blue Sugarpoet? The infamous Blue Sugarpoet?

Me: Uh, I guess so. Yep, that’s me!

Suzie: Finally, I meet the infamous Blue Sugarpoet. I hope I never hear your name in my house again.

What followed was some awkward chitchat about I don’t know what (although I think it included tales of how I smashed Harold’s heart in the mud and spit on it). I laughed pleasantly, and got the heck out of Suzie’s vicinity and her evil eye. I think I might have parted with nervous laughter and, “Really? I had no idea. Well, lucky you – you have him now!”

So I never asked Lan what was said. It’s a little sad that Harold has such terrible memories of our friendship – it’s sadder that I was apparently involved in some sort of relationship that I didn’t know about. Had I known, I would have had the sense to get a little lip action.

And was anyone surprised about the neurosis? I didn't think so...

You are Schroeder!

Scabies

I can't believe I didn't blog about this last Friday - maybe it was because I was a little traumatized about the whole idea of it. I have a student who I was supposed to meet with that was a no-show. I found out through office gossip that this student didn't show because she was battling a bad case of the scabies.

Uh, excuse me, but my mind was virgin to scabies. I wish I still had my innocence regarding that...

So the office people gave me the disgusting low down regarding these apparently horney and disgusting bugs, and I wish I had never asked. Selene - please do not Google what these creatures are. You are thinking that you are curious because they are bugs, and hey, you've almost conquered that spider fear. If you ever want to sleep in a hotel again, just don't. Ignorance is much better regarding this issue. Trust me.

Anyway, the best part of this story is that the "IT" guy at my work (no, not the office hottie; the "Information & Technology" guy) came over to my computer and said, "Here, let me show you."

It was like a slow motion disaster...I spun my chair around, and not quickly enough, to find him Googling "Scabies" under the "IMAGE" search. Go ahead. Do that now. See what comes up. One caution: use your home computer, as the images that appear are not the kind that family business will deem appropriate.

That's right: right there on my school computer were visions of the favorite places where these bugs like to hide - in the genitalia. Now if I'm looking at genitalia, I don't want to see seven kinds of nasty on said body parts. I particularly do not want to see this at work. I particularly do not want an electronic record that an image search on my school computer included one where penises and breasts are featured. Nice. Thanks IT guy

akoljdo;rfioawerj

Did I mention that next term I will be teaching a course out at the local private college? Nothing big - Writing 123 (aka "The Research Paper"). I think I'll be paid in pigs and chickens. But I'm not really doing this for the money (if I were doing anything for the money, I'd want it to take a lot less time and be a lot more enjoyable).

Anyway, I should feel more excited and happy about this opportunity. Instead, I feel really scared. It's not that I'm afraid to do the job because I know I could teach that course in my sleep. The fact is that if I pursue a college professor career - as I have always wanted to do - at some point I'll have to also pursue that Doctorate degree. Have you looked at what it takes to get a doctorate in English or Humanities lately?

Tackling the course work does not scare me...the "being proficient" in one or more languages - to the degree of being able to translate passages in works in said language - does. The fact is, I only have a working knowledge of Spanish. I would be expected to know French or German (I might be able to squeeze by with Latin) to the "proficient" degree. I find "translating" very difficult. It's hard for me to transpose from Spanish to English and catch everything. I don't know if I would do much better with written work. Bahhhhhhhh!

Or I could simply choose to be an adjunct for pennies for the rest of my life.

"Please, Sir, I want some more [porridge]."

The Game

Lining the street like eager children waiting to scurry into it and gather up the candy tossed at a parade, so the craftsman style houses and cape-cod bungalows seemed to stand lit up in the regalia of the season. Fresh-cut limbs shaped into wreaths adorned the doors with more limbs and velvety ribbons carefully wrapped around porch railings. Inside, candles, garlands of popcorn and cranberries, and sparkly glass ornaments decorated the freshly-cut-from-the-forest evergreen trees. It was the Christmas season of 1938.

But shouts of glee and laughter – the chatter of happy children and families - were nowhere to be heard that damp dark evening; the streets chilled with an unusual quiet.

I gathered the children around me – none of my own; these were the few from the nearby neighborhood who had hidden well when the soldiers came and emptied their homes. Eight or ten little survivors in all, I pulled them close. “Children,” I whispered, “let’s play a game.” I looked into the round, frightened eyes of each child, and touched a pale cheek or patted a head in an effort to give what little comfort I could as I spoke. There they stood tired and weary looking in their long worn wool coats with bare hands sticking out from the sleeves. I couldn’t linger any longer.

“We are the hiders and they are the seekers, but instead of each of us finding our own hiding spot, we will hide all together. It is very important for you to be quiet – don’t make a sound. No matter what happens, be brave. Listen to what I say children – not a sound, and follow me.”

The truth was, I didn’t know where we were going. We couldn’t stay. If we stayed, that meant certain death for all of us. All I knew is that we had to make our way out of the city. Like mice scurrying into hiding when caught scavenging for food in the darkness, so we moved down the street in the shadows as we were hungry to find safety in the night.

“Halt!” From what we hoped was far down the street, a shout pierced the silence of the shadows. I whispered, “Remember the game, children! Quickly and quietly!”

Not wasting a second to look behind me and judge the distance between the soldiers and us, I looked only ahead and by chance (or fate) recognized a familiar house. “Look, children,” I directed in low tones. “The white house to your left. Don’t stop to knock. Go right in and out through the French doors to the back yard. Make your way to back of the big pine tree.”

To our fortune, although no one was home, the door was not locked just as I prayed it would not be. I made a mental note that unlocked doors would not be a part of life in the near future, but I would keep my door unlocked just in case someone again needed refuge.

Quickly we slipped into the house and out to the other side. Just as we were making our way up the hidden steps at the back of the tree, the soldiers burst through the front door of the house. It took us mere seconds to get up the tree and rest in that darkness. Deeply hidden there, we could not be seen.

For many years, I cried in shame over my loss of innocence in that tree. I was eleven. Tommy was fifteen. My brothers and I used to play with Tommy in the wooded acres between our neighborhoods – I was always tagging along when they went to catch salamanders or to throw rocks into the creek. Then one day Tommy wanted to show me his secret hiding place in the tree behind his house. The branches were large enough to hold a box of wood three meters across, and the pine needles on the branches were long and dense enough as to hide that box.

I never told, and I never played with Tommy again.

Where once I cursed his street and his house and his tree and his hidden box, the thought that lost innocence would be the tender for salvation of these few somehow made me smile. My heart was still heavy, but it felt different.

“Quietly, children. Not a word. You’ve played this game with mastery – such good little players. Won’t your friends be jealous when they learn how well you’ve mastered the game?”

From the darkness in the box in the tree, without a sound the children and I peered out at the small group of soldiers. These were not men hardened and broken by hatred as I had imagined them to be. Instead, they were nearly children themselves. One boy didn’t look a day over fifteen – maybe fourteen. Another was a little taller – he couldn’t have possibly been older than sixteen. All of their uniforms fit long and bulky – as if they were playing dress up with the clothes found in daddy’s closet. Rifles hung from their shoulders with ease – not the typical care or decorum taken by a seasoned soldier with his firearm.

For a few minutes, they poked around in the back yard, and then the lot of them – four or five (it was difficult to tell in the darkness) – gravitated toward a large pile of wood chips on the other side of the yard. I couldn’t guess why the pile of wood chips was there or how it came into being, but I didn’t care about the origin. It was a distraction for the young soldiers.

First, one scooped up a handful of the chips and threw them at an older boy. Another joined in on the assault. Pretty soon, they all cast their rifles aside and flung themselves into the serious play of wood chip throwing. Pushing, shoving, rolling in the wood chips had them thoroughly occupied.

I took advantage of that moment to begin lowering the children to the safety of the yard behind Tommy’s house.


I don’t know what happened next – that’s when I woke up suddenly. Put that in your Freud pipe and smoke it! These are the very real and crazy type of dreams I have.