Crazy Question

Hello all. Does anyone know the name of a good psychic or tarot card reader? I'm looking to make a decision on something, and I figure one more crazy opinion wouldn't hurt. No, this is not a joke. And I don't have time to make it onto the Montel Williams show for a chat with Sylvia Browne. I need something quicker than that!

False Advertising

I'm not that distracted.

As you may or may not be aware, the dishtowels here at my house are often shanghaied into destruction/construction clean-up services. In an effort to prevent that from occurring after this most recent....event (yes, there is no official name yet)(it's not like the wall that was put up in time for a baseball game), I bought a package of cleaning cloths from the store that uses a circle around a circle as it's logo. Bull--something. I'm sure you know what I mean. On the front of the package there was a description underneath the neatly printed label. But, this is where I wonder what advertisers think the public is smoking and drinking. I can assure them that whatever it is, it's not stong enough for us to believe:

nothing beats the feeling of clean. when everything is bright and sparkly. when the past is washed away and you have a fresh, new start. when your life is spotless and the possibilities are endless.

Did you puke yet? There's more, but I'll spare you. And me. You know how much I dislike puke. I just needed these cleaning cloths to save my dishtowels from become rags. They are not going to transform my life. I am not going to sigh in bliss when these cloths are filled with billions of sawdust particles and random dirt. I will mutter (possibly curse words) from exhaustion and maybe get something (strong) to drink.

As a second part to this rant about advertising, I'm beginning to think that perhaps the creative people who come up with some of the ways to sell us stuff are hiding the good liquor in their desks at work. And they must not get out much. It has to take ages to come up with some of this. Because paint names, have you noticed, are quite deceptive? Names that, in reality, should be diarrhea diaper, backyard pond slime, and muddy river spume... they become raked leaves, crocodile, and river bank. I believe my new wall color is a combination of all three--the three good names, not their real names. I guess putrid pellicle would NOT sell many gallons of paint.

pellicle (n.): a thin skin or film on the surface of a liquid

just distracting enough

Road Trips Gone Bad.


I'm sure that all of us have endured at least one road trip that was meant to be one of the best, if not THE best, trip that you were supposed to take with the person or people you were with but somehow the fun of the trip managed to go terribly wrong.
So what's my horrible road trip story?
Well, the one that take the cake would be the family reunion that happened in Indiana a couple years back. The one that involved us having to take trips back and forth from a street in the city to get people back home, and then when we had to take everybody's favorite aunt home, some punk kid puked on the windshield because he was so wasted - -even though he was NOT old enough to be that wasted.... Oh yes... Do we remember the stories of this trip, sisters?

Well, tonight was a minor mishap road trip that made me think of that horrible night for no apparent reason. And now sisters, you will have to endure my horrible story telling as I share my minor mishap. A trip to the river walk in Naperville. Harmless enough. The ride there was somewhat crazy because Kyle's friend does NOT know how to drive, but they're kinda crazy together anyway. [Even though we took two cars, we had to follow Kyle's friend because neither of us were positive on how to the river walk.] There was also a little mishap with the lights inside of Kyle's car, but, no harm, no foul - -it was still daylight. So, we arrive at the river walk, splash in the fountain a little before heading down to the actual water, walk along the river [of course], threaten to throw one another in the river, sit under a little gondola and watch the water and some cars and bikes go by, etc. etc. So what exactly went wrong on this trip? The lights... oh yes. We discovered we had no tail lights from a nice little policeman on the way home. [Thankfully this officer didn't give out a ticket or anything because that would have been horrible in more than one way.] So Kyle and I pulled into a darkened gas station so he could see if he could change the fuse for it, but no go. In fact, he blew 2 fuses. We had headlights and brake lights though, so we managed to make it home with Kyle's friend behind us, letting us know what exactly we were doing. [And for the record, if he were to flash his lights at you, that would mean go faster. If he opened and closed his headlights though, well, we never figured out what that one meant.]

So you see, tonight wasn't horrible, just a minor mishap that didn't kill the moment, but was just distracting enough.

So dare I ask: What are your "just distracting enough" moments?

Nothing too much.

Can you believe it's almost August already?

Anyway, I went to the zoo Tuesday, and it was pretty fun! Thankfully it wasn't really gross or anything, but we didn't stay overly long - -I think about 3 hours or something because a certain someone who came along was kinda lame and slacking, but it was still fun and that's all that matters!

Oh, and by the way, I guess this is more for Martha, but just in case anyone else was wondering:
Bear Market: A prolonged period in which investment prices fall, accompanied by widespread pessimism.

Haha, I seriously Googled it when I got home that night, I just never got around to telling you I found out what it was!

Blue Tape

Enough With the Millstones

I've been thinking a lot about blue tape lately. And that's not just because I've been taping and painting the new walls and old trim, nor because I've been thinking about a name for a Sister run painting business (even though I do think Blue Tape Crazy Sister Painters would be a fun name). I've been thinking that it would be nice to have more situations in life where we could run into Blue Tape instead of Red Tape.

There should just be some situations where you say, "I want the Blue Tape Line," and everything would go right--like when your wallet gets stolen, or a fire destroys your house. In the Blue Tape Line, you wouldn't have to explain more than once that your picture ID was STOLEN, or that you don't have your insurance policy because your HOME BURNED DOWN. You could give your mother's maiden name, your childhood pet's name, your (super secret) social security number, and your signature (which matches the one on file)...and the ball would start rolling. You would not have to do the what-else-do-I-have-to-do polka over and over. And over.

millstone (n.): something that hinders or handicaps

Time and Values

Sisters, have any of you ever reached a point in your lives when a situation has totally gotten the better of you and you knew it was time to just throw in the towel and walk away? If you walked away, did you feel better? Or worse? Did you feel like a quitter? Guilty? How did you cope with the fallout?

This is coming from the fact that I am burned out. Poof. All energy gone. At least, during the day my energy is gone. My job is sucking the life out of me. It has less to do with the job and more to do with the environment. I used to enjoy getting up for work, heading to the office, and bouncing through my eight hours. Now, I dread going to bed at night, because I know I have to go to work in the morning. I'm ready to just walk away. That is NOT a good thing.

My husband and I do okay financially, but sometimes, I just wish we could be independently wealthy. Then, I could quit my day job and stay home with my little girl, but I could still keep myself mentally stimulated by teaching at night—which I do now and absolutely enjoy. With no money worries, I could buy my husband that set of golf clubs he’s been pining for (for two years now) and he could get himself a manly pick-up truck to use on days when his fuel-efficient family car leaves him feeling old and boring.

I could spend more time gardening and landscaping. I could finally volunteer my time at a shelter or local park. I could even plan fabulous family dinners every night!

I would donate more often to the causes that mean a lot to me and my family—St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital, the CAP Fund and the Jimmy V Foundation.

I would donate to my church so they could reduce their debt, and even donate a little more so they could add a crying room for the little ones who can’t quite make it through a full mass.

I could do all of that. I would do all of that.

And as I sit here writing this, I realize that my job-related headache is why I want to be independently wealthy. It’s not about oodles of money for fancy houses, boats, cars, jewelry, etc. It’s about focusing on my values and having the time and energy to devote to the things that are the most important to me—family and helping others.

I’m not just burned out. I’m sad, too. Sad, because there are people all around the world, just like me, who yearn for the same things, and also just like me, trudge to and from a job everyday to keep a home and food available. Is this what “living” is really all about? I can’t help but think that we’re missing out on something. Something amazing. Something I know I could have, if only I could afford it. And that makes me the most sad, I think…all that we sacrifice in order to be able to “afford” our values.

Good Giggle

Do you have days that are just dragging on and on...and on and on...and then you suddenly think of something that just makes you laugh? I had that happen today in the middle of CPR training. I was trying to stay awake, and I suddenly thought of a clip from a movie (help me out--I don't remember the name of it) where Ben Stiller was a pseudo-superhero named Mr. (or maybe Captain?) Furious, and he gets all mad and lets out this constipated-sounding roar. I busted out laughing. One of those good belly laughs that don't stop until your ribs ache and tears are running down your cheeks. The instructor thought I was crazy. Little did she know how accurate she was...

Then, to make matters worse, I was on a break and ran to the bathroom. I caught my reflection and saw a fuzz or something in my hair. I went to brush it away, only it turned out not to be fuzz. It was a small cluster of gray roots, which have been completely destroyed--just not with scissors or a 2 x 4. HA!

Crazy AND old. Bad combination.

Brusha, Brusha, Brusha

He's got brushability.

I just want to say, it's Wednesday in Hawaii...

Anyway, the other day, I'm walking past the bathroom and I froze, mid-stride, to observe the amazing ingeniousness of the four-year-old mind. My foot was mid-air, my arms paused, one up, one down, and my jaw dropped to Mary Poppins "we are not a codfish" warning level. There he was, his superhero spinbrush toothbrush whirling away--taking care of his own personal grooming in that special only-a-boy way--in his hair!

And later, as I'm recounting the story, my darling girl, overhearing what happened, says in the best imitation of MacStewart (but now that I think about it, it was real)
disgust, "Ugh! I brush my teeth with that toothbrush!"

(Dammit. Fred just splashed water on the laptop.)(And he's too big to flush.)

here's your word...brushability (n.): ease of application with a brush

I wonder....

Sisters, are they (MacStewarts) jealous people?

Henny-Penny, I think the sky is falling...

...there was no Wednesday Word!


And so, I make this humble offering:

sophistifunked so·phis·ti·funk·d (n.)
1. the state of being both sophisticated and funky






(All right, you caught me: sophistifunked is not a real word (yet). But doesn't it need to be)?

Rage Re-Defined

Usually, when I'm really angry with someone, I let loose with a flood of words--or worse, I'm dead silent. This is only dangerous because it means that I'm silently plotting how to get even with whoever has done me wrong. A few days ago, this all changed. Words or silence would not be enough. It could never be enough.

There was an item in my house--a simple item that for nearly a year, every time I looked at it, caused rage to boil up and boil over in my soul. It has caused bile to rise in the back of my throat, my stomach to knot up, my heart to race, my face to flood with color. I couldn't take it anymore.

Could. Not. Take. It.

This offending item had to be removed. It was not enough to hide it. No. It didn't matter if I couldn't see it. I would still know it was there. It was not enough to simply throw it away. It had to be annihilated. Drastic measures were necessary. With the help of a large garbage bag--er, TWO large garbage bags--a two-by-four and a sturdy pair of scissors, I efficiently and effectively rid my home of the offending item. It is gone. And if anyone should ever ask me where it is, I can now honestly say that I don't know. Because I don't. I don't know where things end up after the garbage man takes them.

I was hit with a little pang of guilt as I cut and smashed it to smithereens. After all, it really wasn't my item to destroy. Yet somehow, in its destruction, I felt like I was protecting myself from something evil. Cleansing my home of something impure. And when the garbage man dumped the can in which the destroyed item was housed, I felt an odd sense of relief. Finally. Finally.

Enough With the Sad. How About a Heaping Spoonful of Pride?

Have we talked about this before?
It's almost as if it's a prideful pride, this thing that I suffer from. I mean, if somebody told a lie (or floated some sort of "misinformation") concerning me or some aspect of my life, and anybody who believed it confronted me, I'm so stubborn with pride that I'd raise my eyebrows or say "that's my own concern," instead of making a denial. Maybe it's anger and pride. Do you have it too?

I'm going to get this into my next (or the one after the next) story somehow:
She'd let the world believe the worst about her, because she didn't care. She knew the truth.

Mysteries

I remember taking a quiz in grammar school about the rosary. For some reason, when it came to the Sorrowful Mysteries, I wrote Sourful. The teacher was confounded, but kind. She chose to mark it as a spelling error instead of "incorrect." That memory popped into my head the other day. Sourful. Not a word, but it still has meaning...at least to me.

sorrowful (adj.): full of or marked by sorrow

Peas in a Pod

We were peas in a pod. The three of us. Cousins. All born within four months of each other. The bond of our mothers all being pregnant at the same time trickling down to us. There's a picture of us celebrating Halloween together. Costumed, weary and suspicious. So many things happened for us at the same time: kindergarten, graduations, celebrations of all kind. We eventually went separate ways, but it was always there. The bond. Somehow. I don't know how. But now this. Without warning. One of us...

Gone.

I feel strange. And all I want to keep saying is: But we're too young to die.