Turning the Page

June, already?

I'm supposed to be getting ready for tomorrow, but I don't want to. I don't want to turn the page on the calendar and see the word JUNE. I'm just feeling...

hmmm...I can't find the right words.

And staring at the computer right now is starting to zombify me.

zombify (v.): to turn into a zombie

Doughnut Daze

I'm coming off the worst sugar high of my life.

I'm a reasonable person. I really am. And I'm semi-rational, at least sometimes. But I am also crazy. Really crazy. No, you don't understand. I really am crazy.

I ate nine doughnuts in two days.

Okay, okay, enough with the gagging and fake puking sounds. I know it was gross and sick, and believe me when I say that I FEEL gross and sick, but something really weird came over me, and I went a little crazy--er, well, crazier.

Usually twice a year, I get junk food cravings. Not like PMS cravings. More like sugar-addict cravings. For whatever reason, doughnuts help that craving. It lasts a day or two, I eat a few doughnuts, and I'm good for another six months. Mostly, I figure if I'm eating well for 361 days out of the year, four days of crazy eating isn't too bad. But this was just icky.

I think it had something to do with the fact that the doughnuts were the first "real" food I ate in eleven days. After having my tonsils and adenoids removed (as an adult, no less, and OUCH by the way), I was limited to cold liquids and extremely soft solids. Read: popsicles, jello, ice-cream, and eggs. This was particularly brutal since my sense of smell is now about ten times stronger since the removal of my adenoids. For my daughter's birthday party, I baked a homemade blueberry pie and made cinnamon chips; I also made a huge pot of chili. It all smelled so good, I was practically drooling--and not just because my mouth was still swollen. And oh, curse Fate! I couldn't eat any of it. Not one bite. But at least the guests seemed to like it all.

Finally, after church this past Sunday, I couldn't take it anymore. I stopped at the grocery store on my way home, and when I walked past the bakery section, I was like a woman possessed by the Doughnut Demon. I had to have doughnuts. Had. To. Have. Them. After I got home with the coveted box and graciously offered it to my husband, I went a little nutty. It was food! Real food! It required chewing and even better, I could swallow it with only minimal pain.

The real pain, however, would kick in later as my unsuspecting tummy was assaulted by the good stuff that makes doughnuts so bad.

But it was worth it. It was SO worth it.

Pillow Talk

A Tale of Two Minds

last night, we're discussing writing and various literary elements

HIM: [speaking as if his words are in quotes] "It was the best of both worlds."

ME: [confused look; the question "what?" uttered through my facial expression]

HIM:[smiling] You know...Emily and Charles Dickinson. They wrote poetry and Scrooged.

ME: [laughing so hard that I almost fall off the bed while reaching to turn off the light]

HIM: Don't fall!

ME: [still laughing] Yes, that would be funny--trying to explain to the hospital that I broke my arm falling out of bed, laughing.

HIM: [serious tone] Only your sisters would understand that.

ME: [laughing even harder because he's right!]

LIGHTS OUT

Good-bye, Untrammeled Freedom...

...Good-bye

I knew that it was coming, but it still crept up on me like a bat out of hell. THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. Yesterday was the last day of pre-school. I realized that for the next fifteen weeks, everything I need to get done will have to be done with at least one child by my side. I have a couple of weeks before kindergarten is over, and then I'll have both my darlings to entertain. I'm not worried (too much) because it's going to be a great summer. I have a few things planned to keep the kiddies happy and my sanity intact. What is really funny is how I spent my last two and a half child-free hours.

I dropped off my darling and then I went to a Beverage Depot [side note: they open at 9 in the morning!]. I bought five bottles of wine. But, in true Crazy Sister style, nothing could be that simple. For the third time in resent history (first time was the day after I came home from Brussels last year, second time was in DC this spring), I was carded. I don't understand. I just had another birthday. I don't think I look any younger than I did a few years ago. But, anyway, I didn't have any appropriate identification with me. Even my license was in my other jacket. I had to go back home to get my id. Ugh. Twenty minutes wasted. After I had my beverages secured, I wanted to go shopping. It is NO FUN to go into a fitting room to try on clothes while restless children give you their unsolicited comments, such as: I'm hungry, and This is taking a long time. So, I decided to make up for my lost time by getting on the expressway.

Ha!

That's right. Accident. It took fifteen minutes to go the same distance it normally takes two minutes to travel. I finally arrived at the beautiful outdoor mall only to discover that what I had gone to shop for was nowhere to be found. Blue blouse, how hard is that? My time was running out anyway. I pulled up to the school just in time to join the other parents, grandmas, and nannies picking up their darlings.

Hello, summer.

untrammeled (adj): not limited; unrestrained

Cardboard Catastrophe

I know you'll understand...

Anyone with even a drop of MacStewart in her veins--or anyone who enjoys giving beautifully wrapped gifts-- will understand my horror when I found out:

Someone threw away my box of boxes.





Clans go to war over offenses less than that.

Artists for Hire

here's the ad

Available: two crayonists for all your home decorating needs. Will create elaborate murals on even the smallest of available wall space. Will also enhance furniture with modern artistic elements. No need to stay--can easily work wonders without supervision. Variety of payment options, such as: quarters, small change, snacks, cheap plastic toys, and stray feathers or rocks. Sorry, no clean up after services. Dozens of samples available upon request.

crayonist (n.): one who draws with crayon

Stress Free...Worry Free

Letting it all go...

I try not to worry about too many things. It's too exhausting to worry about stuff over which I have no control. I do, however, try to plan for things as best as I can. But, unfortunately, I do allow myself to get stressed out, especially when things aren't going according to plan. (And there is a difference between worrying and stressing. I swear there is!) Anyway, I saw a great license plate on my lunch break today: y worry. Isn't that great?!

It got me thinking about stuff that's been causing me stress lately--still trying to put my "new" house in order after the great water calamity and the subsequent repairs (and the fact that my vacuum cleaner attachments have mysteriously disappeared), planning my daughter's first birthday party, having surgery tomorrow (yikes!), wondering if I should bite the bullet and make a career change...it's a lot for a gal to consider. But I'm not going to worry about it. I believe that God has a plan for me. Granted, it may not match my plan, but as least I know there's a plan in place. That's comforting. Of course, it would be MORE comforting if I knew exactly what the plan was and had at least a rough timetable for when things are going to occur. Picky, picky, I know. I just have to have it all, don't I?

I have to get back to work now, because my lunch break is almost done. Yes, I'm at work. What was I thinking coming into work the day before surgery? Who does that? I mean, who does that besides me? Darn mom and dad for instilling good work ethic in us!

Happy Mother's Day

More than a mom...

To all moms, mothers, mommies, step-moms, moms-to-be, godmothers, grandmothers, mother figures and everyone--here's wishing you a blessed and very happy Mother's Day!

Three Million Pound Book

I saw it today.

Remember when I told that story?

Well, imagine my surprise today when I was standing in front of a glass case and had a strange feeling. The case was exactly the same as the one that had held the objects in the dream gallery.

Sotheby's. That's where I was. But today, there was no glass inside the case, only a book.

The whole reason I went to see the book was because Catherine sent me this story.

Henry VI was married to Margaret of Anjou (just in case you didn't know).

Yes. Well. It is in remarkably good condition for being nearly 400 years old. I would have loved to have held it...again?

Propitious*, or not? I can't decide.

*This is my Wednesday word. propitious (adj.): being of good omen

What Goes Around Comes Around

Karma at its finest...

Not too long ago, I published a few posts on forgiveness and Karma. It was therapeutic for me. I've spent many hours in recent weeks doing a lot of soul-searching, mental housekeeping, and emptying (well, attempting to empty) my heart of feelings of ill-will that I've been harboring. And I prayed. A lot.

I think many people believe that prayers have to be formal for God to hear them, but I know that's not true. I've realized that even on days when I'm thinking, "Martha, you just have to suck it up if you're going to get past this," God is really hearing the underlying prayer, which is more along the lines of, "I need help finding my inner strength if I'm going to get through this." I have believed for a long time that God never refuses to answer a prayer. He answers prayers in His own way, in His own time. And when people feel like God isn't answering their prayers, it's not that He's not answering--it's that they aren't seeing the answer, because it's not the answer they wanted. I don't think God ever really tells us, "No." I do think that He often answers with, "Not yet."

All that being said...er, well, written...I do have a point. I just found out that the person I was really angry with (even hated, to a degree), has, in an eerie coincidence, recently received some Karmic payback. I was afraid at first that I would feel glad or revel in that person's misery. God knows I spent enough time plotting ways to get even with that person, but I never followed through on any of it. The moment I really handed it over to God, I started to feel better. And I think that's why I felt no joy or delight in this person's current suffering. I admit that my first thought was, "Ha!", but that quickly changed and I just thought, "Wow, that kind of sucks." And then I continued my day. Some negativity did creep up on me a few hours after I got the information, but as soon as I acknowledged it, it went away.

God, Karma, Fate...call it what you will. It exists. It's real.

And Margie, I'd like to think that part of what helped is that I now use the Karma raspberry lip gloss. The "Bite-My-Butt-Mustard" that Karma so enjoys has now been sprinkled on someone else's rump.

All Better

beverage therapy

I was still in a little bit of a mood this weekend about the not-related-by-blood(thank goodness!)-hint-dropper, but then I got a little help. There is no better therapy in the world than to be wearing white pants and having a Sister make you laugh just as you take a sip of Raspberry Ice.

I ran to mom's kitchen sink to spit my drink out so I could laugh out loud instead of choke to death--or worse, spray the drink out my nose and all over my clothes.

Really, it was as funny as the time I choked on the diet pepsi, while trying to control my laughter, and my children thought I was going to pass out while coughing up cola into mom's garbage can.

Sisters, you are the best!

Web of Lies

I don't play.

As I get older, I tend to shake my head (the way dad does the slow head shake in disgust when he talks about the location of the local Veterans' Cemetery) when people--adults--behave poorly. I shook my head recently when someone dropped a hint in a passive-aggressive manner, and I wondered to myself, Why?

Does she desire to hurt me by poking fun at me? Or is she trying to start a dialogue with me?

My response, though silent, is this: I respectfully decline to participate.

The Lesser Evil

Now for some random thoughts...

Jean Valjean stole the bread to feed his sister's famished children.

A spider spins a web to catch prey, then feast.

Who hasn't squooshed a spider in their house?

Slicey...

...it's the new spicy!

Slicey is NOT a word. Do NOT try to use it in scrabble...yet. My plan is to get the internationally English-speaking world to start using "slicey" when describing something very spicy. The Sausage King likes to say, "That makes my tongue feel slicey," when we give him something spicy to eat. Eventually, as people start using the word more and more, the dictionary people will have to add it as a new word, then we can use it in scrabble!

Here is a real word:

spicery (n.): a repository of spices

He's Never Let Me Down

Never.

Sometimes, when it's been a difficult day, I think: If I go to hell, this writing desk is going with me.

Sunday night, everyone was sound asleep except, of course, for me, and I was getting ready for the next day. I turned the calendar from April to May and realized I needed to mail something the next day. I knew I had the address somewhere--I recalled seeing it on a small scrap of paper that I had put with a pile of correspondence that needed attending to. I wish I could explain why the address was on a scrap of paper. I don't want the address. I wish I didn't have it. Nevertheless, I needed the darn thing. I knew it was small, 1 x 2 inches (at the most!). The papers had been moved, so I started with where the pile now rests inside of my desk. Correspondence galore. No scrap.

Fine.

I looked on the side table where the pile had been before and where a fresh stack of papers needed attention: a special school request, a note about pink-eye going around kindergarten, a few art projects. You get the idea. I sifted through and didn't find it. I checked the floor. No scraps of paper, just a few wisps of dust and a renegade marble. The marble--not mine. At least, I hope it wasn't.

Perhaps the scrap was in the area where I keep the incoming and outgoing mail. Just in case, I checked. But no luck.

Back to the writing desk. I can't explain all of the things that I did find. It ranged from notes about a Russian landowner in the 1500s to birthday party invitations from last month. After sorting through all of that, I was so tired. But I couldn't give up. If mom would have let us be just A LITTLE not nice every once and awhile when we were growing up, I could have said "too bad" and gone to bed. Mom always mailed (and still does) birthday cards to every relative's child No Matter What. I am brainwashed. Must. Mail. Cards.

I cursed mentally even though there was no one awake to hear me swear out loud. I was ready to do anything to find that paper and be done with the whole ordeal.

I got out my negotiating skills.

Through a lifetime (mine) of tangled beliefs, and occasional Doubts, there has been one consistent helper that has never failed me. For some reason, when I'm at my wit's end and I remember my Pal from Padua, amazing things happen.

I don't even recite any particular prayer. I'm desperate, I ask for help finding whatever foolish bit I'm trying to find, make a bargain, and within MINUTES, it's found.

Summary: I wasted an hour and a half looking, had resolved myself to giving up, did my last ditch plea for help, walked over to straighten the shoe pile near the door...

And there it was. On the floor. What? On the floor by the shoes?

A Saint with a sense of humor. Thank you, St. Anthony.

Monday Humor

Here's one for a good laugh...

Rainy, dreary Monday. I think it's time for a good chuckle.

Here goes.

There's a male employee where I work. (He's the only male in our department.) I hired him two years ago when he was a fresh-faced college graduate looking for a job in social services. He's a sweet kid, has a lovely wife, and they're expecting their first baby in July. Now for the humorous part--he's like an evil little brother.

Back in February, I had to go to the gynecologist for a check up. As I was sitting there, reading a magazine with articles from from the first Bush administration, I happened to glance up to check the time, and who's standing there? Yes, our male employee with his pregnant wife. He asked, all innocently, and totally deadpan, "So, what are you here for?" I was so mortified, I couldn't even speak. His wife was cracking up and made some jokes about how awkward it must be for a staff member to know his boss (former boss now, because I transfered to another job within the same department--not because of this incident, though!) is going to be ten feet away with her pants down. Ugh.

Now, as if that wasn't bad enough, I have another one. This past Friday, after being home all day with a horrible throat infection and wicked bronchial cough, I decided to run out to the store in the evening. Time to get out of the house. I was a little stir-crazy. I was wandering around Target and was sifting through some cute summer pajamas when the clearance rack caught my eye. There was some crazy stuff on the rack (did you know that thongs come in size XXL?), but a cute baby blue/teal polka-dot bra caught my eye. And it was my size! I was holding it up deciding whether or not to get it, when suddenly, a male voice from behind me pipes up with, "Don't get that. It won't fit." I jumped almost ten feet in the air. Yes, it was Mr. Male Employee and his Hysterically Laughing Wife. There I was, makeup free and red-nosed from being sick, clutching a blue and teal polka-dot bra. Yeah. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Fortunately, laughing won. But I was still embarrassed.

So, now it's Monday, and he thinks it's so funny to keep asking me if I did any shopping over the weekend. More importantly, did I buy anything? Of course, he asks in front of other people and laughs the whole time.

For the record, the polka-dots are still in the store.

Happy Monday!