Notes From the Klutz Files

First, a warning: This post may be incomhe...incompreh...conreprehensib ...whacked-out. I'm typing under the influence here, so anything could happen. Our story opens with your fearless Clem out and about, doing good deeds for the grateful citizens of Okie-town...

Yesterday, I went for a postpartum visit with a new mom and her 2 day old baby. That went well, as I worked my usual magic and when I left, baby had finally fed for the first time and mom and baby were content. SCORE!

Since I was in the neighborhood of Gadget Man's office and I knew I wouldn't see him again until very late because he was working until 11pm at the Apple Store after finishing his day at the office, and since I had downed a 44oz Super Big Gulp of Diet DP, I decided to stop in for a surprise visit and to answer the screeching siren of nature.

I gracefully alighted my minivan and turned to go up onto the sidewalk. My left shoe caught somehow, then I banged my left big toe into the curb. At this point, I did a perfect 4-point bellyflop onto the sidewalk, crashing my right shin into the same curb. It literally knocked all the wind out of me, and those of you who've met me can testify that that is no mean feat!

I don't think anyone witnessed the spectacle, and if they did, they were kind enough not to laugh so loudly that I could hear them. I gathered my limbs and other loose articles and made my way to the side entrance. I went in, made my way to the powder room and sat down on the couch to look at the damage. My left big toe hurt the most, but I didn't see anything really wrong with it. My leg hurt pretty bad too, so I figured I was going to have a humdinger of a bruise. I took a couple of Motrin, chatted with Dan for a bit, got in the car and headed for home.

By the time I got home, my toe was large and blackish purple, and my right leg was hot and swollen from the bruised area down through my foot. I slipped my shoes halfway back on (both feet were quite swollen) and went to the "Doc-In-A-Box" ~ you know, the walk-in urgent care place. Well, long story long, I compound fractured the second bone in my big toe and cracked my right tibia (shin bone). The Lortab and I have been keeping each other company today, and I'm supposed to see the foot & ankle surgeon next week about my toe. Walking is agony, so I've mostly been in bed which is very boring.

The hubby and the kiddies have been awesome, but it's hard for WonderBoy to remember not to pounce on me or the bed, and Baby Redneck wants me to be the one to get up and fix her a drink or a sandwich, so it's been kind of a bummer. The Doc-In-A-Box said to plan on it taking 6-8 weeks for the toe to heal, and that's if surgery isn't required.

I'll get right on that.

:~/

Why Wasn't I Born Rich?

Because being poor has more comedic possibility. I'm sure that's why.

Saturday morning dawned bright and warm. Gadget Man went to get vitamin-rich, whole grain tofu-frosted...who am I kidding? He went for donuts so the kids could get all hopped up on sugar because nothing improves children's behavior quite like deep fried, sugar coated carb rings. I went to Sherwin Williams because starting ALL OVER sounded like such a smart plan in the overall let's-get-this-painting-party- started sense.

At Sherwin Williams, I was greeted by Eric. Eric was old enough to shave, so I knew I had made a wise choice. I described the project, showed him my lovely curtain and threw myself on his mercy. Nearly sqooshed the poor boy. He showed me his recommendation for color, demonstrated color-washing with paint and glaze and took me around the store helping me gather all of the necessary supplies. In less than half and hour, I was out of there with my confidence and my plan. I love Eric. I big-red-puffy-heart Eric. I want to marry him and have his little paint brush babies. But that would have to wait. I had painting to do.

When I got home, we got started. We taped and then we painted. While the paint was drying in preparation for the color wash, the older girls and I emptied their room.

Oh. My. Lord.

I won't go into details here because this is a family-friendly environment, but let me put it to you this way: Their room resembled a thrift store. On the wrong side of town. Run by racoons. BLIND racoons. Oh, the nastiness! And it was the worst kind of nastiness: Stealth Nastiness. Upon cursory glance, the room would look reasonably tidy. Oh, ho HO! That tidy facade was merely a ruse, my friends. Under the beds, in the closets and in every spare (hidden) inch of space was the most macabre assortment of wrappers, dirty clothes, cups, plates and sliverware ever seen by human eyes. Think Montel Show during Sweeps when they go to the house of the pathological pack rat. The only thing missing was a bald, black former marine. NO. WAIT. I think he was in there somewhere. GAH!!

So at 7pm I began to apply the color wash. I finished about 9 and, if I do say so myself, it looked GREAT! I'm wondering where Eric would like to honeymoon and whether Gadget Man would mind watching the kids while we're gone.... I kid. :~D

Well, with the room painted a lovely shade of colorwashed blue, I decided to reward myself. I vacuumed the empty room and then went to the garage to bring in my favorite grown- up toy of all time: The Hoover Steam Vac.

I'd like to take a moment here and extol the virtues of the Hoover Steam Vac. I'm a little bit addicted to carpet shampooing. I routinely (every 6 to 8 weeks or so) shampoo the high-traffic areas of our house. I have the house divided into sections and I do one section a week. The hum of the motor, the smell of the shampoo (heavy duty, pet-stain-and-odor-removing, outdoor fresh scent thankyouverymuch), and the sight of the grody gray dirty water that I pour down the sink in the utility room while exulting in the knowledge that my family isn't living on that crud any more. It's my little piece of heaven, people.

So I shampooed and went to bed, aching in ways I haven't ached since I took that dare on the band trip to the Rose Bowl in 1984. Don't ask. It was then that I realized that I really should have been born rich. If I were rich, I'd hire a decorator who would in turn hire painters who had some clue in Hades what they were doing and we would all be on vacation with in Cancun drinking fruity things with umbrellas in them. In this version of my life story, I'm also a stunning beauty who ROCKS the gold lame'.

I woke up on Sunday just as poor and twice as sore. Let the decorating begin!! Gadget Man moved the girls' beds and I ironed and hung curtains. We moved in an old TV stand to serve as a reading table between the two chairs and we made a critter corner for the hermit crabs and the guinea pigs. I personally oversaw the moving in and I can declare to you that, at least for this moment in time, there is no filth in the new blue room. I sleep better at night knowing that all of my silverware has been returned to the drawer. The girls love their new digs and everyone who has seen it has declared it fabulous. Success!

For my next trick, I washed the walls in the big girls' old room. They had been painted a couple of years ago, and still look pretty good. Then Mom and I went to Wal Mart (if Wal Mart don't have it, I don't need it, I always say) and bought Baby Redneck a toddler bed. It's a teensy little sleigh bed in natural finished solid wood. I put the bed together, moved her toys and clothes in and draped everything in Dora- ness. Dora bedspread, sheets, couch, and wall hangings. It's a shrine to an obnoxiously cheerful 5-year-old whose parents are so negligent that they let her travel the world chaperoned by a monkey with a shoe fetish. I've never been more proud.

I spent Monday cleaning up the residual mess and restoring the Redneck Domicile to it's customary state of disarray. Now I'm planning the redecorating of WonderBoy's room. He wants silver walls and Hoover vacuum cleaner signs. Okie dokey.

Why Don't I Have My Own TV Show?

So last Friday I decided to pull the trigger on the Great Redneck Room Swap '07. We have a 4 bedroom house and 4 kids. Up until Friday, TeenQueen (16) and Pixie (almost 11) shared one room, WonderBoy (nearly 8- YIKES!) and Baby Redneck (2.5) shared another room and we had a playroom with a second TV, the toys, the guinea pigs and a queen- sized sleeper sofa. Friday afternoon, all that changed.

At this point, I was envisioning myself as the director of Extreme Makeover, Bedroom Edition. I had on my lived- in-but-still-cute-enough-for-a- closeup yoga capris and a Chicago (the band, not the musical) tee shirt from the late '80's. Ponytail? Check. Paint chips? Check. Enthusiasm? Oh, checkidee doo da day! I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. Pennington...

I told the kids to empty the playroom while I zipped over to my friendly neighborhood Home Depot. I could do it, I told myself, and they could help. Except, you know, NOT. The paint counter was mysteriously unmanned (or unwomanned, as the case may have been). But nothing was going to deter me. I had my Pool Multi Tie-Top Curtain and I approached the Periodic Table of Paint Color Possibilities. In the movie of my life (you know, the one where I'm played to subtle perfection by Rachel Dratch), the soundtrack to this scene will be Donna Fargo's Happiest Girl in the Whole U.S.A. "Shine on me sunshine, walk with me world it's a skipadee doo da day..."

An hour later, still no Paint Expert in an orange apron and I had looked at the dizzying array of colors so long that one of my eyeballs actually rolled out of my head and had to be retrieved from under the You Can Spackle! We Can Help! display. Pool Multi Curtain and I can take a hint. We blew that popstand and made a beeline to Lowe's.

At Lowe's, I was greeted by not one, but TWO Home Improvement Specialists. One was a fresh-faced youth who looked about 9 and the other was a hormonal pregnant woman. Oh, the evening was ripe with possibility. Ripe, I tell you.

When I left Lowe's at 9:30pm, I had tamed the Periodic Paint Table and narrowed the choice down to five possibilities, which Helpful Hormone Mama suggested through gritted teeth that I purchase in $2.50 Auditions 8oz. samples. I left with my samples, a roller and a bag of rags because, really, those raggy rags I have at home surely can't be good enough for Extreme Makeover, Bedroom Edition. Right? Right.

I walked in the door and found that my darling, obedient children had indeed emptied the playroom. Into the Living Room. Which was now ankle-deep in racetracks, Dora dolls and Game Cube wire. With just a little Silly Putty, I think I could've constructed a time machine, but darn it, I just didn't have the time.

We painted a few practice boards and I tried a couple of faux finishing techinques that I had seen on TV. Where they do entire houses in 30 minutes. Making us mere mortals thing we too are capable of DIY- greatness. I'm going to tell you this because I love each and every one of you and because most of you have quit reading long before now: faux finishing and pro wrestling have a lot in common. It is NOT what they make it out to be on TV. I'm just sayin'.

So, to recap, Friday at bed time, my living room looked like the Clean Sweep people's yard before the Keep, Sell, Toss segment and for my 4.5 hours of paint-shopping, I came home with enough to lightly coat Barbie's Townhouse and Beach Cabana. Once.

Since I don't seem to be capable of telling a story in just one session, I'll have to come back a little later (after a commercial break?) with the next installment. I'm calling it "Why Wasn't I Born Rich?"

'Bye Y'all

I wrote the following in an email explaining why I'm setting blogging aside. I thought it explained things pretty well, so I've copied it here for you.

I would love to keep blogging. I enjoy the give and take and I like
having somewhat of a record of our daily lives. But I don't enjoy the
shame I feel at the end of a day when I've neglected my God-given
responsibilities; when I have spent the time I could have been
discipling my children writing a pithy blog post and then checking to
see who got a chuckle out of it. I'd so much rather delineate
spiritual insights on my blog than maintain my home as a haven for the
five other people who live here.

I think I will keep the blog as a private journal. I recently re-read
all of my posts, and I don't want them to just disappear. I may try to
write the occasional goings-on and kid stories for our future
enjoyment. However, I am not mature enough to blog in moderation. So,
for now, I won't blog at all.

This isn't the first time I've encourntered this particular selfish
tendency. I've actually had to quit crocheting and playing sudoku
because I will let the house fall down around my ears while I finish a
ripple afghan. Evidently, I'd rather do just about anything than
actually do the work prepared in advance for me to do (Eph. 2:10). I
can't describe how disgusted I am.

So, here I am, submitting my will, taking every thought captive and
being transformed. Again.

Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner

Tale of a 5th Grade Portrait

The year was 1977. The air was autumn-crisp and the skies a brilliant, touchable blue. The day I had waited for so long had finally arrived. It was Picture Day at Country Estates Elementary.

I donned my favorite, multicolored, V-neck wide collar shirt. I had been saving it for the occasion. I was never more hip, more cool, more dyn-o-MITE than when I wore The Shirt. It, and only it, was good enough for Picture Day. Wearing The Shirt, I placed a towel over my shoulders and knelt beside the pink porcelain tub in the green-shag-carpeted bathroom of the 800-square-foot rental I shared with my mother and my sister, both of whom were still asleep in these, the barely daylight hours of Picture Day. I set the water temperature and plunged my head beneath the faucet, making sure to thoroughly wet every curly strand. I arose. After toweling off my hair, I opened the cabinet door and let my hand come to rest on the Dippity-Do. I trembled just a little. Then I got to work.

When I was finished, I had achieved '70's Hair Perfection.

I walked to school, pink candy swirl pick safely in my back pocket. I would not be caught unprepared should the need of a touch-up arise. Somehow, I made it to Picture Time on Picture Day. That day, I knew God loved me and wanted me to be happy: Picture Time for the 5th grade came BEFORE lunch and recess. He had heard my pleas.

When it was my turn, I perched on the stool and gave my most grown-up Look of Bemusement just as I had rehearsed it in my room for the last two weeks. Then the photographer said something like "Boys are stinky" and because I'm a sucker for witty banter and repartee, I giggled like a 9 (and a HALF)-year-old. CLICK! Next!

The next two weeks were a mixture of agony and anticipation. Had I pulled it off? Would I really be The Fairest of Them All? Had I maintained the proportional perfection of radius and circumference? Oh, the questions! And then it happened. Mrs. Williams greeted us one morning with the news that our pictures had indeed arrived and that she would distribute them at the end of the school day. The room spun slightly. So close and yet so far...

Then, as The Longest Day drew to a dramatic close, Mrs. Williams passed between the desks, bestowing upon us our Photographic Fate, face down. I immediately turned my envelope over and there, at my desk in the second row, I beheld perfection. My wildest dreams had been realized. A vision, an absolute vision! The angels sang and I might've let just the tiniest tear escape as I gazed upon The Loveliness.

I had to wait for my mom to get home from work to show her. She smiled and, looking back, I believe she stifled a chuckle. I begged her to put a check in the Reorder Now! envelope. We would need SO MANY MORE Perfect Portraits than had come in the $7.00 School Daze package. She failed to see the importance and, as we were too broke to even pay attention, declined to Reorder Now!. I distributed the Wallet Size pictures very selectively among my best friends, rationing the wonderful to make it last as long as possible. And I kept one for myself.

I chose that photo for my profile because it suits me entirely, and at 39 (and a HALF), it's still how I see myself.

The One Where I Draw the Line

To follow up from my last post, it turns out that serpentine belts and tensioners don't care much for that charming Texas sand. My van was towed to Waco where PepBoys worked their magic and had us on our way a mere 4 hours behind schedule. There were no further incidents, mechanical or otherwise, and we got home a little past 10pm. Tired, but none the worse for the wear.

In other news, my watch has returned to me. It was vacationing in the bottom of the mesh bag we take to the pool. Still no iPod, but I haven't given up hope.

And lastly, I will be shutting the blog down on Monday. I have done a very poor job of disciplining myself to only read and post when my other responsibilities have been met, and I am ashamed. Evidently I lack the maturity, wisdom and intestinal fortitude to blog responsibly. It's time to quit.

I have enjoyed (too much, it seems) my time in Blogdom and I've made some Friends in Real Life that I hope to have until Jesus returns. I hope to be able to continue to occasionally read and comment, so keep your eyes peeled for my glamorous profile photo. :~D I am encouraged, enlightened, challenged, convicted and cheered by the things I read on blogs. I am inspired by the women who are able to write so engagingly and still manage their homes and serve their families. Maybe, when I grow up, I'll be like that.

Until then I remain

For Christ and His Kingdom,

Clemntine

Oh, The Insanity! Part 1

When we last saw our heroine, Clemntine had packed a duffle bag, gassed up the MomMobile and launched herself southward to spend the night in the lap of luxury...

I meant to leave at 2. I actually left at 3, and that was really fine. I mostly wanted to get an early start on the Solitude, so I wasn't stressed. Why stress?

::cue music::
Get your minivan runnin'
Head out on the highway
Lookin' for peace and quiet
Or whatever comes my way
BORN TO BE QUIIiiiIIIET
::fade music::

Long about Gainesville I encountered the Monsoon of 2007. It was raining like pouring pee out of a boot. It stayed like that for the better part of the next 50 or 800 miles. I began to seriously regret my decision not to stop at the Love's in Ardmore to answer what was then a faint and distant call of nature, said call having become a blaring air horn as I careened down the interstate through a curtain of rain at the breakneck speed of 24mph trying not to listen to the noise of the rain on the windshield and the roof and under the tires and forcryinoutPete, why didn't I just wear a Depends? That astronaut chick had a few things figured out, anyway. You don't get to be an astronaut by being stupid. You get to be an astronaut by consuming copious quantities of brussels sprouts, according to my mother, which explains perfectly how I came to be a Domestic Engineer and Headmistress of Grow Up Buttercup Academy. But I digress.

Oh, the rain! Sheets of rain, and a sky that was darker than God's pockets.

::cue music::
I made it through the rain
I kept my seat protected
I made it through the rain
I didn't pee my pants
I made it through the rain
My bladder not infected
Did the peepee dance
In a hypnotic trance
Across the Texas expanse...
::fade music::

Long about Hillsboro, the sky grew curiously bright. Remember I had just driven from The Land Of A Thousand Rains. 16 straight days of rain. Clouds and rain. I tried not to panic, but I had to call my mom and tell her that there was a large orange ball in the sky and it seemed to be following me. I told her not to worry, that I would use my Ninja Driving Tactics learned in public school drivers' ed and that orange ball would not be having ME for dinner. No siree!

Well, I eluded the mysterious ball of fire in the sky and made it to my 2 1/2-Star Moderate Plus hotel. It was a brand new Extended Stay America and it was most comfy. I freshened up and went out in search of dinner. I found it at a local TexMex place. Don't remember the name, but it wasn't a chain and the food was yummy. I went back to the hotel to enjoy the silence and sleep.

Saturday morning, I headed east into the corn fields to retrieve my children. Around the curve, Farm to Market roads, state highways and County Roads. Cows, corn, alpacas (!) and mud. Lots of muddy mud. Up a hill, down a hill and around the bend. Are we there yet? Why didn't I stop at the Starbucks off the highway? Finally, down the hill that leads to the turn in for the camp.

So much dirt and sand and deep ruts...what the...dangit!...no power steering!...jeepers...the engine light and the temperature light are blinking and the car's beeping and...

This is where I dazzle you with my vast and consummate knowledge of all things auto and mechanical:

I put key in car, car go vroom. Or, you know, not.

This Is What It's Come To

I am getting ready to get in the car and drive to Waco (which I insist on pronouncing "Whacko"), TX. I will spend the night in the hotel I scored on Priceline for $40. It's a 2 1/2-star "Moderate Plus". I'll wait here while you recover from being green with envy.

That didn't take long. Maybe you missed the part where I typed 2 AND A HALF-star Moderate PLUS. Plush,eh? You want to know what the PLUS is? It's me in a place I don't have to clean, sleeping in a bed that I will not make with only my lofty thoughts to keep my company. I'm so happy, I could be twins.

I will get up in the morning and drive about 45 minutes into the bowels of central Texas to retrieve my two eldest children from the camp where they've been for a week. I'm very happy to claim my girls. I'm not so psyched about getting their smarmified camp laundry. Is there anything more rancid than camp laundry? If you know of something, I'll thank you very kindly NOT to mention it in my comments. :~D

We will pile into the Mom-mobile and point our noses northward and the girls will chatter incessantly about the lake and the bugs and the crafts and the archery and the sky and the rain and the counselors and the horses and their cabin-mates and the heat and the cold and the showers and the girl who hurled her fish dinner all over three tables in the dining hall because she stood up and spun around as she blew chow (it's the same girl every year ~ I'm thinking her Mom needs to spend some time on Emesis Etiquette, but nobody's asking me). What they won't talk about is the boys.

Because there are no boys.

This camp is all girls, ages 7 to 18. The counselors, cooks, nurses and horseback riding instructors are all women. The girls study, discuss and apply Scripture in an environment where the distractions are wildlife, not wild life. The come home changed a little bit each year. Noticeably more Christlike, mature and lovely than when I dropped them off. They also seem taller and in desperate need of a soak in the tub.

So, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with two tired, grimy, beautiful girls.

It Left Again, and It Took My iPod

My watch is gone. The perfect watch that I lost a few months ago and miraculously found again. The one I swore I would take excellent care of from now until Jesus comes back, and even after that if He'd let me keep it and if it went with my glorified body. I could have a few links taken out so that it would fit my dainty, slender, glorified wrist. I love that watch and it's just goner than gone. It's the gonest. And this time I think it took my iPod with it.

I'm pretty sure they're in Vegas taking in The Blue Man Group or Cirque du Soleil. Or, by now, they are in Nambia awaiting the birth of their little iPod mini with a second hand.

Come back, you two! Please come back!

1 Year, 100 Posts and Rockin'!

Yesterday was my one year bloggaversary, AND this is my 100th post, AND I am a Rockin' Girl Blogger. Dcrmom said so.

A year ago, I was overwhelmed, under stress, and doing my dadgummedest to figure out how to have the attitude of Christ in my circumstances. A lot like now. One year and 99 posts later, I have laughed, cried, rejoiced and mourned in my own life and with a lot of former strangers that I will surely recognize in heaven.

A lot of bloggers post 100 things about themselves for their 100th post. Whenever I come across those, I read every. single. one. And I'm glad to know more about my fellow dwellers of Blogdom. Here's the problem: there just aren't 100 things about me. There may be, at most, 17. I wasn't thinking, or I'd have posted "17 things about me" instead of this.

So, to commemorate my bloggaversary, my 100th post and my Rockin' status, I submit the following haiku:

Jumbled tumbled thoughts
Fears hopes prayers challenge laughter
Type click publish life

I want to thank dcrmom for thinking that I rock, and for giving me a lift on a day when it was much needed. And here is my (by no means exhaustive) list of Rockin' Girl Bloggers:

Barbie at Just Barbie. This girl oozes faith. Click over and check her out and see if your own faith doesn't grow just a little. She has a heart as big as all outdoors and actively looks for ways to be the hands and feet of Jesus in people's lives.

Bev at Scratchin' the Surface (formerly Blessed Beyond Measure) rocks because we've never met, but we have an eerily similar wonkerjawed vocabulary with words like "flowerdy". I enjoy her blog and I look forward to her comments on mine. If you don't already know her, go on over and get acquainted.

Jules at Everyday Mommy and Rabbit at The Hutch both rock and they're cousins, so I'm listing them together. They're women of faith and conviction who have been willing to take the time and go to the trouble to speak the truth in love to this relative stranger. AND they snort when they laugh. Don't we all need friends like that?

Deena at Wholly Devoted is one of the Rockin'est commenters in all of Blogdom. I've appreciated her visits here, and I'm always moved by her sweet comments when I see them on other sites. Besides, this post solidified (punny, I know) her Rockin' status. Read it and be blessed.

So go visit these Rockin' Girl Bloggers, and then come back here for cake. Okay. There's no cake. But I hope you'll come back anyway.

But I Don't WANT To...

Following is a devotional reading from Elisabeth Eliot. I subscribe to her daily devotionals through Back to the Bible, and every day there is something in my in box that challenges and encourages me.

I wanted to share this one with you:

How to Do the Job You Don't Really Want To Do

Certain aspects of the job the Lord has given me to do are very easy to postpone. I make excuses, find other things that take precedence, and, when I finally get down to business to do it, it is not always with much grace. A new perspective has helped me recently:

The job has been given to me to do.
Therefore it is a gift.
Therefore it is a privilege.
Therefore it is an offering I may make to God.
Therefore it is to be done gladly, if it is done for Him.
Therefore it is the route to sanctity.

Here, not somewhere else, I may learn God's way. In this job, not in some other, God looks for faithfulness. The discipline of this job is, in fact, the chisel God has chosen to shape me with--into the image of Christ.

Thank you, Lord, for the work You have assigned me. I take it as your gift; I offer it back to you. With your help I will do it gladly, faithfully, and I will trust You to make me holy. ~Elisabeth Eliot

Be blessed, my friends.

The Following is a Public Service Announcement

I am passing this on to you because it definitely works, and we could all use a little more calmness in our lives.

By following simple advice heard on the Dr. Phil show, you too can find inner peace. Dr. Phil proclaimed, "The way to achieve inner peace is to finish all the things you have started and have never finished." So, I looked around my house to see all the things I started and hadn't finished, and before leaving the house this morning, I finished off a bottle of Merlot, a bottle of White Zinfandel, a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream, a bottle of Kahlua, a package of Oreos, the remainder of my old Prozac prescription, the rest of the cheesecake, some Doritos and a box of chocolates. You have no idea how freaking good I feel. Please pass this on to those whom you think might be in need of inner peace .

This has been a public service announcement.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

What Do YOU Want To Eat?

This meme's theme is dining out, and my blogging buddy Elle at A Complete Thought has tagged me. It would seem impolite not to play, so here I am.

As an aside, I'm considering going with an All Meme Blog Theme and doing "All Memes. All The Time." It worked for MTV.

Anyway, back to today's meme.

Here are the rules:
1. Link to name of person that tagged you.
2. Include state and country you live in.
3. List top 5 favorite local restaurants.
4. Tag 5 other people and let them know they’ve been tagged.

Oklahoma, USA

1. Nonna's. The food is exquisite, the atmosphere is perfect and I feel like a card-carrying Grown Up when Gadget Man takes me to this wonderful restaurant. The dining room is elegant and perfectly lit. The wait staff is solicitous and the service is impeccable. When we're in the mood for something a little more casual, we ask to be seated on the second-floor outdoor patio, where we can watch horse-drawn carriages go by with locals and tourists alike.

2. Inspirations Tea Room. This is where I take my girls for a lovely lunch or tea. I also love to meet friends here to laugh, talk, shop, eat and laugh some more. Gadget Man swears there's enough estrogen in this place to turn him into a girl. Fine with me. He can stay far, far away from the pretty dishes, little quiches, homemade coconut cake and French Carmel Creme Brulee flavored tea. Just leaves more for me. As you can see in these photos from TeenQueen's 16th Birthday Mother-Daughter Tea, the decor is lovely, the setting is peaceful and the presentation is artfully delicious. The first photo is of some dear friends and a luncheon tray to.die.for. Cucumber sandwiches, girls. CUCUMBER SANDWICHES.


3. Ann's Chicken Fry. No website, sorry. Trust me on this, when a restaurant has a particular dish in its name, THAT'S the thing to eat when you go there. Case in point, Ann's Chicken Fry. Real, made-from-scratch chicken-fried steak as big as your head. Fried okra. Fried green tomatoes. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Cholesterol? What's that? Can you deep-fry it and cover it in gravy? I'll have mine with sweet tea, please.

4. Bad Brad's BBQ. So good it will make yore tongue reach up and slap yore brains out. If you've read more than one of my blog posts, you know I'm a victim. Ideally, I get my brains slapped out every couple of months or so.

5. Coach's Restaurant Brewery. Our favorite location is situated on the second floor along the third base line at The Bricktown Ballpark, home of the Oklahoma Redhawks, 3A farm team for the Texas Rangers. The ballpark is beautiful and comfortable and it's a great place to take the kids on a springtime field trip. Date night is altogether different, though. We make reservations for a patio table overlooking the third base line and enjoy some great baseball along with a BBQ Sampler Platter followed by a shared entree (there are so many that we enjoy), plenty of iced tea and one or two of their yummy desserts with a cup of decaf coffee to wash it down. The important thing to note here is that we're enjoying a live sporting event and our refreshment is continually, promptly delivered to our table, hot and fresh. Proof, in my mind, that God loves me and wants me to be happy.

Now I'd like to virtually dine out with Carly at Talking Myself Out of the Tree, because she's Canadian and I think that's terribly exotic and fabulous. Also, I hope that Diane will tell us where she likes to go when she eats out on Sundays (or any other days). I love that a certain percentage of the time, her Sunday Dinner Menu is "I'm planning on eating out. If my sisters or whoever may show up would rather scrounge around and have a sandwich or whatever, that will be fine with me. Whatever." My kind of girl. Dcrmom at Musings of a Housewife really deserves a night on the town after this day so I'm tagging her to see where she would want to go. Chilihead writes great reviews on stuff, and has been remodeling her kitchen, so I KNOW there's been some eatin' out going on. Maybe she'll let us know what's good where she is. I've had the pleasure of emailing with Jean at Working Momma 247 so I'm tagging her too.

My Favorite Game Meets My Favorite Pastime

Elle over at A Complete Thought posted a fun meme today, and I'm playing along. I love Scattergories and I know a LOT of useless stuff, so this should be fun. Leave a comment if you decide to play along, and I'll come over and check out your answers.

The game is SCATTERGORIES...it's harder than it looks! Here are the rules: Use the 1st letter of your name to answer each of the following. They MUST be real places, names, things...NOTHING made up! If you can't think of anything, skip it. Try to use different answers if the person before you had the same 1st initial. You CAN'T use your name for the boy/girl name question.

Your Name: Clemntine
1. Famous Singer/Band: Creedence Clearwater Revival
2. 4 letter word: calm
3. Street: Classen Blvd.
4. Color: Cyan
5. Gifts/Presents: Crystal
6. Vehicle: Corvette
7. Things in a Souvenir Shop: Camera
8. Boy Name: Cameron
9. Girl Name: Claire
10. Movie Title: Caddyshack
11. Drink: Coke
12. Occupation: Circus Clown
13. Celebrity: Cynthia Nixon
14. Magazine: Car & Driver
15. U.S. City: Cashion, OK
16. Pro Sports Teams: Chargers (San Diego)
17. Reason for Being Late for Work: Car Wreck
18. Something You Throw Away: Cans
19. Things You Shout: Come here! Comeherecomeherecomeherecomehere!
20. Cartoon Character: Clarabell Cow

AND, I didn't even Google! That was fun!

My Blogging Story

Chilihead is hosting a carnival and I'm playing along. And not because I can't think of a blessed thing to blog about. Nosiree. Not me. I'm practically DROWNING in fascinating blogorabilia (it's a word I made up, and no, you don't need shots for it). I'm doing this so that in 100 or 1,000 years when my great-great-great-great grandkids want to know why Mamaw Clem died with her gnarled, unmanicured hands clutching one of those antique laptop computer thingys, they can read the whole, unvarnished truth for their little pointy-headed selves. It's for the progeny, people.

The Ballad of Clemntine Buttercup

Cooooome and listen to the story of a blogger named Clem
Just another Mommy Blogger, there's sure a bunch of them
A couple 'years ago she was playin' with her brain
And on the Internet, the blog it was began

Words, that is. Diatribes and comedy.

Welllll what do you know, Clem's not a household name
Her kinfolk don't know about the blogging game
A couple of nice bloggers stop by once in a while
And leave a comment now and then that makes old Clemmie smile.

Carnivals. Meme-stars.

The blog that started as a brain dump has evolved a little bit
Unfortunately, there ain't a bit of money in it
But that's okay because so much useful stuff was learned
It doesn't really matter that all the dinners now get burned.

Pizza Hut. Kung Pao Village.

Well now it's time to say goodbye to Clem and all her kin.
And she would like to thank you folks for kindly droppin' in
You're all invited back again to this locality
To have a heapin' helpin' of mediocrity.

Redneck that is. Set a spell. Take your shoes off.

Y'all come back now, y'hear?

I'm Popular! And Young! And Skinny! And I Have Impeccable Taste!

Clear the self-esteem books off your nightstand. Delete the Yes, You Can! podcasts. Take down your Affirmations Post-Its. I've discovered the secret to youth, beauty and popularity. And yes, because you are so dear to me, I'm going to share it:

CAR. SHOPPING.

Gadget Man and I spent this whole entire day shopping for something small and fuel efficient. The Gas Sucking Behemoth is on its way out. And I've never felt more attractive or witty than I did today as salesman after salesman complemented my clothes (gauchos and a tee shirt), my smile (good thing I put in my uppers) and my sense of humor ("Is she always this funny? Aharharhar!").

It's been a while since I pulled into any establishment and no less than 6 men of various ages and stages of thinning hair made a beeline for me with their hands extended and a big ol' Haw'r y'allwhatkinIshowyatodayfolksdidjaneedcolddrank-smile. Can I just say that I do well with lots of fawning? My family doesn't fawn. I'm a fan of fawning. Bring on the fawn.

One guy was astonished almost into apoplexy that I could be old enough to have a daughter that's 16. I'm 39, and I look it. He actually ARGUED with me. "NO. Not YOU! You're not a DAY over 25! Quit pullin' my leg now, Darlin'." Okaaaaay.

Then there was Curly Hair Guy with the man-breasts and bad teeth. He declared that if he were to take me to one of his family functions that his mother, grandmothers and sisters would pronounce me "emaciated" and sit me right down and start feeding me. I've documented my issues in this area. He's 37 and single. Curious, that.

Slow Talker let us take a Corolla on an extended test drive to our mechanic. He just knew I'd luuv that car because I had such obvious good taste, and he seemed genuinely surprised when we told him that our guy said that the car needed a new transmission. Slow Talker's going to have his transmission guy look at it and he'll give us a call on Monday. I'll be sitting on the phone.

This is the conclusion I've drawn: shopping for a used car has many disturbing similarities to dating. We kissed a L-O-T of frogs, folks, and we're still pouring gas into the 5-blocks-to-the-gallon Behemoth. But I'm younger, thinner and more fascinating than I realized. The day was not a total loss.

I Don't Know How To Say It, But I Know What I Like

First of all, just to own the Dork To The 10th Power-element, I will confess to being ridiculously excited when I got an email asking if I'd try these fruit rolls. Oh, I was all cool and nonchalant in my email response, but as I typed I just kept saying, "Really? Me?" and "How did they know we were out of snacks?"

So, the little box arrived on Thursday. My kids came in from swimming at 4 and there was not a single fruit roll left by 4:20. There was a whole box of Grape, along with singles of Apple and Strawberry, for a total of 10 "Fruit Twirls". Because I wasn't born yesterday, I sampled one before the kids came home. I tried the grape, and found it to be yummy. I'm not the biggest "fruit leather" fan, but the one I tried was very grape tasting, not waxy or aftertaste-y. The sweetness was just right: fruit-sweet, not sugar or corn syrup-sweet.

The kids each had two, and pronounced them Really Good. So thanks, Fruitabu people, for sending us the Fruit Twirls. We enjoyed them very much. As far as I can tell, they are not available in Oklahoma just yet, but check their website, they could be on a shelf near you. They are also available for purchase directly from the website.

Oh, Swiffer people, we're low on dusters and Honda people, we're completely out of Odyssey mini vans. I'm just putting it out there.

s'tI draH ot epyT htiW ruoY sregniF dessorC

See this bag? I want it! So I entered the contest at Pinks and Blues Blog. You should, too. because if I don't win, I want someone I virtually know to win. OH! It comes with Victoria's Secret perfume, too!

woN I evah ot ssorc ym sregnif. ouY dluohs oot!

Oh! This Should Be Good!

My house is spotless, the flower beds are weedless and the children are all three grade levels ahead in their schoolwork. I did an hour of cardio, some weights and then put a gourmet meal in the Crock Pot. I wrote notes by hand to all of our elderly relatives and crocheted a layette for a baby that's due in two months (not mine ~ sigh), and it's only 8:15, so I spent the morning reading blogs.

Sarcasm. Just another one of the services I offer.

As I was saying. Chilihead, whom I wish to emulate in every possible way, did a cool meme and said that anyone who wanted to could consider herself tagged, and, since I'm a good little former-Baptist, I know that Whosoever Meaneth Me. And now, without further ado, I bring you

THE iPOD MEME

INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Put your music player on shuffle.
2. Press forward for each question.
3. Use the song title as the answer to the question even if it doesn’t make sense. NO CHEATING!

How do you feel today?
This Cat's on a Hot Tin Roof - The Brian Setzer Orchestra

What's your outlook on life?
You Can Do Anything - Carole King

What does your family think of you?
Firm Foundation - World's Best Praise and Worship

What do your friends think of you?
No Salt on Her Tail - Mamas & Papas

What do your exes think of you?
Movin' Out - Billy Joel

How's your love life?
Pure Mood - Spyro Gyra

How will your love life be in the future?
Crunchy Granola Suite - Neil Diamond

Will you get married?
I Hate to Sleep Alone - Sonny & Cher

Are you good at school?
Those Good Old Dreams - The Carpenters

Will you be successful?
Rustic Dance - Franz Josef Haydn

What song should they play on your birthday?
My Soul Follows Hard - David Bauer

What song should they play at your graduation?
Still Crazy After All These Years - Karen Carpenter

The Soundtrack of your life?
Roller Derby Queen - Jim Croce

You and your best friends are?
Everybody Wants to Rule the World - Tears for Fears

Happy times:
Better Class of Losers - Randy Travis

Sad times:
The Wonder of it All - Point of Grace

Every day:
There's a Kind of Hush - Carpenters

For tomorrow:
Come, Now is the Time to Worship - Brian Doerksen

For you:
The Potter's Hand - Hillsong Music Australia

What does next year have in store for you?
Fionnghuala (Mouth Music) - Nightnoise

What do you say when life gets too hard?
Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee - A Capella Hymns

What song will you dance to at your wedding?
Switchblade 327 - The Brian Setzer Orchestra

What do you want as your career?
Let There Be Glory and Honor and Praise - Willow Creek Community Church

Your favorite saying:
My Home's in Alabama - Alabama

How will you die?
Undercover Angel - Alan O'Day

Since I'm not sure which of you has an MP3 player, if you decide to play along, just say so in the comments and I'll be right over. :~D.

Is There a Patch for This?

I was congratulating myself on raising such a bright, independent girl. She's 2 years, 4 months old and completely potty trained. She's been taking her pacifier only at naptime and bedtime, with no complaints. She plays in the back yard on her own. Today, I went outside to see what she was up to:Miss Bright and Independent was found under the slide, sans underwear, sucking a stashed pacifier.

Wonder if those Nicorette folks have considered something for the pacifier set?

***UPDATED TO ADD:***

As she is currently our youngest, I treasure her "littleness." I should probably have said that I haven't pressed any of these "big girl" issues. She decided one day not too long ago that she didn't like diapers and preferred the potty. Now, convincing her of the merits of underwear took a little doing, but I only made a case about it when we left the house. She was Nature Girl (nekkid under her dresses) at home. In less than a week, she was a card-carrying (panty wearing?) member of the "I'm a Big Kid Now" club.

The weaning from the pacifier was more my idea. When she turned 2, we began to let her have her pacifier only in her bed. She could have it any time she wanted it, but she had to stay in her bed. Even now, she'll say she needs a "passy break" and request one to suck on her bed. When she's done, she willingly replaces the pacifier in the basket.

To be honest, I love the (very few) remaining vestiges of her babyhood, and after I took her picture, I sat down on the grass, pulled her into my lap and sang all of her favorite songs.

A Suggestion

I had the distinct pleasure and privilege today of doing something so simple, yet so meaningful, that I had to share it with you.

You know that Pixie plays the harp. What I don't think I've mentioned is that her teacher is a living legend in harp circles. She taught my sister-in-law in the '80's, and she teaches Pixie now. She is in her late 70's and God thoughtfully arranged for her to live in the assisted living center half a mile from our house. In the '80's, my mother-in-law traveled 100 miles one way every week for my sil to learn from this woman, and she's right around the corner from our house!

Anyway, today I did her a very small favor that literally brought her to tears. I shopped for a graduation gift for one of her other students, who is graduating high school this month. She likes to give her harpists embroidered handkerchiefs, and I found a local embroidery shop that had some lovely offerings. I ordered the handkerchief, and when it was ready, I took it to the assisted living center along with a small box, tissue, wrapping paper and ribbon. Mrs. W. was so pleased with the hankie she squealed with delight! Then I wrapped it for her and placed it on her end table and she called and invited the graduate to come by at her convenience for a visit. She is so excited to give this little gift that she can hardly stand the wait!

Do you have a friend, family member or former neighbor in a nursing home or assisted living center? Would you consider offering to help them with shopping for graduation or wedding gifts? Mrs. W. says that more than the loss of her own independence, she grieves that she can't do for others as she once did. She had tears in her beautiful gray eyes as I said goodbye today, and she will have the universal joy of giving a thoughtful gift to someone dear to her.

Drinking Deeply From the Fountain

On the recommendation of a friend (after she listened to me blubber like a baby on the phone for half an hour), I've taken a break from my inductive study of the book of Titus and camped out in the Psalms. I decided to crawl up in my Daddy's lap, as it were, and soak his robe with my tears. I'm ashamed to admit how difficult it was for me to arrive at that decision. Why is that not the first plan of action when I'm feeling distant and dry and worthless?

Today, I read Psalm 22, referred to by some commentaries as "The Pslam of the Cross." David felt far from God. Jesus was far from God because He took my sin on Himself. I feel far from God, for reasons both known and unknown to me. I will press in and submit to whatever work He is pleased to do in me, and I will bear it proclaiming that He alone is worthy of praise.

I gave in to the wracking sobs that have been building for some time. The tears were hot and innumerable. I concluded that I really don't want to be anywhere other than where I am. I don't want to know anything except what it pleases the Lord to teach me. If I never have another warm, fuzzy feeling as long as I live, I will only glorify God who by His grace and for His glory created me, redeemed me and called me according to His purpose.

At present I am kept in peace as my mind is steadfast and my faith is firm.

Come One, Come All! It's Clemntine's Mall!

With stores and stuff from wall to wall, items large and items small, flying flags and towers tall...

Rabbit wonders what I might have in my very own mall, and since I know she's got kids and responsibilities and stuff, and I don't want to be the reason she's losing sleep, and because I know that the Internet needs to know these things...here goes.

First, the rules as I understand them:
You get to create your own Mall. Choose 6 stores that would definitely be included in your ideal one stop mall. Then as a bonus you can pick your favorite restaurant and fast food eatery to be located there, too. After you’ve created it, post it and tag some bloggers to join in the fun.

Rabbit confessed to not being much of a shopper, so I feel safe in admitting that I'd rather crawl on my hands and knees over broken glass to a medieval torture chamber for the root canal/bamboo manicure combo than darken the door of a mall. Not that I feel strongly about it or anything. Ergo, my mall won't have any "mall" stores. Here are my picks:

1. Daniel's Shoes. Our family's feet are weird in every conceivable way: narrow, wide (one kid has both: narrow heels and wide insteps), and the folks at Daniel's keep us looking and feeling great. Also, they always have a nice selection of Brighton shoes and accessories. We love Daniel's!

2. Mardel Christian and Education. Christian books, Bibles, homeschool supplies, music, toys, tee-shirts and all the office supplies you could ever need. When I'm there, Gadget Man tells people I'm visiting the Mother Land.

3. Hanna Andersson. The clothes are bright, soft and are very handmedownable (is TOO a word). I'd get clothes for all of us here and we'd sit around looking very fresh-faced and Swedish all the time. It's what I call a win-win, people.

4. Jane Iredale. The best makeup ever. Gadget Man's uncle is a dermatologist, and he has us all using this stuff. I'd need to have a giant store of it in my mall, because, as I always say: "If a barn needs paintin'..."

5. A movie theater. Six screens, one for each inhabitant of the Clem Domicile, with rocking, reclining, super-duper comfy seats. Also, there would be a little doohickey that you could use to place concession orders to be delivered right to your seat. Also, they'd have an awesome child-care area like the one at the Harkins Theatres. Oooh! And if someone came into my theater and talked obtrusively, used foul language or annoyed me in any way, a "Clod Detector" in their seat would cause the bottom to drop out of their chair and they'd be sucked away down a chute and land squarely in Mrs. Lewis's 6th grade class where I learned that calling attention to myself in public is rude and to be avoided unless I was choking. They'd have to stay there until they reformed or Jesus came back, at which point I'd grant clemency.

6. Haggard's Furniture. These folks take good care of you. They're knowledgeable and their designers are top-notch. Which works for me since all my taste is in my mouth. With their help, the Clem Domicile resembles a human habitation and not a bear's den.

And my restaurant picks (because it's my mall, and I can nosh if I want to):

For lunch: Inspirations Tea Room where I go every chance I get. We had Teen Queens' 16th Birthday Tea here and I still get all misty just thinking about it. Great place. Awesome teas. Bible verse on every plate. Man! I'm getting hungry!

For dinner: The Melting Pot which is my favorite place to go on a double date. It's a three-hour meal, minimum, and the conversation flows freely as you dip and eat and cook and dip.

Fast food? Bleck. The only reason for fast food restaurants is to be able to grab a vat of Diet Dr. Pepper on the go. So my mall would just have a soda fountain out in the middle.

Thank you for visiting my mall. If you've got a mall of your own, leave the link in the comments. If not, make one and let me know so I can come visit!

Happy Birthday Sweet 16!

Teen Queen was born 16 years ago today. I had had a non-stress test on Thursday with marginal results, so I was scheduled for an induction on Friday.

I will never forget stepping out of our tiny (700sf) rent house, into a humid May morning in Lawton, OK. I looked around the living room before I closed the door and thought, the next time I come into this room, I'll be carrying a baby. Then I lowered my considerable girth into our champagne-colored 1986 Honda Accord, swinging first one and then the other massively swollen ankle into the car. I fastened the seatbelt under The Belly and thought how the next time I rode in this car, I would buckle the baby in separately. What a relief that would be.

Gadget Man drove us to the hospital and I waddled to the Labor and Delivery desk. I surrendered myself to the bagging and tagging that those of us who've given birth in hospitals know all to well. I was set up in a room with monitors, IV and TV. I was on my way! I'd be holding that baby in no time!

Or, you know, not.

At 7:00 PM, after 12 hours of pitocin-induced contractions with very little dilation, the IV was removed and I was sent to a regular room to eat (first time that day) and enjoy the first decent night's sleep I'd had in weeks, thanks to the sedative thoughtfully provided by my doctor.

At about 4:30 AM, I was as wide awake as a tree full of owls, having just enjoyed the most consecutive hours of sleep I'd had since February. I twiddled my thumbs and waited to be summoned back to Labor & Delivery for Induction, Part Deux.

Pitocin was resumed, contractions were endured, water was broken, ice chips were consumed.

When the third woman came in, delivered and left, I had to resist the urge to yell out, "I was here FIRST!! The rest of you just cross your legs and WAIT!!"

At a little after six in the evening, my doctor came in, assessed my non-progress and suggested that it was time to consider a surgical delivery. At which point I uttered the following memorable phrase, just oozing maternal bliss:

"Cut my dadgummed head off, just get this thing out of me!"

The relief for me was that it was no longer up to me to "progress". I was anesthetized and given an appealing 'do "down there", swiftly managed with a single-blade disposable razor and foaming betadine wash. Which was cold. Yay. But things were happening now, so I was not complaining.

At 7:50 PM on Saturday, May 18, 1991, this:

16 terrifying, glorious, miraculous, painful, exhilarating, exhausting years later, this:
This is my beloved daughter, in whom I am well pleased. To God be the glory.

They Were Mean to My Boy Today

We have some neighbors that are good friends of ours. Their kids play with our kids. We've been camping together and eaten holiday meals together. We have three girls and a boy. They have three boys and a girl. Their 9-year-old and 8-year-old (two oldest, both boys) tire quickly of WonderBoy and can be dismissive of him. It hurts my heart, but it doesn't seem to bother WonderBoy, so I try not to dwell on it.

Today, Pixie and TeenQueen took WonderBoy down to the cul-de-sac near the neighbors' house to play. About 30 minutes later, Pixie and WonderBoy came home and WonderBoy announced, " 'Red' is coming over to play! Can we make snow cones?" Before I could answer, Pixie informed me, " 'Red' isn't really coming. He just lied and told WonderBoy to go on home and that he'd follow. Then he told me he wasn't really going to and wanted just me to stay and play with him. I thought that was mean, so I came home too." I love that girl.

I called the mom and just said, "WonderBoy's feelings are hurt because Red didn't come over like he said he would." She said she'd talk to him.

My heart is breaking and the tears are streaming as I type. He wants so much to be included, to be wanted. He just wants to play. And he's so SO much better than he used to be, and miles ahead of where he "ought" to be (according to the developmental specialists). And he's funny, and cheerful and generous. Why can't they just try? Accommodate? A little? WonderBoy works so hard every waking moment of his life, fighting every natural impulse he has, just to behave in a somewhat socially-acceptable way. How can they not see the sweetness of Heaven in his sparkly eyes? How can they look at that earnest little face and lie?

The truth is, I know how they can do it. The truth is that I was an insecure, know-it-all bully as a kid. The truth is, tricking a kid into going another direction so that my friends and I could be relieved of his or her presence was all in a day's play for me. Those kids who just wanted to be included, to be wanted, to just play. Just like the little boy that God has used to show me His love and mercy, and to show me my own depravity. In sin was I conceived...

Red, I forgive you. You don't know yet what you do. But, someday, you might and your heart will break too and I'm sorry for that because it's a searing, seething ache that I wouldn't wish on anyone.

Chester, Lea, Peggy, Amy, Jimmy, David, and Tana: I can see your faces and hear your voices and I'm sorry that it took growing up and having children of my own for me to see the image of Creator God in you. I hurt you with things I did and said. I lied to you and made fun of you and led the jeers in the cafeteria and on the bus. I was wrong. I am so, so sorry.

Heavenly Father, thank You for loving me enough to show me my need of the atoning sacrifice of Your Perfect Son, and thank You for giving me the faith to trust in that sacrifice to reconcile me, a sinner, with Your perfect holiness. By the power of Your Holy Spirit, give me the ability and the desire to extend a portion of the great grace You've so generously given me to those whose actions and words are painful to me and those I love.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

Just a Little Housekeeping

Not the actual get-out-the-Pledge-Grab-Its kind, mind you. As I am allergic to housework, that will have to wait until the health department makes good on it's monthly threats.

I just feel like a few updates are in order, and since I lost the loooooooooong post I started about my tattoo, it's all I got right now folks.

Let's start with Courtenay. Remember this story? Well, SHE WON! If you voted or forwarded or helped in any way, thanks so very very much.

Baby Redneck has resigned herself to the daily donning of underwear. Can I get an Amen?

Teen Queen made it home from her choir tour. Sans any extra pieces of mind, I'll have you know. That's okay, though. We're pretty crazy about her just the way she is.

The A/C is fixed, and we narrowly escaped being ripped off and talked into a whole new system when all that was needed was some little dooflotchy with widgets on one side. It goes on the outside of the boxy-thing on the side of the house and I don't know what it does or what happened to the one that was on there, but for $140 we're back in climate-controlled comfort.

I am blessed by your thoughtful repsonses to my previous post. It means so much to be able to put my jumbled-up thoughts down and be able to examine them. And when each of you stops by to shed a little of your considerable light on my situation, things become much clearer. Please know how much I appreciate your loving words.

And this concludes today's edition of ButtercUpdates (I just made that up, can you tell?)

Deep Thinking Makes My Head Hurt

I'm extremely, globally dissatisfied. I don't mean with the globe. I think our habitable little hunk of Universe is quite beautiful and wonderfully adequate for our needs. Go Earth! No, I'm globally dissatisfied in that there is not one single area of my life that seems in order, correct or otherwise, you know, okay. A few examples:

• The garage looks like Sanford and Son are our boarders, and they've let things go a bit.
• Master closet? Think thrift store. On the wrong side of town. Run by racoons.
• My exercise program du jour consists of walking by the treadmill in my bedroom twice a day: once when I get up, and again when I go to bed. Sometimes, when I'm feeling frisky, I walk by it on my way to sit on the couch that's next to it, and again when I get up to see if that hollow-sounding thud on the back porch was one of the children's heads. Again.
• My faith walk has become a crawl, and not a perky, prancing-around-on-all-fours affair, either. More along the lines of desperate, dirty, pathetic blind person missing three limbs and with a wicked itch that can't be reached. The more I pray and search the Scriptures the worse things seem: deeper into the valley of the shadow of death, further than ever from streams and green pastures.

Don't get me wrong. I'm aware that these are not real problems. I've HAD real problems, and this is nothing like that. For one thing, during the really difficult and scary times, I haven't had the luxury of devoting time and energy to whining about my garage, closet, thighs or anything else. Survival Mode is my friend. I know what to do in a crisis, and how to make it from Point A to Point C by skipping Point B altogether because there just isn't time and it's not covered by insurance. There are many in our extended Blogging Family of Faith who are truly in distress, and I don't wish to diminish their situations by complaining vainly.

I do wish to take this moment and lift my eyes up to the hills from whence cometh my help. I read recently (in a blog - just cant' remember which one. If it was yours, say so in the comments and I'll give you credit. Bev? Was it you?) that looking around instead of up is a bad idea. I agree, metaphorically speaking. In practical terms, I'd better be looking around, because in the Clem Domicile if you're only looking up, you'll be getting a free ride in Barbie's convertible straight to the pit of Legos, taking the corners on two tires courtesy of the pink lemonade varnish on the kitchen floor.

At any rate, there are things I need to just get up and do. There are things I need to just get over. Lord, give me the wisdom to know the difference.

This is Just Gooder 'n' Grits!

Thanks so much, BooMama!
We're ALL enjoying this little treasure!

Baby, it's not cold outside

Air conditioner's broke and so are the Clems. Ideas on how to get these guys to give us a discount for the free publicity are welcome.

Mother's Day Blog Love

My dear friend Jules at Everyday Mommy, Design Wizardress Extraordinaire, is giving away a new blog design for Mother's Day. As you can see, I've already benefitted handsomely from her creative genius. Now I want to spread some of that lovin' around.

I hereby nominate my friend Carly's blog, talking myself out of the tree. Carly's a first-time mom and a new blogger and my only international commenter, which makes me feel very cosmopolitan, indeed. It would make me so happy to be able to surprise her with a snazzy new blog design in honor of her first Mother's Day. Here's hopin'!

And, you don't have to win a contest to spiff up your little corner of Blogdom. Check out Jules' portfolio and very reasonable rates. You'll find that some of your favorite blog stops were designed by Jules so if you're ready for a new look, just drop her a line.

They Asked For It

Lisa and Diane (and everyone else, I'm sure) are itchin' to know seven random things about me. The trick here will be narrowing the immense randomness down to just seven things. Or maybe I should just list the seven MOST random things. How about seven randomly chosen random things? Is it possible I'm making this harder than it's supposed to be?

First, I shall copy and paste the regs:

Here’s how it works: Each player starts with 7 random facts/habits about themselves. People who are tagged need to write on their own blog about their seven things, as well as these rules. You need to tag others and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them that they have been tagged and to read your blog!

And now, I shall bring those of you who dare to read on dangerously close to the precipice of your sanity as I attempt to bore you completely out of your skull with

7 RANDOM THINGS ABOUT CLEMNTINE

7. I have a tattoo. I got it on the night before my 30th birthday. I had to drive out of state to get it because at the time, tattoo parlors were outlawed in Oklahoma. If you're nice, I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.

6. I play the French Horn, and I was really good at it. I haven't played anywhere since 1999, and I miss it a lot. I haven't pursued any opportunities lately because I'm afraid I don't still "have it."

5. I became a lactation consultant during my 2nd pregnancy because I was determined to be more successful nursing than I was the first time around. In doing so, I discovered one of the great joys of my life: encouraging mothers.

4. My favorite color is yellow. My mother says that one of my first words was "lallow". My favorite clothes are yellow, my kitchen is yellow and my favorite foods are all yellow: corn, squash, bananas, lemon-flavored anything. There is very little that goes wrong in my life that isn't made at least more bearable with the liberal application of yellow.

3. I have "Nanny Goat Hairs". And I hate them. They get all ingrown and sore and make me look like I have Chin Chicken Pox.

2. Barry Manilow may write the songs, but I KNOW ALL THE WORDS. One of the favorite after-dinner pastimes at the Clem Domicile is a little game we like to call, "That's Not A Real Song, Mama". It starts when I burst out into "You're the reason our kids are ugly, Little Darlin'. Aw, but looks ain't everything. And money ain't everything. And I love you just the same." Then someone says, "That's not a real song, Mama," and we all have to gather around the MacBook while I prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that "Yuh-HUH! Is TOO!".

1. I've met Carol Burnett. When I told her that I spent every afternoon from 4 to 5 with her while my mom worked and that she made me feel safe at home by myself, she teared up. Then she kissed me on the cheek.

There you have it. Now we're BFF, cuz you know even the boring stuff.

Oh, and I tag the people who haven't done this. Yes, all both of you.

Car Conversation

Driving across town today, Pixie wondered aloud about the restaurant we passed.

"Mom, what kind of food to they have at the Dee Wy Nasty Buffet?"

I turned my head just in time to see the establishment in question, the DYNASTY BUFFET.

It's called a Teachable Moment, folks, and it's why we homeschool.

Now THAT Makes Me Feel Better!

Teen Queen leaves on Choir Tour tomorrow at dearlordwhogetsupthisearly-thirty. We went shopping for a few new outfits, courtesy of the grandmother with more money than good sense, and I bought a very nice Samsonite rolling suitcase for 55% off at Kohl's. This is the cardboard thingy describing the fantastic features of the suitcase.

Read about the TSA approved lock.

I couldn't make this stuff up, folks.

If this dear girl gets a "piece of mind" every time she "checks in", she'll be a dadgummed genius by the time she gets home next Friday. I'm beside myself with glee, here. This is the nearly-16-year-old who is as sweet as the day is long, but will wear the same underwear until THEY get disgusted and hurl THEMSELVES into the laundry hamper. She will get in the car on Sunday morning without her Bible, her purse, or her SHOES. If she just gets one or two "pieces"...imagine the possibilities...unless she gets a piece of her own mind, which I'm not sure would be a net benefit. Perhaps it's just some free-floating random piece of mind, in which case it might or might not be an improvement, but let's think happy thoughts, 'k?

The Feminine Mystique

Baby Redneck is potty trained! Strike up the band! At 2 years, 4 months old, she's still pretty short in the stride, but that girl has in independent streak a mile wide. It's gone very smoothly and was entirely her own idea. There is one problem.

She won't wear underwear. At all. Shucks 'em faster than I can get 'em on her. I think she just doesn't see the need, and they complicate matters tremendously. Our conversation from earlier today:

Mama, upon catching a glimpse of Freedom McSparklehiney's peachy little tush: Baby Redneck! Where are your panties?

Baby Redneck: I taked 'em off.

Mama: Where did you take them off?

BR: I taked dem off 'a my boodee.

Mama: Where are they now?

BR: Dey are not on my boodee.

Mama: Where did you put them?

BR: I put dem offa my boodie.

At which point I ran out of ways to ask where the third disappeared pair of teensy underwear could be, and Baby Redneck ran out of patience for my redundant line of questioning. She put her doll in the stroller head first and waggled her little nakey hiney right on out of the room.

Excuse me while I get the phone...

Hello? Oh, Mother Of The Year People? I think you might have the wrong number.

Depth Perception

Wonderboy is such a fascinating creature. Being his mother has taught me so much about God, faith, growth and slickin' down hair (his always looks like he just combed it with an egg beater).

He was born with a cataract in his left eye. When he was 5, he had surgery to remove the clouded lens of his eye and have an artificial lens put in. Since then, he's been in vision therapy to correct his strabismus, esotropia and amplyopia (which is what I'd have named triplets if I'd ever had them).

Because the vision in his two eyes is so disparate, his brain had shut off his cataract eye and just interpreted images from his intact eye. One-eyed vision provides no depth perception. Even with the cloudy cataract removed and a crystal clear new lens implant in place, Wonderboy's brain still didn't recognize the signal coming from his "bad" eye. So now, he's in vision therapy to reintroduce his brain to his left eye and get them on speaking terms again.

Blah, blah, blah, and so on and so on. <--That's me skipping the technical stuff. Back in August, Wonderboy had no depth perception. Not a glimmer. Not a whit. Depth perception is measured in arcs per second. 40 is about perfect. 80 is okay. 800 is the worst that can be measured. Wonderboy's was incalculable. More than 800. Probably more like a patrillion, but that's just a guess, and (I'll tell you since it's probably not obvious) I'm not really that technical. Last Thursday, he scored 100. ONE OH OH. On the chart. Measurable, repeatable, reliable. It was a banner day at the Clem Domicile, as this one little victory represents daily, difficult, exhausting visual work. There's still so much work to do, but this little measurement is like a Gatorade and Powerbar combo meal that will keep us going a while longer. We will run with perseverance the race marked out for us. He marked it, we'll run it. To God be the glory, we'll glory in our portion.

Since we've established that I can spiritualize anything, I will now give my theological insights on the above experience:

Wonderboy was born with a condition that got worse as he grew (like sin). In fact, the mere act of growing increased the severity of his problem (like sin). His brain's way of coping with the visual deficit was to shut off the signal from that eye. Just ignore it (you know what goes here, right?). Make do with what the right eye could see. It was the only solution his brain could provide, and it gave him better vision than a mixed-up, partly cloudy image. We were created to see clearly.

Enter a great physician (earthly picture of The Great Physician, you get that). He examined the problem, identified it and made a plan to remove the cloudy lens and replace it with a specially made, specifically calculated, individually designed replacement. Sound like Someone you know? A cut was made, the offending object was smashed to bits and sucked out, and a pristine new one was perfectly placed. Hooray! Success! Salvation!

End of story? What do you think?

The bad lens is out and the good lens is in, but the brain doesn't know the difference. Hmmm. This seems VERY familiar.

We spend at least an hour and a half every cotton pickin' day giving Wonderboy's eyes specific jobs to do that will wake up and train his brain's visual system. Stimulate with light, train with exercise, deprive the "good" eye with patches. Stimulate. Train. Deprive. And wait. Just like the good work begun in us.

There are encouraging signs, little ones, that those of us who know Wonderboy can see. And occasionally, there are big signs, like the test results above, that can be measured. Make no mistake, friends, the work is being done with the end nowhere in sight. The road is long and rocky and pretty lonesome sometimes, but God is here. Pulling us up, pushing us on, lighting the next step.

Depth perception. Seeing not just height and width, but perceiving that the object being viewed has depth. Lord, give me depth perception.

Well, Butter My Butt and Call Me a Biscuit

It has come to my attention that my comment on BooMama's Southern Showdown has been selected as the Most Southern Polite Invitation Decline(ation?). Oh my, my. I think I have the vapors.

Thanks to BooMama and the folks who got a chuckle out of my entries:

Oh, Sugar, it’s so sweet of you to ask, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you because…

…I promised LouWana I’d carry her over t’ the state line package store so that nobody from church would see her buyin’ the Southern Comfort to make Paula Deen’s punch recipe for the sewin’ circle.

…I got a bone in m’ leg.

Oh, and I thought of one more:

…that’s the same time as my appointment at The Kut ‘n’ Kurl, and it took me three months to get my weekly’s made for the same time as Miss Ada’s and you know I don’t normally eavesdrop, but you can’t help but hear Miss Ada when she’s under the dryer and I’ll swanee that woman tells everything she knows and since your Daddy’s sister quit talkin’ to us when I happened to comment on her new grandbaby’s beautiful dark coloring and how I didn’t recall ever seeing anything like that on their side of the family before, I don’t have any other way of knowing what’s going on with that part of the family since Daddy won’t pick up the phone to call somebody unless it’s Doc down at the salvage to see if he has any more Ford bumpers because it seems like he pulls one off at least once a month and I don’t have the faintest idea what he could be tryin’ to pull with the bumper of the truck but I don’t guess it’s any of my business and it really doesn’t matter because Miss Ada said last week that Mamaw was feelin’ poorly again and had gone back to giving away all the little do-nothin’s she keeps on that ledge that runs the length and breadth of that double-wide and who knows but that she’s really sick this time and you KNOW that when she does pass on that she PROMISED me her Rosepoint silverware, and yes ma’am, she meant the dinner set AND the luncheon set, but if she goes on and I don’t get there before Earlene that dinner set will be GONE so you see I really can’t join you this time, but bless your heart for askin’.

But how I beat out Fiddledeedee is a mystery to me:

“Oh hon, I really can’t go because that sausage I picked up from the Piggly Wiggly gave me the “scoots” and this morning I looked just liked I’d been pulled through a knot hole.”

THAT one sent me right over the edge. I can imagine it being said by any of a number of my sweet relatives. Perhaps Ms. Deedee and I should have joint custody of the prize ---------------------->

Want to know what the best part is? I'll have something to blog about when the book comes. Right now, besides my little Southern Smackdown, all I have is the mystery of the disappearing panties, and y'all don't really want to read about that.