*WARNING*

The Happening movie spoilers in this post!

So my husband, as you already know, had the day off on Thursday.  Sensing my impending meltdown he decided we'd go to an early movie and then out to dinner.  He knows I'm an M. Night Shyamalan fan.  I think that sometimes he has to be too mainstream, and his storylines take the beating for it.  But I really like the guy's twists.  I think if we got his ideas in nice thick novels, they would be unbelievable.  Screw teased me all the way there about how we'd see this movie or that movie, knowing all the while that he was taking me to see The Happening.

Now, the critics have basically torn this movie apart.  They hated it.  They found this wrong with it, that wrong with it, but then, they don't get the luxury of going into a movie and merely watching it for entertainment purposes only.  I liked the movie.  I'm telling you right now, the thud of bodies just falling off buildings, one by one, was way worth more than nineteen tomatoes.  I knew they were going to do it, yet with every new thud, I jumped.  He follows that stupid site religiously knowing they never give horror movies high ratings.  He makes me so mad with it, I want to strangle him.  "But Angel, that movie only got twenty tomatoes!"  How about I throw twenty of them at you, and THEN you take me to see the damn movie? hmm?

I digress.

The movie has been dubbed an ecological thriller, and it is in a way, but it's nowhere near preachy or anything.  In the first scenes of the movie, Mark Wahlberg makes his appearance as your average everyday science teacher.  Well, maybe not average.  He obviously likes his job, and oh how I wish my science teachers looked like him.  He's talking to his class about the disappearance of the honeybee.  He wants them to give him their theories of where the bees went.  One kid says, "It's an act of nature, and we'll never know."  (or something like that) 

And thus begins the drama.  The plants on earth revolt at our abuse and begin to release neurotoxins into the air.  *Enter death, gore, and horror*  blah blah blah

I've told you this long drawn out story because at the end of the movie, after everything is over, a man is giving an interview and he says he believes that it was a warning.  You know, that we'd better straighten up, etc.  That's it for the preaching.  He gets ridiculed, obviously, but he believes that we've abused nature, and nature is fighting back.

It really is a decent movie.  I can't believe it got an R rating because the gore really wasn't that bad.  I guess, on the other hand, I haven't jumped nearly as many times on really gory movies as I did this one.  I'm telling ya, it doesn't matter that you know it's going to happen... random bodies falling from the sky is just frigging creepy.

We both agreed the movie, while not the best movie we'd ever seen, was worth our money.  We were home later that evening just relaxing across the bed, laughing and talking about stuff.  The movie came up and we were talking about how odd it was to see Wahlberg in that sort of roll, and I think we both have sort of a crush on Zooey Deschanel.  We talked about the plot and how even though it was out there and not as deep as we would have liked it to be (why I said lengthy novels would be killer awesome), we liked the movie. 

Then my husband says, "But I don't understand why the trees killed the bees!"

OHH EEMM GEE

I laughed so hard I cried.  I laughed so hard it became painful.  My husband is brilliant.  He really is.  That isn't just me being his wife.  He's one of the most clear thinking, learned and logical people I've ever known.  Here he was asking me why the trees killed the bees.

After I pulled myself together, which took a great amount of time, I said, "You freaking dumbass, it was a tree-hugger movie.  The trees didn't kill the bees.  WE killed the bees, so the trees were gonna kill us because they were afraid of us!"  The lightbulb went on and he was like, "OHHHH, I see!"  And he was totally serious.

I know this is a "ya had to be there" kind of story, but it was absolutely hilarious.  If you could have heard the seriousness in his voice when he asked me that.  Then a bit later, he decides he's going to read some more reviews on the movie, and he actually finds someone who reviewed the movie and thought the trees killed the bees, too.  Of course this guy was clueless.  He critiqued the movie for things he said they left out, etc.  And those things were clearly addressed right in the movie, almost word for word to answer the questions he asked.  I'm thinking he saw a different movie.  Anyway, you can imagine the thrill for Screw when he found another human being who didn't get what happened to the bees.

I'm still in complete fits of laughter, lying on his shoulder, trying to calm down when he calmly says, "We didn't kill the bees.  There are plenty bees out there.  I know.  I step on them everyday."

More hysterical laughter from me because by then, delirium had set in and there was no turning back for me.  I told him the plants were gonna fuck him over real good for stepping on the bees. 

I think I scared him.

Yesterday was one of the biggest emotional roller coaster rides that I've been on in a really long time.  I started off the day letting go of something I've held tightly to for a long time.  The problem came from the fact that I thought I had already said my good-byes to it.  So the smack in the face was entirely more painful than I ever imagined. Situations like that are when it sucks to be able to pretend you're okay so well that even you convince yourself of it. 

Somehow the dude I said vows with figured out I was about to drown in a river of sorrow of my very own making, and he switched up the day on me.  It was his one weekday off in months, and he had a few errands to run.  He had to get his driver's license switched to this address.  Something he should have done forever ago. 

I wish you all could know him.  You'd understand my tottering back and forth between liking him okay and wanting to kill him. 

So he goes into the county clerk's office and tells the ladies behind the counter that he needs to update his driver's license.  No problem.  While he's at it, he'll go ahead and register to vote in this district, as well.  Then, I shit you not, he looks up from the paper and says, "Do you all not have a Whig party around here?"  The really really sad thing is she replied, "Ummm... no, we don't."  He goes on to fill out his paperwork, and the proud representative of my county says, "Did you say Whig?  So, what are they about?  Who are they?"

(pause for wide-eyed disbelief)

Straight faced and totally serious he begins to describe the Whig party.  How they were a Henry Clay (KENTUCKY) thing, how they were against the national bank... not really been around much since about the 1800s, etc.

And.she.still.didn't.get.it.  He left there with her thinking, no doubt, about switching parties or something.  She's going to run into someone else and bring it up and make a complete fool of herself, and it's going to be all his fault.  At least I hope she does.  God please let somene somewhere in this state "get it".

What made him think to pull such a thing on a totally unsuspecting stranger?  Well, last week he ordered movies (again).  This time he ordered the miniseries "John Adams".  If you haven't seen it, you should.  It's an absolutely superb movie.  Anyway, he put in the first episodes earlier yesterday morning.  In walks the twelve year old boy.  He says, "What are you guys watching?"  Daddy dearest says, "John Adams".  (Here we go again) 

Boy:  Who's John Adams?

(we look at each other like someone just shot us)

Dad:  Oh you know, the second President of the United States?  One of the founding fathers of our country?  You should probably have learned about him in the second grade?

Boy:  Oh, was he the one with the wooden teeth?

(hysterical sobs from both parents)

I was ready to run screaming into the night when I decided to give the two older children a pop quiz.  They both passed.  So the United States and public schools may not be going to hell in a handbasket, after all.  At least not as quickly as I first thought.  I just need to beat the twelve year old more often.  That's all.

Oh, and beat my husband a bit more often, too.

The original turn this post was supposed to take will have to wait.  I've rambled on enough for one morning.  Maybe later today.

I fell into bed last night right in the middle of a silent breakdown.  I'm really good at invisible meltdowns.  My husband makes fun of me for occasionally losing it and kicking something across the house, and while I admit, I'm an emotional person and I do things without thinking, more times than not, no one ever knows when I'm dying inside.

As I climbed into bed I wanted nothing more than for the world to swallow me whole.  He was already in bed and last night he didn't just reach for me like normal, he grabbed me and pulled to slam me against him like I was nothing more than a little ragdoll.  I'm glad he did because it saved me.

I waited to hear him sleeping soundly before the tears fell.  They're always silent tears, but I don't chance having him wake up to ask me what's wrong. 

On our satellite subscription we have some of the XM satellite music channels.  I always put it on the lighter channels because I don't want to drift off to dream on some slow soothing song only to be blasted awake moments later by some head banging guitar solo.

I haven't had very good luck with men in my life.  Sometimes it was my fault, sometimes it wasn't.  Either way, they always leave.  So as I tried to force sleep to come to the sound of Elton John crooning out "Daniel", I realized this man lying against me has every reason in the world to leave me.  He really does.

I'm too emotional, too stubborn, too bitchy, too weepy.  I have quirks and flaws that drive him absolutely ape-shit.  I'm demanding and selfish and high maintenance.  My mood swings are extreme and can go from left to right in a split second. 

Sometimes I'm so sick I can't walk across the room.  I'm forgetful and arrogant.  What made me smile yesterday will piss me off today.  I firmly believe he should be able to read my mind.  I talk too much.  I clam up and refuse to say anything at all.  I let people walk all over me when I shouldn't, and the ones I should be more patient with, I have no time for at all.  I need constant reassurance.

If you're reading this and thinking it's every woman, take the first woman this reminds you of and multiply her by a thousand.  That's me.

I was pretty upset with him a couple nights ago.  He's been working at the same store for a few weeks now.  That's not his normal routine.  His job normally has him traveling between several stores not nearly as close to home as this one.  When he came home and told me he'd be going back to that, he seemed perfectly ok with it.  After all, he didn't like the monotony of being at one place all the time.  All I could think was yay him.  What it translated to me was that's an extra two hours a day he won't be home.  Then my mind wondered if maybe that's why he was happy about it.  Maybe he needs two more hours a day away from me.  Of course that's going to add about twelve more hours a week to his already sixty.

Don't think I'm feeling sorry for myself.  I'm not.   I'm just realistic.  I'm not whining when I should be changing things.  There's nothing to change.  I am who I am.  I swore I'd never make excuses for that ever again, and I won't.  If I find myself alone again someday, then I'll just be alone.

I know now that I was overreacting that night.  I felt that in the tightness of his arms last night.  I guess you can add that to the list of things that should make him want to leave.  My ability to jump to conclusions and panic over nothing.  The list grows and grows.

There are things in my heart and soul I want to work on... for myself.  Hopefully it will make his life with me easier, too.

I went to bed last night in such an exhausted and frustrated mood.  I'm surprised I fell asleep as quickly as I did.  Normally when I'm that upset, I can't sleep.  I guess the exhaustion won out this time.  When I woke up this morning it was an hour earlier than I needed to be up, and I had a killer headache so I figured my day was really starting off with a bang. 

But I was wrong!  I won a contest!  Okay, I didn't exactly win.  It's more like I was the runner up, and you know how in pageants where the small print says if for any reason the winner doesn't fulfill her duties, blah blah blah?  Well the dumbass didn't show up to claim his prize, so I was next in line for it! 

Yay me!

All you had to do was name the band, the name of the song, and the album of an mp3 CDV had over on his blog, chrisdellavedova.com .  I couldn't remember the album, but then, no one else could, either.  Not without Googling it, anyway.  Oh well, the specifics doesn't matter.  I get the album!  How cool is that?  It was cool enough to take the scowl off my face this early in the morning.  Thanks, Chris!  (Thanks for not showing to claim your prize, Brad!)

This really was a welcomed distraction.  My current stresses are things I can do absolutely nothing about so worrying about them is pointless.  Yet that doesn't stop me, does it.  I don't know.  There just shouldn't be things you can't fix.  That seems so unfair.  Like the powers that be are breaking the rules of the game and cheating.

There isn't anything I wouldn't do for the people I love.  The worst thing that could happen to me happens all the time.  It's when there is nothing I can do for the people I love.  It isn't the sacrifices I might be asked to make, it's the fact there are none to make that will help.  If you're the type of person who just has to fix everything, when you find something you can't fix, it will drive you ape shit.  Trust me.

I knew I was exhausted last night.  As a matter of fact, everyone in my family knew it because I said it over and over again before I finally got to go to bed.  Guess what I did.  Okay, I can't wait for you to guess.  I did it again!!  I got up this morning with coffee all over my counter and all over my floor!  I forgot to put the coffeepot underneath the coffeemaker!!!  AGAIN!

Oh, but it gets even better.  I cleaned up the mess while trying to keep the cussing under my breath as not to wake up the kids.  I calmed down and started the second pot.  A few minutes later I looked over to see how much longer I had to wait, and I shit you not... NO FREAKING POT.

I have an excuse, and it isn't idiocy, believe it or not.  I had the absolute weirdest best dream last night, and I think my mind is still trying to wrap itself around it.  I'm totally praying that dreams really do mean something, sometimes.  Cause there's no way this could have been bad.  It had hot sex in it.

Still, I can't believe I did that.  That's the third time in a couple months.  The sad thing is that Screw and I were discussing the absence of my mind just last night.  Or rather, I was discussing it, and he was laughing at me.

We aslo discussed soulmates, real love.  I was talking about a good friend of mine who just had a very sad thing happen in a relationship, and how angry I am about it.  (You know who you are!  Yes, we talk about you people in bed at night.  Scary, huh.)

He said he believes most people honestly never find real love, soulmates.  I disagreed with him because I believe there are people who do find it every day.  Sometimes they screw it up for one reason or another, but they find it.  When I pointed out his parents as being a couple who definitely have it, he said, "Yeah, but they got it right the first time.  I'm talking about middle-aged fuckup like us."

HELL-fucking-O!?  I'm still not sure which one I'm most pissed at him over... the fact he called me a fuckup or middle-aged!

Either way, he's going to pay because I'm blaming him for absolutely everything that goes wrong today.  Starting with the coffee thing.  He's going to have a really bad day.

I intended to spend the early morning hours blogging something really smart and funny, but instead I've spent them figuring out how to put my amazing disappearing feed buttons back on my blog.  I have no idea how they made it out of the last template change.  You'd think I don't want people to read me or something!  Which, of course, isn't true.  I practically whore myself out for attention and undying loyalty.

It's a beautiful morning so far although my surly mood is making it rather dark and stormy.  However, it's hard to stay this way when I look out the window and watch the sun rising up over the neighborhood hitting one pretty green lawn at a time.  I think my mood is merely from the fact I have way too much to do today, and I know it's my fault since I certainly didn't spend the weekend doing anything productive.

I spent yesterday reading a smutty steamy romance novel.  I haven't read one of those in about fifteen years.  I was young and dreamy and naive the last time I read one.  Of course this one is about smutty steamy romance and sex... with vampires!  You didn't really think it would be a normal romance novel, did you?  While I've enjoyed it, I probably won't read another one for another fifteen years. 

Don't misunderstand, I'm not the type of person to spend all my wasted time reading good educational or inspirational material.  I have to force myself, usually.  I love my fiction.  I just don't gravitate to the romance side of a plot.  I love SciFi plots, thriller, mystery, downright evil stuff mostly.  I do enjoy light hearted fiction, as well... in small doses. 

I cut my teeth on scary movies when I was really young, and when my mom realized it was too late to stop my obsession, she let me read the books, too.  I started out light.  Nancy Drew solved a damn good mystery in her time!  I'm nothing if not extreme.  I jumped from those kinds of books straight to authors like V.C. Andrews.  I think about reading Flowers in the Attic the first time and realize my mother was a sick puppy to let me read that when I did.  I would never let Bella read that as young as I was.  I was enthralled by Andrews for years while graduating to Stephen King.  About ten years or so ago, my sister introduced me to John Saul.  He's totally creepy.  I didn't just go for the "devil is gonna get ya" type stuff.  I've read the entire series of Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time.  Piers Anthony is a freak.  The list goes on.

But don't worry.  I'm not sacrificing small animals or anything.  Currently I'm re-reading all of Jane Austin's books.  Next on the list is Mansfield Park.  I'm also reading the newest Laurell K. Hamilton installment of my favorite vampire hunter, Anita Blake.  I love Anita Blake.  If she was real and a guy, I'd have her children.

Ooh, I almost forgot the most important book I'm reading right now.  Bella and I are about half way through Beezus and Ramona.  Even someone as twisted as I am still wants to pass along the stepping stones of a little girl's childhood.  You can't grow up without Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume.

Well you can, I guess, but you're not going to grow up right!

I realize I go through  phases where a lot of my posts mention my mother and the negatives about being her daughter.  I'm a textbook therapist's dream come true.  If I was the type to place blame for everything bad in my life, I could certainly find a way to twist it around to all be my mother's fault.

However, I'm one of those people who believe, aside from people with serious emotional and mental problems, once you become an adult and enter the real world, you see enough around you, live in it enough that you know what the good and bad of it all is.  The choices you make then become your own, and you have no one to blame for the bad ones other than yourself.  Even if a parent has always had a strong negative influence up until that point, you can still look inside yourself and know the real way to live if you truly want to know.

Even with all the negatives of growing up while taking care of an emotionally handicapped parent, there were fun times.  When I was a little girl, before she became really bad, there were really fun times. 

I remember those this morning because I just visited one of my new favorite bloggers.  If you haven't cruised through my links in a while, you should go read this guy when you get some free time.  He blogged about some music he grew up on in this morning's post.  It took me back to mom's floor model fake wood stereo with the AM/FM radio, turntable, and 8-track player.  She would put those 8-tracks in and turn the volume all the way up while she cleaned our house.

My little sister and I could sing every song by Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, Elvis, Fats Domino, and CCR before we could count to ten.  I knew "Bad Moon Rising" before I knew "The Alphabet Song".  And when she wasn't blasting and dancing around the house with a dustcloth in her hand, my older brother was jamming so loudly in his bedroom that the walls shook around him.  Bob Segar, The Moody Blues, AC/DC, or Lynyrd Skynyrd were his bands of choice.  My older sister was more of a BeeGees, Journey, Air Supply type of girl.

To put it mildly, I got a well-rounded taste of music before I was old enough to choose my own so when the 80s hit, they had much to live up to in my world.  For me, they did.  I'll always love the 70s music I cut my teeth on, but I do consider myself an 80s child even to this day.

What's so funny is that today my parents absolutely freak out when they hear some of the music our kids play.  They just think it's the most horribly offensive stuff on earth.  And every time they lecture, I have to smile to myself because they really don't have a clue.

I mean, did they never notice Madonna said "LIKE a virgin..."  which surely meant she wasn't one.  And daddy, that song wasn't REALLY about "Turnning Japanese".

Growing up in the country is like growing up in another reality.  I don't just mean small town life.  I mean country.  I mean waking up with the smell of horse manure blowing through your bedroom window and not thinking it's a bad thing.  Things like when the chickens had "gone to roost" you knew it was time to settle in for the evening.  Or spending time walking behind my grandfather when he planted potatoes in the garden.  He'd drop them, and it was my job to step on them.  My grandma covered them.

You never ever went to bed without bathing first.  You don't have to be rich to be clean.  Once you got into bed and grandma tucked you in, you weren't moving for the rest of the night.  No way anyone could move underneath all those quilts.  You certainly didn't sleep late, either!  Young'uns sleep all day!  It's going on 8'oclock! (at 6:30am)

There was no such thing as "inside" animals.  Animals were put here for our survival and in no way were to be treated as our equals.  I'm pretty sure a vegetarian would not have been welcomed on my grandfather's land.  I was grown before I realized the cows I made friends with every summer was the meat on my plate for dinner during the winter.  I know he'd spank my ass if he knew that right now, at present, there are two cats, a puppy, and a hamster in my house. 

We really did run around with bare feet all the time.  I still do.  We played in creeks and saw more than one snake go swimming by us.  It wasn't until later in life we realized those snakes were Cottonmouths.  We pretended the barn rafters were our castle towers.  If we'd fallen, we would have died, no doubt. 

We liked to sneak baby chicks and pigs out of their pens and pretend they were our babies.  We decided we were going to run away with a litter of new puppies because they were going to give them away.  We went up into the mountains and got lost.  It took them hours to find us.  They didn't spank us.

I could ride a horse before I could ride a bike.  I knew there was more than one type of apple and tomato before I knew there was more than one brand of jeans.  We ate grapes straight from the vine and had our lives threatened when we stold carrots right from the garden.

We didn't have to work the farm, but my grandfather got a big kick out of making us think we were hard little worker bees.  My dad grew up having to do chore upon chore, yes, but by the time we came along everything was more modern and we were spoiled.  My dad's family weren't poor.  They were the first family in the neighborhood to get a tv, etc.

My mother's side of the family was the epitomy of poor Appalachia.  My maternal grandfather died from a stroke when my mom was just fifteen.  That made life hard for my mother and her five sisters.  My maternal grandmother rolled her own cigarettes and believed  soap operas were real.  When we misbehaved, she called us shit roosters.  She said things like, " 'Pon my word and honor, I can't believe he did that!"  ('Pon = Upon)  Until the day she died, a grocery bag was a "poke".   

She died when I was fifteen, and she left this world without ever having an inside bathroom in her house.  The family begged and begged.  She wouldn't have it.  During the day, you went to the outhouse.  At night, if you had to pee, there was an old coffee can in the back bedroom.  (Don't think boys are the only ones who can aim well.) 

It took my dad years to convince her to let him pipe in water to her kitchen from a spring up the mountain.  She had cold water in her kitchen, and that was it.  But it was the absolute best tasting water on earth.  She used a wood burning stove in the kitchen even after we bought her a real electric stove. 

If you were mean, you got your ass whipped with a keen willer switch.  I made sure I behaved.

She passed away having never curled her hair or even so much as used a blow drier on it.  She wore it up in a tight bun on the back of her head every single day of her life.  At night she would take it down and brush it for half an hour, at least.  It was beautiful.  As it turned from black to silver, streaks of it would shine like silk in the lamp light.  It was that soft, too.  It was always so long and healthy.  That was the time that you could see our strong Cherokee heritage in her.  She never wore makeup or painted her fingernails. 

I miss it.  There are days when life seems almost too much, and I ache for times when I didn't know where the food was coming from or that we were actually charged for electricity.  I liked it better when water was free from the pump on the farm and air didn't cost seventy-five cents at a gas station.

There are days when I miss the simplicity of that life.  Don't get me wrong, growing up country was hard and sometimes heartbreaking, but it was pure and real.  I miss that.  As hard as it was, it was still easier than today.

I don't want it easy all the time, but every once in a while would be great.

Today will be a good day.  Know why?  Because yesterday kicked the shit outta me so today will certainly be better.

I woke up yesterday morning feeling horrible and it only got worse from there.  I had to run errands the entire day, and I took the pickle monster with me.  She was unbelievably wired and out of control all day!  I don't mean screaming in the aisles or anything like that.  My kids all know that if they act that badly in public I'll give them away to a pigmy tribe somewhere in a jungle.  But she was just touchy/feely with everything, and she just had to speak to everyone we passed.  By the end of the day she was tired and teary and just an all around basket case.

Once back home I was completely determined to get everything put away so that I can actually cook for one night.  I then proceeded to make the absolute worst chicken dumplings known to man thus far.  What sucks about it is  that it's one of the few dishes I normally really kick ass at making.  I've had old blue haired southern women ask me for the recipe many times!  But last night's batch was just terrible.  You can't really mess up dumplings.  Unless you're me, apparently.

Oh but that's only the beginning.  My husband was in a wreck right in front of me.  He's perfectly fine, which is the bright spot in the day.  Both cars were only moving slightly more than a crawl because he was turning down our street and the truck was turning from our street.  Screw's precious Mini Cooper will probably be a fortune to fix even though the damage wasn't completely horrible.  The other guy's, well it's hard to tell because his truck was already beat up pretty badly, anyway.  He did tear his bumper off and put it in the back of the truck.  I hope he doesn't try to say the Mini did all that damage.  I'd be ashamed to admit my big bad truck got its ass kicked by a Cooper.  The officer couldn't really decide who was at fault because there was no glass, no skid marks, nothing.  The neighbor dude was irritated because he wanted him to assign blame right then.  He wants it to be Screw's fault.  I could tell.  I honestly don't think either of them did anything carelessly.  It's a sharp turn, and it looked like maybe they both misjudged a bit. 

I can just tell he's going to be trouble.  I've been telling Screw about him for weeks.  He hasn't lived by us for very long, but I call him the creepy neighbor because he always seems to be passing by to stop in the middle of the street for a chat.  No matter what I'm doing outside, he thinks it's important to tell me something, and it takes him fifteen minutes to say whatever it is.  Then he gives me this look like he's completely lost, like he doesn't know where he is or how he got here.  I know he thinks we have money because we live in this big house that we're constantly renovating.  If he'd stop and think for a moment, he'd realize we're as poor as church mice because we have this big house that we're constantly renovating!

To top the evening off, I had to tell a different neighbor that I think she's delusional about her kid.  That's never fun.  Her little girl is a trouble maker.  She has already been banned from half the houses on the street.  I was still letting her play here with Bella because up until now, she hadn't really done anything that any other kid her age wouldn't do.

That all ended last week when she ran home and told her mom a terrible lie about Bella.  I can honestly say that I know it was a lie because I was on the porch while they were playing.  Anyway, her mom thought she was going to come down here and give Bella a good talking to about the situation.  Not.  That day ended with her taking her kid home and me telling Bella that I thought it was best for the little girl to play at her house and Bella to stay at ours for a while.

The mother heard me.  So she chooses last night to come down here and "clear the air".  It got cleared, alright.  The crazy bitch refuses to believe anything about her kid.  She's one of those parents in complete denial that she's raising a little demon.  She believes anything the kid tells her, and she makes excuses for the rest of it.  The little girl is an only child and can do no wrong.

So how did my evening end?  With the neighbor lady saying, "I didn't come down here to get attitude." and me replying, "You'll know when I give you attitude, and right now I'm not."

Basically, my previous decision stands.  I told her that Bella will no longer be playing with her little girl because it seems they just can't get along.  The sad thing is, the kid is being raised to be a conceited little bully.  It really isn't even her fault.  Her fault or not, I have to protect my daughter.  I'm just sorry the little girl has pretty much hit the bottom of her list of playmates in the neighborhood.  I hope mommy dearest is happy.

So you see, this is why I know today is going to be better.  If it looks as though it's going to go badly, I'm going to hide underneath my favorite blanket and pretend I'm somewhere far away.

When I was a little girl, after spending hours out in the barn with my grandfather, I would always spend just as much time sitting beside my grandmother watching her work magic with her crochet hooks and knitting needles.  While she could do both, crochet was her favorite.

I began begging her to teach me even before I was old enough to go to school.  She would always say, "I don't know how to teach it.  You'll just have to watch me and learn."  That seemed so impossible to me.  Her hands flew over the threads and yarn, and there was just no way to keep up with what they were doing.  It amazed me at how quickly she could take one thread and turn it into something lacey and beautiful. 

Year after year I watched.  Now, here I am, a grown woman, and it doesn't matter how old fashioned it may seem, nothing saves my sanity better than sitting down with a skein of yarn and turning it into a sweet little baby blanket or any one of a hundred different items.  Gone are the days of the burnt orange and brown granny square afghans although I still like them very much!  Did you know that while a knitting machine can churn out sweater after sweater twenty-four hours a day, crochet has to be done by hand?  There are no machines that can duplicate the technique of crocheting.  Not yet, anyway.  So ladies, if you see a particular lace shawl, hat, gloves, or a blouse or sweater with a cute little crocheted edging, and it's really cheap, remember that.  Chances are it was made in a sweat shop or a third world country where someone was paid pennies for hours of work.  It wasn't mass-produced on a machine somewhere.

My grandmother was a thread person.  She could make the prettiest things.  I can't handle thread projects.  They make me want to throw things, so I stick with the yarn.  The important thing is that I learned.  I'm the only person in our family to learn how to do it since my grandmother's time.  Her daughters didn't want to know and no other grand or great granddaughter has picked it up.  So to say she's proud of me would be an understatement.  My generation has become so modern and technically savy that we've forgotten how important it is to embrace our heritages and take pride in them.  I don't mean the chest beating, "I'm so much better than you because I came from..." crap.  I just mean the little things that make our families a little different from the next one.  Everyone should have something to give... something to be proud of that was handed to them from a parent or grandparent. 

During the past few months I haven't even so much as picked up a hook or set of needles.  Things have been so hectic and stressful around here.  I've forgotten that sitting down and focusing on this craft is exactly what I should be doing in order to keep from going crazy.  I remembered that during my shopping trip on Saturday as I walked through aisle after aisle of beautiful premium yarns. 

This is how dumb I am. 

So I went to the family reunion this past weekend, and it really was okay.  Over the past few years it has become a small intimate gathering, so there wasn't much need for any cousin to act out or try to appear better than the next one.  For some really stupid reason that morning I packed up a dozen or so of my favorite pattern books, and I took them with me.  I handed them out to aunts and cousins and let them choose a gift. 

This translates to... I now have about fifteen freaking afghans to make.  I know I wasn't high, so I have no excuse whatsoever.  I don't even care about what the cost will end up being.  I mean, they're gifts, and it has never been about the money.  The enjoyment I get out of creating these things far outweighs the cost.  But oh my gosh, the time it's going to take!  I get nervous just thinking about it! 

However, as nervous as I am about committing myself to such a task, it thrills me to having received the response I got.  When you do the "homemade" thing, you run the risk of having your feelings hurt by someone who doesn't really appreciate what that means.  That idea is severely antiquated to some people, and that's fine.  Everyone has the right to their own personal tastes.  It's just that it's hard to remember that if you've put hours and hours into creating something specific just for one person.

For instance, the first Christmas I spent with my husband's family I made two beautiful scarves for his sister-in-laws.  I didn't know them at all, really, but they seemed like modern stylish young women.  I didn't know jewelry tastes or pretty much anything else about them so I thought I'd go neutral.  I found out their primary wardrobe colors and style tastes.  I researched patterns for weeks.  I wanted to make something modern and fashionable.  Both women are from a small country with severe Russian influence.  The few times I'd met them, they seemed like very proud women who celebrated the idea of heritage and ancestry in everyday life.  They just seemed like two people who would certainly appreciate the idea of a handmade gift.  Not to mention, I spent more on expensive organic yarns than I would have paid for sterile gifts without personality for the two of them.

I could not have been more wrong.  Not only did they not appreciate the scarves, they didn't even manage a dry acknowledgement.  Not so much as a fake, see-thru thank you.  Not even a nod or smile in my general direction.  I'd never been so insulted.  It shouldn't have mattered to me, I know.  After all, you don't give a gift to be recognized for it, but usually, even a dumb gift gets a "thank you", doesn't it?  Since then, it has been really hard for me to think someone would want something I make versus something I could just buy them.  The majority of the time now, I'll go buy the baby blanket or other gift instead of making it myself.

But this weekend, my family was genuinely thrilled that I'd made the offers to them.  I could tell it wasn't fake.  They had such a good time looking through the books and teasing one another about tastes and choices.  They helped each other mix and match patterns with colors in order to get the perfect item to match a couch or bedding, etc.  It made me feel really good to know that I at the same time I'm using the hook and yarn to keep from killing a misbehaving kid at the end of the day, I'll also be making something a loved one will cherish, hopefully long after I'm gone.

Now I just have to find a pattern for a freaking firetruck.  How on earth I'm going to crochet an afghan with firetrucks on it, I have no idea.  But I will.  You know I will!

This morning my mind is a million places, and I have a hundred different things I want to write about, but my muse leaves me without words.  Evil bitch.

Father's Day was pretty enjoyable.  It actually fell on the weekend of my dad's family reunion.  We all had a decent time, I think.  Is it true that family reunions are only a southern thing?  Or is it merely that most people in the north have southern roots so when it's time for the reunion, they simply take vacation and come home?

Anyway, it was a beautiful day, my dad looked so handsome and relaxed, and I enjoyed myself.  It was the first reunion with my husband.  The entire family loves him.  Sometimes they don't get his humor.  He's weird.  But when they do "get" him, they laugh their asses off.  If you can't find something funny in almost anything in life, someone like him is hard to understand at times.

My shopping trip went really well.  It was a nice relaxing day.  I meandered my way through bookstores for hours.  I bought frivolous books.  I didn't buy a single educational, inspirational, life affirming book.  I bought fiction novels filled with sci-fi and scary dark corners.  Oh I did buy one pattern book.  I guess that's a bit useful.

You'd never know I'm a monster maniac by looking at me.  I'm about as goth and dark as a Kate Spade handbag.  Everyone should have their little surprises, I guess.

The week is beginning all sunny and hot with my ever growing list of obligations.  Maybe I'll actually wade through some of them finally.  But for now, I've already been up three hours, and I still can't seem to shake the sleepiness.  I'm going to go take a shower in coffee or something.  I can't afford to go back to bed.

No one should be awake at 5:30am on a Saturday morning.  That is, unless you're still awake from a party on Friday night.  Otherwise, everyone should be sleeping.  I had to get up that early this morning, but I'm not going to complain about it because it should be a really good day ahead of me.

My husband has to go up to the northern part of the state to work today, and it's a very unfamiliar area for him so he asked me to go along.  Now, normally that would seem like a big favor, to drive all the way up there and spend ten hours waiting for someone.  However, my husband knows me well so he had to know I'd agree to go considering that area holds all my favorite shops.

So I'm taking the day for myself.  I'm going to wonder around and take my time in every store I want to browse.  I'm going to take my time in every book store and every craft shop.  I'm going to look at things like purses and shoes.  No one will be rushing me, demanding toys, or screaming "Mommy!".

Hopefully the day will go that smoothly, anyway.  I guess I'll see!

In my mid-twenties I took a second job in a flower shop.  I quickly fell in love with everything involved in running a florist and before long, I was made manager.  I don't consider myself to be a writer, but I can honestly say I'm a little better at it than most other avenues of expression.  I don't have a single artistic bone in my body when it comes to painting or drawing, so I loved being able to express my creativity with the flowers.

I thought I knew flowers.  I grew up on a farm!  I thought I knew how to make a garden grow.  I learned so many things about nature.  I loved that job.  I'd love to own my very own shop.

If you want to know who's screwing whom, work in a flower shop.  That's how I found out my cousin was sleeping with two different men... not her husband!  More than one local politician suddenly became my uncomfortable best friend when seeing me out in public, as well. (It's a really small town, people.)

My biggest disappointment came the first time I saw my boss spray a vase of roses getting ready to go out to some soon to be really happy woman.  When I asked her what she was doing, she told me she was spraying them with scent.  I picked up the can, and sure enough, it was "rose scent".  I walked over to the cooler, threw open the door, and began to sniff every single rosebud within my reach.  Nothing.  I was devastated.  Every rose I'd ever received, every bud I'd stuck my nose in and allowed the romantic scent to just melt me... it was fake.

I felt so betrayed.  I hate fake.  I just want to be real.  Why can't we be real?  Sure, he might be a little surprised when you shed that wonder bra and your breasts are a little closer to visiting your bellybutton than he thought.  I understand that even your mom might not remember your original haircolor at this point.  And maybe that chick you're impressing with that really hot car won't freak out when she finds out you're barely making the payments because you could never really afford the stupid thing, anyway.

I spent the first half of my life pretending to be something I wasn't.  I can spot fake from a mile away.  Most of the time I choose not to point it out, but that doesn't mean I'm fooled.

Be exactly who you are.  It's easier for you, and people will appreciate it more than you realize.  You don't have to be a rose if you're not a rose.  Believe it or not, there are flowers that smell better.  Maybe you're one of them and you just never knew it.

I own every single mistake I've ever made.  I take credit and responsibility for every decision.  I have no problem admitting it when I do something really stupid.  However, there are a few things I simply will not take the blame for in my life.  There are a few hangups that do not belong to me but will certainly end up driving me crazy if I don't find a way to work through them.

The fanatical need to be June Cleaver:

My mother was never even close.  She was the most detached parent I've ever known who still loved their children.  I mean, I've seen parents who have less to do with their children, but it has been easy to see they don't care for their kids.  I know my mother loves us as much as she can love anyone.  Loving us did not translate to being an active part of our lives.  Sure, she kept us from killing ourselves when we were little.  She took care of us when we were sick.  She even did our laundry.  It stops there. 

I don't remember hugs and kisses growing up, not from her.  I don't remember sharing giggles or tears with her.  There were no mother/daughter talks.  When emotional support was needed, she sent my dad.  I remember exactly two times in my life when my mother showed enough emotion toward me that she felt like a mother.  I was sixteen the first time.  I was thirty-two the second time. 

Now, growing up with a mother like that made me swear I would never be that absent from my children's lives.  It showed me the need kids have to feel simple concern, support, and kindness from their parents... the need to never feel like a burden.  It's something I'd die for before I would leave my kids feeling that alone in life.

It doesn't stop there.  She may not have been there for us in that way, but in everything else, she was on spot everytime.  I can't remember a time when something was out of place in my mother's house.  She raised four kids, and I don't remember ever tripping over a toy or shoe.  I can't recall a single speck of dust.  I'm positive I never woke up to find last night's dishes still in the sink.  I'm positive the dryer was never used as extra closet space.

So, as you can imagine, we grew up believing that if you're a mother, it is your sole responsibility to keep your house absolutely perfect at all times, at all costs.  I cannot count the times one of my parents has dropped the hint that she did it with four kids, blah blah blah.

Let's recap.  Now, at thirty-six, I'm absolutely positive it's my sole design to always be emotionally available with support and affection at all times as well as being ready, willing, and able to perform all household demands with absolute perfection... absolute perfection.  In neither of these can I faulter, for any reason, at any time.  To do so would show the world exactly how insufficient I really am.

The really fucked up thing is I don't feel that way.  I live it.  I fight for it.  I demand it.  But I do not feel it.  Deep inside I think it's perfectly fine to occasionally tell a kid, "Not now, mommy wants to get drunk and have wild sex with daddy.  Go amuse yourselves for a bit."  And the truth?  I could not care less about toys in the floor or having to frantically look through the dryer for matching socks so that no one is late. 

Yet I absolutely freak out over these things.  I do.  I fall apart.  I fall apart because I'm EXPECTED to fall apart over them.  I go into fits if I think my husband is going to come home and be disappointed over anything he walks through the door and sees.  Crying kids or dirty dishes.  Before it's time for him, it doesn't bother me a bit if I don't get to the dirty laundry or if a kid is throwing a temper tantrum.

What drives me ape shit is how this flies in the face of every single other thing about me.  In every other area of my life I'm such a different person.  I am the most spontaneous, take things in stride, deal with what life hands you kind of person in everything I do except in my home life.  There, if I'm not perfect, I'm worthless.

The fact that I can sit here and voice it, lay it out like this, only makes it worse.  The normal person should be wondering why I can't fix it if I have such a grasp on the whole thing.  You may even have the opinion that obviously I enjoy it this way since I don't seem to be changing it.  You couldn't be more wrong.  I try and try.  It lasts for no time at all before I feel like the world is caving in on me, and I fall right back into this horrible cycle of always being perfect but never being good enough.

This post comes now because I woke up this morning, looked around my house, and realized my mother would have a complete meltdown if she saw this place right now.  And for a moment I panicked.  I put the coffee on and started cleaning like the world was ending in ten minutes and my afterlife would depend upon how clean my kitchen is.  It was then my headache decided to remind me just how intense it really was, and my brain sent a "screw this" to the rest of my body.  I got my cup of coffee, and here I am.

Feel free to place bets on how long I'll sit here before I can't take it anymore and get back up to be perfect again.

I'm tired.  I opened the fridge door this morning and stood there disoriented for about three minutes before I realized I wasn't going to find what I was looking for.  Mostly because I meant to open the dryer door.  I counted fifteen bruises on my body last night while I was showering.  I have a third degree burn on my right hand, and I have a migraine.  *wah wah wah... blubber blubber blubber*

Yes I've had a hard past few days, but it's all my fault.  I'm the dumbass who rented the dumpster to clean out my life.  I'm the one with the blood a vampire would consider a diet drink.  I suppose I can blame my parents for my stubborn stupidity.  We all know I'll find someone to blame eventually.

My husband says I'm great at taking care of everyone else but when it comes to myself, he has to step in.  He says it's crazy that he has to look at me and say things like, "Honey, ummm... you just cut off your hand."  I think he's exaggerating a tad. 

I'm definitely having anger issues lately.  I hurt my foot again because yesterday I got mad and did the dumb thing of holding it in for hours.  So when I finally blew, I kicked a dehumidifier across the basement.  Those aren't lightweight things, by the way.  It all turned out ok, though, because it didn't work before I kicked it.  It works now.

The good news is I'm in the home stretch of this whole organizing thing.  The garage is finished.  The third story is finished.  The basement is really close.   I'm almost finished in the yard.  I'm starting the main floor today.  Unfortunately it has been seriously neglected lately due to all the work everywhere else, so it's going to be hell to get it looking good again.  But I will do it even if I have to crawl from room to room.

Seriously, there's really no way I'm hitting my knees... not to clean, anyway.

I know I've been such a mommy blogger lately.  It's just that summer break is here, so I've been enjoying them and they've been home much more.  It gives me more to talk about.  Don't worry, we're starting our third week of break.  I'm already as tired of them as they are me.  I'll go back to being self-absorbed any day now.

But I have to tell you one more story.  This one will freak you out.

My fifteen year old daughter is really a very typical teen girl.  One minute she's on top of the world, and the next minute she's the most miserable kid on earth.  PMS?  Oh my gosh, walk softly through the room and don't make eye contact.  There's really nothing I can't say about her that any other proud parent won't tell you about their daughter.

She's awkward and stubborn and sometimes extremely insecure.  She's obsessed with being too short or too fat or having ugly hair and pimples.  Her feet are too big, and she can't grow nice fingernails.  She finds a million things wrong with herself every minute.

But the reality is that she's beautiful.  She's the right size, flawless complexion, and has hair that is so thick and gorgeous.  Beyond that, she's very smart and extremely mature for her age.  She's opinonated and involved.  She has a thought on religion, and her knowledge of politics astounds me.  Even with all her insecurities she's convinced a guy had better be one hell of a person in order to be around her.  I've witnessed her stand up for things she believes in that is completely going against everyone else in the room.

There was a young boy she's been interested in for a while now.  Her very best friend in the whole world has been seeing his best friend for a long time.  (I really need to come up with names for my kids if I'm going to write about them constantly...hmmm.   I'll condense her name a bit.)  Lakie never sticks with one guy for very long.  They seem to get on her nerves easily, and she hasn't quite hit that stage where she's absolutely crazy over the opposite sex. 

She's almost sixteen, and I'm not sure where that number came from but around here that seemed to be the age of dating that girls and parents normally agreed upon when I was growing up.  Today, who knows.  She's had friends whose parents have let them date at fourteen.  I think it should be a case by case thing... how old is she mentally, etc.  For us, I've let boys come to see her at her house.  I've let her go out to dinner and family functions with a boy and his parents.  I've driven her to the movies and the waterpark in order for her to meet a boy.  But until this weekend, I had never let her leave my house with one.

This past Saturday she sat me down and presented me with the request of a lifetime.  Her lifetime thus far, anyway.  Her best friend was here and her boyfriend was coming over to see her.  He was bringing his friend, the guy Lakie had a crush on.  I had already agreed to that.  But they wanted to change their plans.  They wanted the boys to come over and then take them out to eat and to a movie.  (I had to step out of the family room and take a valium.)  They laid out this entire plan and how every single minute of it would go. 

Now in order to understand their presentation, you'd have to know that we live less than two miles from the restaurant they wanted to go to and probably ten minutes from the movie theatre.  So as they begged, they made sure I realized they would have no opportunity to go anywhere and do anything not agreed upon.

I swear, I think I must have been numb from pain or something.  I'd just finished overdoing it in the garage and could hardly walk.  I was hot and tired and absolutely miserable.  He seemed like a good kid.  She was going as group.  They would never be alone.  He seemed like such a good kid.  So after memorizing what the car, all their cell numbers... I'm not even sure how it happened, but I said yes.

I sat her down to talk before the boys arrived.  I went back over everything I'd ever told her about being out on her own.  I reminded her that she's in charge of her and no one else.  I told her again, for the millionth time, that no matter how small something might seem, if it makes her uncomfortable, she should act on it.  I went back over her "Get out of Jail Free" card which is what we've told our teens about finding themselves in situations they can't get out of... don't screw up.  When in doubt, if you're scared, CALL HOME.  We'll find them and bring them home and nothing will be said until everyone is calm and willing to listen and talk.

They left for dinner.  I spent the next hour and a half completely regretting my decision  I knew she wasn't ready for one on one dating, but I had fooled myself to believe that she'd be safe as a couple with a responsible boy.  I knew as much about him as I'll probably know about any boy she leaves the house with for the first time, but still, I regretted letting her go.  I told her to call me between dinner and the movie.  Right when I was beginning to freak out wondering where the call was, the two girls came walking through the door.  They were sweaty, hot, and exhausted.

To stop me from rambling even more than I already have, the boys had been arrogant and stupid all through dinner.  Then at the end of the meal, the girls went to the bathroom only to come back out and see the boys with the trunk of the car open and beer inside it.  When Lakie questioned them about it, they just made the off-handed remark that it was for later that night.  That they wanted to stop by a party on the way home.  When the girls said no, they argued with them.  Then Lakie said she wanted to just come home.  The boy got mad at her and told her she was being stupid, etc.  That she didn't have to drink or even go to the party.  They would drop her off after the movie.  She told him no... she wanted to come home now... that she didn't realize he drank, and she wanted no part of him.  She said he told her that he'd bring her home, but she didn't believe him.  He was acting strange, in a way she'd never seen him behave before.  She was scared and worried that if she got into the car he wouldn't stop at our house. 

So... this young lady, this kid of mine, this wonderful glorious woman-child grabbed her purse, her friend, and walked her ass home.

She showed me.  She proved herself on the first run.  I have never been more proud.  She said the boys drove by them and slowed down to ask them if they were sure they didn't want a ride to which she replied it was a beautiful evening for a walk and that she wanted to get exercise so she'd look even better for her next boyfriend! 

She admitted to me later that on the walk home they discussed not telling me the truth because she was afraid that I would never trust either of our abilities to judge a boy as being a good guy ever again.  And she's right.  I've looked back over it a hundred times to see if I missed something.  The truth is, as a parent, there's only so much you're going to know about this stuff.  You do your best.

We laugh about it now (after we had a really good cry).  We've both decided this one doesn't count.  There is no way we're going to remember this as her first real date.  This was a test run.  She passed.  She is AMAZING.

I think this is the perfect place for me to ask for an opinion on this subject.  I'm not looking for someone to tell me what to do, I've already made the decision.  I just want to know thoughts on the subject.  What better place to get a well rounded sample of public opinion than a blog!  I have writers, directors, teachers, engineers, corporate honchos, tech wonders, students, scientists, moms, dads, grandparents, even the occasional pharmacist who all read my blog from time to time.  Surely that's diverse enough to represent the common person appropriately.

I'm rambling and making it sound all too important.  The seventeen year old  wants to get his lip pierced.  You know the little hoop in the corner?  I was just wondering if that's as much of nothing as I think it is these days, or if there is still a stereotype attached to it.  You'd think I'd know since I have a tattoo and I had my tongue pierced for years, but I don't know because back then, I didn't give a shit.  I was an adult and more than settled into a career and life.  I didn't pay attention.  He'll be heading off to college in a year.  I want his best foot forward.

Like I said, I've already made my decision.  I'm going to let him.  Hello?!  He's seventeen.  He doesn't drink or smoke, sneak out of the house, break curfew, or do drugs.  He still takes out the trash and mows the lawn.  The kid wants his lip pierced, I'm going to let him do it.  I did make him think about this for a while.  Months, even.  I kept putting him off because I wanted him to be sure.  Besides, this isn't like it's someting he can't take back.  He can always just take it out.

At the same time, I wanted to make him wait because I don't want this sort of thing to become an obsession that he does on impulse.  That's how people get a tattoo sleeve.  This stuff is very addicting.  If you've never had a tattoo or a piercing, you have no idea the drawing power it has once you get the first one.  I've spent years and tons of willpower fighting off getting that second tat.  I think I've beaten the addiction, but still... it wasn't easy.

It's very hard to raise your kids to be individuals while still teaching them that who they are and how they present themselves will certainly influence how they're received in life.  I want to try for the happy medium, but it's difficult. 

It's all about compromise.  How much can you compromise without feeling like you've betrayed yourself, and how much can you force society to compromise to accept who you are.  It's a meet in the middle attitude that we should all have.

The entire world is never going to agree on absolutely everything and it's ridiculous to expect people to always see everything the same.  Our diversity is part of what makes us such a great species.  That same diversity is what forces us to give as much as we get, sometimes more.

If you're getting more than you give, shame on you.  It's not all about you all the time.  If you're giving more than you're getting, demand better. 

Find a way to balance it out.

In this situation, I'm allowing him to get the lip ring.  I'm even paying for it.  But he's doing chores to pay me back, and I reserve the right to yank it out if he doesn't care for it properly, or if he gets stupid and tries to go all EMO on me.  This way we have almost a year before he's eighteen and can do it on his own.  Hopefully the thrill will have pased by then.  My sister wouldn't allow her son to get his ear pierced until he was eighteen.  Now he's nineteen with five tattoos and seven piercings. 

You just never know how this stuff is going to go with your kid, do ya?

We encourage art and individuality in any form around here.  The kids wear what they want.  (within reason)  They get their hair cut in whichever style they choose.  They choose the interior designs of their own bedrooms.  We encourage by gymnastics, guitars, keyboards, drum sets, fashion design software, Discovery Kids nature sets, beads, scrapbooks, knitting, crocheting, journaling, poetry, we'll read anything they write and put in our hands no matter how busy we are, sports equipment... on and on... and on.

And as of this week, we have the family art wall.  How many trees did we kill before I came up with the idea to take this empty wall:

And turn it into this:

 The first picture is to give you and idea of the size of our new art wall.  The teen is about 5'3". 

They love it.  Heck, I love it.  That's my duck in the right corner on the chalkboard.  I just went to the local hardware store and bought what I needed.  For the dry erase side, you can buy the boards or you can buy the paint on version.  I chose the boards because they were cheaper and easier.  The chalkboard side was painting.  What you can't tell here is the chalkboard is also magnetic so all those colored pages now have a place to hang, as well.  I got a can of magnetic primer and slapped it on the wall.  I had to add several coats in order to make it strong enough.  After that you can cover it with any laytex paint you want.  Originally I was just going to do a wall in B's bedroom to hang her pictures.  I might do that, still.  But I chose to cover this wall with the chalkboard to give them more space to draw.  The chalkboard paint was actually the most time consuming because you have to wait between coats.  There's only two on this wall.  That seems like more than enough. 

Everyone in our house writes, draws, doodles.  I was more than rewarded when B hugged me and said, "You must really love me, Mom!  You messed up your pretty dining room!".  I won't regret it.

I was clicking through articles yesterday and just letting random links take me to random stories when I accidently clicked on an advertisement instead.  At first I didn't realize I'd made the mistake because the click took me to a page about foster adoptions.  I got involved in that site I haven't been able to take my mind off it.

It's a site filled with foster kids ready and waiting for someone to adopt them.  I'm not talking about becoming a foster parent.  I'm talking about kids who will never go back to their biological families, who will spend their lives going from home to home unless someone adopts them.

The problem with these kids is that they're wounded.  Not to mention the only young ones on the site were usually mentally or physically challenged.  It's a sad testiment to our society.  No one wants the teenagers, and no one wants the little ones with problems.

That isn't to say I think people should run out and adopt kids they aren't prepared for.  It would definitely take very special people to adopt a teen with behavior problems he or she developed due to abusive drugged out parents.  And it would take an angel from heaven to intentionally dedicate the rest of their lives to caring for a child with severe physical handicaps.

I just get so angry about all these Americans going overseas to adopt.  I realize that laws and regulations are much more relaxed.  I get that.  But if you have the financial and emotional means to go through an overseas adoption I can't imagine you have anything in your life that would keep you from adopting here.  Especially if you choose to adopt from a foster care program.

I saw pictures and read profiles of hundreds of kids.  I laughed out loud and shed tears.  I wanted to find a home for every single kid. 

I know it isn't a perfect world.  I know that we're all having trouble supporting our own families right now.  Taking on more people is just impossible for most of us.  I'm certainly not trying to preach.  It's just that they were all lined up in perfect little profiles like products for sale.

Did you know that adoptions, and I'm not talking complicated - fighting in court types, just regular adoptions can cost as much as 40k?  That's insane.  Do we want children to find warm loving stable homes, or not?  There has to be a better way.  If we can't find better ways to save our children, we're worthless human beings.

This is exactly how a Tuesday morning should go, yep.  Waking up about five times throughout the night only to get up and have the satellite and internet screwing up due to, (I'm guessing here) the severe storms heading our way!  How am I supposed to get the news?  I keep meaning to buy a new weather alert radio.  I keep planning to do a lot of things that never happen.

Like all that outside work I'm supposed to be doing but can't since it's going to rain every single day.  Thank goodness that dumpster is a set monthly rate, but still, it's getting closer and closer to the end of the first month of rental, and I'm certainly not paying to rent it for two months.  I guess we'll just get wet.  A lot.

The satellite thing is starting to freak me out a little.  We never lose service.  We didn't lose service when the small twister touched down five minutes from here just a few weeks ago.  Right now the signal is bouncing in and out like someone is playing pingpong with it.  If there are aliens playing pinpong with my satellite right now, stop it, dammit.  How am I supposed to get my morning fix of coffee and news?

Speaking of the morning news, it's so important to me because I have only just now, over the past year or so, began paying attention to the world around me again.  I stopped reading or watching worldly, political, local, or national events years ago while married to a soldier deployed in Iraq. 

Back then, I still had myself convinced the man had some redeeming qualities, and I believed every spoonful of shit he fed me.  He kept me panicked and scared to death for eighteen months constantly telling me gruesome stories of bombs, guns, and flying body parts.  I had nightmares almost every night about him being blown to bits or tortured.  The odd thing was every single time I heard from him about a particular event, I always heard about it on the news that day or the next.  Never mind I had no clue the dumbass was usually nowhere near the area.  Every single newscast was another reason to freak out.  Dealing with that, trying to run a household, and dealing with what I believed was an illness that was going to kill me within a couple years... I'm the one that ended up in therapy. 

And then the credit card bills came rolling in daily.  I have no idea how he did it, but between fighting terrorists and saving the world, he managed to spend over 30k in the desert, with nothing and no one around.  It still boggles the mind five years later. 

I guess the sweet justice of it all was that this is where I was thankful he was so mean to me.  All those credit cards were accounts in his name that I wasn't allowed access to at any time.  So when I packed the car and pulled out of the driveway with barely enough gas money to get me home, I left him with all his wild stories and all his glorious debt.  I should point out here, I didn't leave him while he was still deployed.  I was actually dumb enough to let him get home and give him six months to try to explain everything.  Everything included the email meant for his friend, received by moi, talking about the fuck conquest in his unit.  OOPS

*Just so I don't get any un-patriotic hate mail, I'm not saying he didn't have a rough time over there.  I think anyone deployed in that situation and far from home obviously has been forced to see and do things no average human ever wants.  I just happen to know this particular man spent eighteen months guarding an area that saw no action but was close to a really huge military installation with tons of opportunity... like ordering tvs, laptops, video games, cds, dvds, clothing, desktops... you get my point?*

Did I call him a dumbass already?

Ahhhh... this post sounds bitter, but I'm really not.  At least, not much.  I never think about it just out of the blue the way I used to.  I have to consciously bring it to mind now, and it honestly no longer stings.  I feel nothing when I think of him.  I wish him well.  I hope he's gotten help.  When he comes to mind I say a quick prayer that he stays out of my life and as far away from me as possible, and that's it.  Just like so many women today, I could tell you stories about him that would make your stomach turn, but I don't feel the need.  Someone forgot to tell him I don't play the role of victim very well.  I might be slow, it may take me a time or two to see what's going on around me, but once I do, you should just get the hell out of my way.  I'm way too stubborn to wallow.

Wow.  This was a really long way to go about telling you why I stopped watching the news.  I'm high on meds. Deal with it.  It's just that now that I care about things again, I get really upset when I can't keep up with them.  Not to mention I need to know if this storm is really heading for us because if it is, I'm going to have to go babysit my mother.  Dang it.