I am here!

Oh my. I don't even think you want to know the details, but I'm sure the story will unravel over the coming weeks.

The short story is that we left Austin on June 5 rather than June 4 (it took a little longer for us to pack and get rid of stuff than we had hoped), and that gave us roughly 2.75 days to drive to Sacramento. That's right: 12 hour driving days in a moving truck and van stuffed with stuff, children, a dog, and a cat.

The best part of the move was that 15-20 people from our church were here waiting to unload and unpack our stuff upon arrival. Too bad Bob the property manager had his ring tone on "low" - but we only had to wait around an hour and a half for him to finally check the 20 voice messages and texts that Poetroad had been frantically sending him.

And we only had one incident of "poopee" [the three year old's description of diarrhea; she had no idea that her body could do such a thing]. Fortunately, we were only 15 minutes from the hotel.

I do love the location of the house we are renting. Cute exterior too. Great floor plan. The older two each finally get to have her own space.

There was only one teeny problem with the house. Okay...there are a few problems with the house. Let me put it to you this way: last night, I sanitized the closet in the Master Bedroom, and I scrubbed no less than three body fluids off the walls. Not to mention that the previous family dog used this closet - and all of the carpeted floors - as its personal bathroom.

Thankfully, I've convinced the landlord that he needed to replace the carpets. The upstairs will finally be fully re-carpeted today! In another week, the most offensive downstairs carpeting will be gone too.

There is more - but I will save that for another day...

I'm still here!

Don't go away, dear readers! There is much blogging to be done for sure, but between the packing and the packing - well, you understand.

When did I acquire all of this junk, by the way? If someone were to use a little accelerant and strike a match to it all, well, I wouldn't be sad.

Good news - the washer is fixed. It turns out that when a scarf, loose change, and sticks work their way into the motor, the motor for some reason stops working. Lucky for us, we bought the extended warranty. I'll have to be more diligent in checking pockets.

Speaking of laundry, before the washer could be fixed, I had the pleasure visiting the "Laundry Mat" east of where I live. It's the closest coin operated laundry in the vicinity, and I had to drive 25 minutes to get there. Crazy. Anyway, my two eldest accompanied me, and I hadn't realized how sheltered they were until that little adventure. This was a clean place too (well, not counting the inch layer of dust on the CEILING). So they gawked a bit. I don't know why. There were only two shirtless homeless guys hanging out on the bench out front, and two guys giving each other back rubs inside the place. They had their shirts on.

Anyway, more stories to tell when I get a chance - oh, and the inquisition. Thanks, Peter. :)

My Week So Far...

Two projects and reports due for daughters one and two;
Me up half the night Tuesday going poo;
Can not find a rental in Cali to move into;
Washer broke since Monday - too much laundry to do;
Cross your fingers that repair man will follow through.

Oh. Yes. I did.

Ok, ok. I haven't always been fashion savvy. I admit that. I don't know what happened in the 90s. Really. There was that grunge phase. Then there were the oversize vests. And jeans that were baggy and belted at the chest. Stirrup pants. Yeah. I wore it all.

But something happened at the turn of the century. I got rid of the frumpy wardrobe and opted to wear the hip and cool fashions. Well, hip and cool for a woman in her thirties.

This week, however, I think I bobbled the ball. Fumbled even. I bought these shorts:



To my defense, these are ultra low rise shorts, and I bought them from Old Gravy. I mean Navy.

Nevertheless, they are jean shorts. Jean shorts. Might as well slap an elastic waist band in there and call me "Ma."

And look at the pockets. Look how they cut across the front of the shorts. Those have got to be the most unflattering type of pockets available for a woman shaped like me - a pear.

You know what the worse part of this whole sit-chi-a-shun is? I put on the jean shorts, and they were comfortable. Darn it! And, AND, AND...even though I purchased the shorts in the size I normally wear, the shorts were very loose fitting. Which, of course, made me think, "Hey, I'm getting skinny again."

Double darn!

So I guess I'm keeping the shorts. Oh, I tell myself that I'll dress them up by wearing a hip Abercrombie or Hollister top, or, better yet, I'll pair them with some of my nouveau Punk wear. My fear is, though, that there will be a day that I'm feeling kind of tired or won't be thinking straight, and I'll throw on a baggy t-shirt and the jean shorts.

It's a slippery slope friends. Please, God, no. Tell me I'm not going down.

Brains or brawn?

If you were caught in a dark alley, who would you choose to come to your rescue: Chuck Norris or Stephen Seagal?

Sure,Seagal might look all muscley under that dark suit, but - let's be honest - he couldn't act his way out of an invisible box. I always joke with Poetroad that "Executive Decision" is his best movie...because his character dies in the first twenty minutes of the film. I know that Seagal acts (*cough*, *cough*)[delivering the lines "Check out these moves" and then slapping a sloppy kiss on his co-star is hardly acting]. I was sent this visual the other day as a testimony to his versatility as an actor:


Also, Seagal produces, writes, and, supposedly, is a musician too. Plus he has some serious karate skills.

Chuck Norris, on the other hand, acts, produces, writes, AND sings the lyrics to the "Walker Texas Ranger" theme song. He was a fighter AND a has a Martial Arts career. Plus he is the poster boy for "The Total Gym."

What say you? Who is the best - Norris or Seagal?

Kiddie Rhymes

These are the rhymes from your childhood used to help you choose a flavor of lollipop or a teammate for kickball. You know how they go:

"Eenie meenie minie mo, catch a tiger by his toe..."

"Ink a bink a bottle of ink, the cork fell out and you stink..."

Well, my six year old brought home this one the other day:

"Micky Mouse peed in the house. What color was it?"

Priceless.

Marathon Girlz

Ch@ndy is in, Dalene is in, I am in, and possible one or two others are in. Why not consider joining us?

Here is the plan so far: Ch@ndy and I (and others) will attempt a practice marathon this fall - possibly this marathon in Sacramento. Dalene will be attempting to redeem the Chicago marathon experience that was utterly disasterous last year (if you remember, high temperatures caused officials to shut down the marathon early. Dalene was on mile 20 when that happened. Can you believe it?!!! All of that hard work down the toilet!!). And then all of us girlz will converge in 2009 to tackle a marathon together. Yay!!!

Speaking of toilets, Dalene (the expert racer here) has been generous enough to share her "marathons for novices" linky links, and - by far - I've found this article to be most useful:
Runner's diarrhea: How can I prevent it?

Sweet! Perhaps I won't have to invest in those thong running diapers Ch@ndy and I have been meaning to invent.

Happy Mother's Day Moms (and Dads who are both mom and dad)

And now for your reading pleasure, a Mother's Day poem penned by my 10 year old daughter, Kylie:

"If My Mom Were in Charge of the World"
(adapted by Kylie so that it talks about her mom)


If my Mom were in charge of the world
She'd cancel messy houses,
High taxes,
High gas prices
And also arguing.

If my Mom were in charge of the world
Soccer would be more popular,
Everything in the store would be on sale,
Everyone would get out of the house and exercise more.

If my Mom were in charge of the world
She wouldn't have too many toys in the house.
She wouldn't have the TV on for more than two hours.
Or "Be nice to your sister!"
You wouldn't even have any yelling.

If my Mom were in charge of the world
Curling up with a good book all day would be OK.
And everyone would be quiet while she read.
And a person who sometimes forgot to empty the dishwasher,
And sometimes didn't like to fold clothes,
Would still be allowed to be
In charge of the world.

That's my Kylie; she has a knack for telling it like it really is.

Speaking of hotness...

Yesterday it got up to 95 degrees here. My middle schooler had to run several races for the "mini-Greek Olympics" at school. The kids were outside all day in the hotness, and there wasn't a lick of shade at the track.

Don't worry, though. My daughter said that only three kids fainted.

Oh, and she won second in the 100, third in the 200, and her team was first in the 50 yard relay (I know! They hardly had a chance to pass the baton to the next teammate let alone run a few steps!).

In other news, I won "hottie" of the year and "Mother of the Century" from daughter number two. I'm a winner! Wait until you read the poem she wrote me...

Fisherstine laid down the proposition...

and I said "yes". My buddy from college, Dalene, is a driven woman. She doesn't do anything half-way. In fact, Fisherstine (a nickname that combines her married and maiden names) amazes me at all she has accomplished in her life. I couldn't even list everything as it would take too long, but she is the mom of four, she once owned a coffee shop, she teaches literature, and, more recently, has decided that she would like to run marathons. Last year, she ran her first (is that right, Dalene?). Currently, she is training for the Chicago marathon.

I've never ran a marathon. Heck, I've never ran more than 10 miles. But I need a running goal, so why not make it a marathon? Fisherstine suggested "Big Sur, 2009." While it looks to be a brutal course, why not start there? I gotta start somewhere!

Today, I ran my long run. It kicked my butt. Only 5.5 miles, but a mile of that is up hill. Which I walked. It took me 53 minutes to complete my run. Terrible time, I know. But I've got a whole year to train. And think how much faster my time will be when I can complete this little course without walking!

Big Sur, 2009 - here I come!

Because I could not stop for death, I sent my toothbrush

I heard a fly buzz
then it died on my toothbrush.
I didn't kill it.

It just landed there
and died. Now I have one more
reason to hate flies.

Speaking of poo...

What can I say? I have a three year old that has not mastered the art of pooping in the toilet yet. Or pooping at all. When asked if she needs to go, she replies, "Not now. I poop on Saturday." Well, okay then.

Consequently, much of my day is spent designing fiber-full meals and snacks. And here is one more detail that you didn't want to know: at night, sometimes I have poop dreams. Such as last night...

I had a dream that I was being held captive in an old building with fifty or more other people. I don't know why I was being held captive, but these guys were dressed in black and had guns. The building reminded me of the Reed Opera House in Salem, only there were more rooms on the main floor. Also, one of the bathrooms had only one toilet, and the other down side was that there were three entrances to the bathroom - all glass doors that could not be locked from the inside.


In this dream, I needed to go, well, poo, of course. The problem was that the only unoccupied toilet was this toilet described above. The guard insisted in being in there with me, which I didn't like at all. Not one little bit. But I couldn't wait any longer, so I agreed to allow him to be my chaperon.

Just as I was getting ready to...go...a whole lotta commotion was going on outside the door. One of my old high school friends burst in from the hallway. "Can't a girl get any privacy!" I screamed, and then I burst out the door on the other side of the room with chaperon in tow.

There must be another bathroom here that is more private, I said to myself. And then I remembered that there was a little unfinished bathroom on the top floor of the building. On the way, I convinced the chaperon that privacy was necessary because I would never be able to...go...with him in the room.

When I got in the room, I notice that there was a sky light above the scaffolding that would have been obscured by a drop ceiling had the bathroom been finished. I began scheming how I might be able to climb up there and open the sky light...

And then I woke up.

Now I'm not really a believer in dream interpretation, but I like to look at what this site has to say about dream meanings. Here is their take on several key elements in my dream:

Bathroom
To dream that you are in the bathroom, relates to your instinctual urges. You may be experiencing some burdens/feelings and need to "relieve yourself". Alternatively, it may symbolize purification and self-renewal. You need to cleanse yourself, both emotionally and psychologically.

To dream that you are in a public restroom with no stalls, signifies your frustrations about getting enough privacy. It may also indicate that you are having difficulties letting go of old emotions. If you reveal these feelings, you are afraid that others around you will judge and criticize you.

Toilet
To see a toilet in your dream, symbolizes a release of emotions or getting rid of something in your life that is useless.

Hostage
To dream that you are a hostage, indicates that you are feeling victimized and powerlessness. You may also be feeling limited in your choices or physically immobilized. Perhaps this dream is paralleling some situation/difficulties in your daily life or relationship. Alternatively, it suggests that a part of yourself is not be fully expressed.

Escape
To dream that you escape from jail or some place of confinement, signifies your need to escape from a restrictive situation or attitude. On the other hand, it may mean that you are taking an escapist attitude and are refusing to face up to problems that are not going away.

To dream that you escape from injury, from an animal, or from any situation, signifies your good health and prosperity. You will experience a favorable turn of events.

If you've read this far, you are either really bored or really bored.

Anyway, some or all of the above could be true. Or, more likely, I am frustrated that I cannot successfully potty train child number 4. I have learned in this process, however, that to make this potty training thing a control issue is NOT a good idea. Punishment only causes the child to retain the poop more. We don't want that! We want the poop to come out. We don't really care where it comes out at this point - as long as it comes out more frequently than just on Saturdays.

Okay, I'm making this situation sound worse than it is. It isn't all that bad, really. Slowly we are making progress. She isn't afraid to poop, and that's a relief.

A sale that keeps on giving

A few months ago, we received - and had to wear - t-shirts from Poetroad's job here that read (something to the effect) "Together as One" in bold blue letters across the front of the shirt. The design slightly resembled one of those popular 80s tees that said "FRANKIE SAYS RELAX." Those were cool shirts in the 80s.

I sold our shirts at the garage sale for a dollar each to a nice fellow that looked like he was a hard worker - possibly he works in construction or for a lawn care service. Great price for t-shirts that were only worn once.

One day, he will, perhaps, be mowing a lawn or doing some other odd job for a member of our former congregation. Maybe he will be cleaning out a garage (did you know you can hire someone to do that for 50 dollars an hour around here? I tried to get Poetroad to mention that I could clean garages, but he didn't want me cleaning out a garage for someone that went to our church...). Or maybe he will be one of the guys hired to drive the church shuttle on Sunday morning. Shuttle driving is not volunteer work here. They pay guys to do that.

I hope he will be wearing his "Together as One" t-shirt on that day. Oh, what I would give to see that.

Remind me never to do that again.

Friends don't let friends have garage sales.

I am completely exhausted because I had a garage sale on Saturday from 8-2. It took me all week to get ready for said sale, and by getting ready I mean to say I sorted through my junk. That was the most exhausting part of the process! And embarrassing - mostly because my older, wiser friend and neighbor Liz came over on Friday to help me sort through the junk in my garage.

Yikes. No one needed full disclosure of what kind of nonsense I neglect to throw away, but here is a partial disclosure: old magazines, junk mail, broken stuff, boxes full of stuff that I never unpacked from the last move.

Regardless of the humiliation, I must say that it was much easier to purge the garage with a friend. When Liz came across something that needed to be tossed, she didn't even need to say anything. She only needed to give me the *what in the heck are you keeping this for???* look.

I'll miss Liz!

Let me also mention that if you plan to have a garage sale, just use Cr@ig's List. By advertising on that site alone, I had more attendees than I have ever had at a garage sale before - and I know many of these people had to drive 30 or more minutes to get here.

So I'll spare you the dirty - but amusing - details. Know that I only slept four hours the night before, and know that if you mix an Armenian woman that bargains aggressively with a bargaining savvy Hispanic crowd, fun stuff happens. I bow in honor of their cultural intuitive abilities to wager a deal.

The best part of all of this is that I got rid of much stuff. And I've lost my ability to attach sentimental value to things. Almost.

Waiting

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to get a flat tire. In the parking lot at my daughter's school. The middle school. I never liked going to middle school the first time around 25 years ago. I like it even less when I have to sit in a parking lot for an hour with my three year old waiting for a guy to come and help me change the flat tire. Actually, there wasn't any helping involved. He changed the tire all by himself. And, I was parked next to one of the few shade trees in the lot. That was nice.

In theory, I could have changed that tire all by myself, but towing around a three year old complicates things a bit. Those three year olds know little to nothing about personal space, and the tire changing scenario is no place to teach that lesson. Plus, we have a Triple A membership. Thought I should cash in on that.

So after I rearranged the original dental appointments, the 3 year old and I waited at the tire place for the unfixable tire to be replaced (my decision, not theirs). The tread was really worn, and we are planning to drive to California in a few weeks. I thought I might as well take care of that and get the necessary alignment so that the right front tire doesn't wear down to the nubbins again. For an hour and a half, we kept the other "waiters" and the tire guys pleasantly amused by performing a improvisational dance routine choreographed by the three year old.

Those tires were slapped on just in time for me to dash over to the middle school one more time (carefully avoiding the parking place where we picked up two nails in the tire the first time around), retrieve the 12 year old, and dash over to the dental office. Only to wait again. This time, we waited 30 minutes. And then the three year old and I waited another hour on top of that. Luckily, we sneaked over to Wendy's for part of that time as I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and her daily food intake since breakfast consisted of 3 lollipops.

Today, the 10 year old had her turn at the dentist's office. More waiting. This time we were in that office 2 1/2 hours from start to finish. Don't ask. It's too complicated and boring to tell the story behind that one.

The amazing part of all of this waiting is that the three year old didn't melt down once. Not once. Even though she was tired and hungry and thirsty the whole time. We spent over six hours sitting around waiting for stuff to happen over the last two days. I am lucky if I get six hours of sleep a night.

And now we are patiently waiting for the end of May to come so that we can be reunited with Poetroad. I hope I don't throw a tantrum between now and then. Cross your fingers.

Silver Lining

To be fair, the last few weeks were not a total bust. Two weekends ago, we drove to Houston to visit CJ. We spent one day at the NASA Space Center. Poetroad was in heaven. Here he is posing with the astronauts:



Here is the actual control room used for all of the earliest launches - including the infamous Apollo 13:



And, Hannah and I went for another mountain biking adventure. This time we traversed the trail at Muleshoe Bend Park. Let me tell you, this ride was definitely more enjoyable than our trek at Reimer's Ranch. We still had to navigate some steep inclines and rocky terrain, but neither of us were near the "puking tired" exhaustion that we were on our last little biking adventure. Here we are biking. We took a short rest next to Lake Travis. Notice the trees growing out of the water in the final picture.





Poetroad also got to visit the Mecca of left-handed guitar players while in Houston: Southpaw Guitars. It was a surreal day for him to say the least. Good times!

Another Meme - consider yourself tagged

Besides spending my day trying to rid the house of burnt potato smell (darn microwave never worked right in this house!), cleaning house, taking kids to this that and the other place, fetching forgotten projects and taking those to school too, calling and receiving calls from the dentist and the coach and the school, and sorting through and packing crap so that I can move in a month...there isn't really much to do around here. lol

Anyhow, it's much more fun to blog and ignore my duties for a few more minutes at least.

Sooooo, with that in mind...if *I* can take a second to play, you can too. Here is a meme from Aerin's blog In Search of Giants. Play along if you want.

Side note: some of y'all, friends, really need to create a public blog so you can play along too!

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences, uhm, sentences six, seven and eight.
5. Tag five people and post a comment to the blogger who tagged you.

My nearest book is totally boring. It is Write Source 2000 - not even the latest version, I am sure!

Here is the text:

Also, try writing about your work to sort out your thoughts and feelings about it. See what your classmates and teacher think of your writing. And make sure to consult your handbook for advice and writing models.

There you have it. Now it is your turn.

I'm officially old: The Hollister Experience

Being the sensitive mother I am to the plight of her tween, I finally succumbed to her incessant begging and ventured into Hollister to see if there might be something I could nab off of the clearance shelf. I remember what it was like in the sixth grade to be one of the only girls in school who did not own a pair of the coveted Sticky Fingers or San Fransisco jeans.

For all of you oldies (specifically, anyone who is over thirty or acts over thirty) - and for those who do not have a teen or tween in the house, Hollister is a brand of clothing. While Hollister caters to the preppies ("Dudes" and "Bettys"), it's the rich surfer look that defines the Hollister style. But instead of branding their products with a cute little alligator, a majestic eagle, or a pony riding polo player, their clothing is emblazoned with a seagull. I hate seagulls - more like sea rats. As any land lubber knows, seagulls - beyond being annoying - are also the poster animal of the garbage dump.

I digress...

As you've probably guessed, I'm not all that "into" branding or brand names, although I do appreciate that some brands signify "quality" and "attention to detail" over other brands. Still, is it necessary to charge $39.00 for a skimpy thin cotton tee that probably cost $1.95 to make? Not to mention the fact that somewhere in Peru or Vietnam is a sweatshop where the calloused yet nimble fingers of eight year olds work tirelessly to create said product?

I digress again...

Still, to know Hollister is to visit the store, which an oldie like you or me might have trouble finding at first considering that the store entrance is made to look like an old surf shack, and the store name is hidden somewhere beneath the fake palm branch jutting out of the fake weathered pier stump.

Once you enter the store, you'll notice that the music is really loud. No. REALLY loud. REALLY, REALLY loud. "I can't hear my own thoughts" loud. And this is coming from someone who is a rocker at heart and likes to listen to loud music...

Next you'll notice that the store is really smelly. Overpoweringly smelly. The kind of smell you would expect to be overwhelmed with at a martini bar frequented by single 40 something men drenched in Polo cologne. In fact, if you have chemical sensitivity, then stay away from this store (and the martini bar at happy hour on Thursday nights).

And, you'll notice that it is very dark in there. Only a few display tables and shelves are lucky enough to be illuminated by the canned lighting.

My Hollister visit was nothing less than memorable. I found the store, covered my ears, ignored the smell, and was able to feel my way to the back room where clearance items always are in any store. Quickly, I grabbed two shirts, pushed past the dense fake palm branches, and made my way to the checkout counter. At the counter, the sales boy mumbled something - well, his lips were moving, and I keenly deduced that he was actually speaking. Nevertheless, I could not hear over the din, so I smiled and nodded. He said something else (at least I think he did as his lips were again moving), left for a few seconds, and returned with another shirt just like the one I chose. I guessed that there was some problem with the tag of shirt number one, and nodded as I thought I heard him say "same size."

After I made my purchase, I returned home only to discover that he gave me the same size in the WRONG shirt. Both were yellow tank tops, but the patterns and styles were totally different. Which meant I would have to return to the store AGAIN. Mistake or marketing ploy? Hmmmm...

My second visit to Hollister was pretty much identical to the first, but this time I brought three of the four daughters. I let the two younger kids run amok. The sales girls seemed unaffected by our disruptive presence as they were too busy spraying the shirts with cologne.

To be fair, the sales girls and boys were very sweet. Mostly, they tried to hide their surprise at our aberration from normal shopping trends. Not one shouted,"Go back to Old Navy where you belong!" I made my exchange, we felt our way to the exit, and smiled and nodded at the sales girls at the entrance/exit as their silent moving lips indicated a "good-bye, shop here again" farewell.

The Beginning of The End

It's really happening. We are moving to California. Today, Poetroad began the journey to Sacramento. His new job begins next Monday.

I have to be honest. Leaving Austin is like breaking up with a lover who is no good for you. You know you *have* to leave, but every fiber in your being wants to stay. Poetroad and I have never been so attached to a place. It's a very strange feeling. I know Poetroad's heart aches. There are a lot of people here who are artists like us. You know - weirdos. We fit in here well.

That being said, Austin is just a city. Life will go on. Sacramento awaits, and there are memories to be made there.

So on our last night here, we went out to eat at a place that could be called "Austin Authentic" - The County Line: Home of the Big Rib. Notice the statue of the two headed calf on top of the building.



Here is Poetroad eating a big rib. Mmmmm! Tasty!



Definitely eat at The County Line if you are ever in Austin. Beware of one tiny detail, though: if you are looking for healthy options on the menu, this is not the restaurant for you. Vegetable dishes include potatoes (mashed or fried), baked beans, coleslaw or salad. They do not serve fruit. Make sure you order a plate of homemade bread for your appetizer - it's delicious. For the main course, I recommend the brisket or the ribs.

On Time

Being "on time" is overrated. Most of us got the finger-wagging-stern-reprimand as children to be "on time" *or else*. Or else you won't ever be hired...you won't keep a job...you won't have any friends...you won't succeed in life...yadda, yadda, yadda.

I've been to the dentist more times this past month than I have in five years. Not once has my dentist been "on time" to my appointment. Once she called and said, "We are running behind, so don't come in for another half hour." When I got there, I still had to wait in the waiting room another half hour. But this isn't new to any of you. How many hours, do you suppose, you've wasted in the waiting room at the doctor's or dentist's office? Are they all a bunch of losers because they are constantly late? If so, I want to be a loser like that.

JG was only late once this week, by the way. So as long as she wants to be a doctor or a dentist, she will do just fine in life. Or she could be an artist. Everyone expects artists to be in their own little world anyway.