I'm BAAAaaack! I've been on about a year-long blog break, during which time I was pregnant for 84 months, I discovered Twitter (Y'all! I have FOLLOWERS! As a first born, this lights up my entire universe!), and Facebook I gave birth and...and...and I guess that's about it. Oh! I guest blogged here and I read blogs and...and that really is it. What I figured out is that I miss blogging, and while I enjoy reading and making the occasional comment, without an active blog, there didn't seem to be as much give and take. So, I'm going to give this another try. And I'm going to try to keep priorities in order and I won't let myself get all whacked out because I'm NOT this or that super-great Mommy Blogger Icon.
One of the things I've been wondering about is whether I need to have a theme of some sort, or whether this is just a platform for my random musings and occasional flash of brilliance. I'm going with the latter for the time being. Since I'm still riding the PostPartum Roller Coaster of Hormones, there's really no telling what I'll dump into this little box and hit "Publish". I probably ought to require myself to read everything written here before attempting to breathe life back into this defunct blog. We'll see.
Okay. See? Now it's time for me to publish this, and I'm getting all weird about it. The blog isn't even public yet, and I'm having agida. Alright. It's not much, but it's here and it's mine and maybe someone will stop by occasionally just out of curiosity.
Away we go!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
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.
:~/
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.
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?"
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?"
Sunday, July 08, 2007
'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
Saturday, July 07, 2007
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.
Friday, July 06, 2007
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
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
Monday, July 02, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, June 29, 2007
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.
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.
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