On This Day In History

April 27, 1773 - British Parliament passes Tea Act

April 27, 1822 - Ulysses S. Grant was born

April 27, 1838 - Fire destroys half of Charleston

April 27, 1974 - Pan Am 707 crashes into mountains of Bali, killing 107

April 27, 1980 - I was born

April 27, 1990 - 50th annual barbershop quartet singing convention held (Mich)

April 27, 1997 - Las Vegas Senior Golf Classic by TruGreen-ChemLawn

Aside from President Grant, I just might be the best thing that ever happened today in history.  Wouldn't you agree?

About Me = The Whole Enchilada

One of Mama Kat's writing prompts this week is to write or spruce up your "About Me" page.  I figured that was a worthy task, so I took a look at mine and decided I really like it just the way it is.  You can read it by clicking on the header button that says, "The Whole Enchilada", or you can be lazy and just click the link below.

Muchas Gracias.  (Yes, right here.)

I feel like I cheated and picked the easiest assignment.  So come back tomorrow and I'll do prompt #5 - A time you feared for the safety of a loved one.  It might make my head explode to write it...but I'll try.

Impatience and Metro-Sexuality. Almost.

Of all my flaws, impatience is likely the worst.  It rears it's ugly head at the most detrimental times.

Case in point - last night.  

I decided that I was bored with the plain locks atop my head and resolved to do something to liven them up.  I'd been debating for a while whether to chop them or grow them out.  I opted for the grow-out, because there are only so many years left in which I'll be able to get away with long hair; may as well make the most of them.

The only choice left was color change of some sort.

So I took my boring head out to the local discount store and picked up a box of do-it-yourself highlights.  Why would I do such a thing?

Because of the impatience.  

Once an idea is concocted in my brain, it must be carried out, post haste.  It was 8:00, and all the beauty salons were closed, so professional help was not available.  (Not that I would have used it, because I'm still terrified of going near a hair salon in Utah.)

I brought the box home and put on the little cap and began to pull strands of hair through the holes...  And then I realized that I would not be able to see the back or sides of my head in order to pull hair through those holes.

This is what we refer to as being "in a pickle".

I came out to the living room, where my dear husband was watching football in a very manly fashion.  I smiled at him and cooed, "Honey???"

He looked at me, holding out my little crochet hook tool, and said, "No way."

So thirty seconds later I was sitting in front of his manly recliner while he attempted to pull bits of my hair through the highlighting cap.

And all the while he muttered, "If you blog about this, I'll kill you."

(Grin)

And then, when I told Cameron to take a picture, Andrew got really ticked...

But even though he acted all miffed about having to perform girly tasks, I was really glad that he was man enough to help me out of my impatient pickle. 

Snack-ticipation

I grocery shop once every two weeks. I get two weeks worth of meals and snacks, and then I only have to go back when we run out of milk, bread, or fresh fruit. It works pretty well in the sense that it cuts down on food costs when you always know what your options for dinner are; no last minute trips to Dominos for us. Usually. Plus, anytime I step foot into a store, I can't help but buy at least one more thing that what was on my list, so the less often I go, the better.

There is one thing that this system doesn't work so well for. Snacking.

I find that snacking is truly a mood-based activity, and I can't plan ahead for what I'm going to want to eat while I watch Burn Notice with Andrew, or force myself to fold laundry. (Don't you eat snacks and watch movies while you fold laundry?)

This last Friday, while grocery shopping, I tried to anticipate my munching needs a little bit better so that I wouldn't find myself lacking the perfect treat, whatever it was.

I bought a gallon of ice cream, a pound of beef jerky, three large bags of MnM's, two boxes of Cheese Nips, one box of animal crackers, a bag of black licorice, Jolly Ranchers, Tootsie Rolls, cinnamon bears, microwave popcorn, Doritos, two enormous boxes of Poptarts, and a couple bags of baby carrots so I wouldn't look like a jack-ass in the check-out line.

Wouldn't ya know? All I want right now are some Jalepeno Poppers.

It's Sunday and I Can't Think Of A Title.

Before I begin my little story today, I want to thank a couple of dear bloggy friends who have recently bestowed upon me some awards. (I know that in the past I have expressed sarcastic comments about blog awards, but it really is nice to know that there are people out there who bother to read this babble and actually enjoy it, (or take pity and pretend to enjoy it. I'm good with either.)

Lindsay at Barefoot Adventures gave me the Versatile Blogger Award, which I can't figure out how to post a picture of. No need - you get the gist. (I'm a stud.) Lindsay is one of those people who like to dip her french fries in a Frosty, but she's cool in every other way, so we can forgive her that one flaw, right? You should read her Anti-Bucket List. It's awesome!

And Sherri at Old Tweener gave me the One Lovely Blog award.

This one, I figured out.

I can't seem to find where Sherri explained the name of her blog, but it must be on there somewhere because I've read it. Wherever it is, it's good. But so is this post she wrote about If Onlys. Onlies? Whatever. Man, I could "If Only" all day long. Go read it.

I'm supposed to pass these on to more bloggers, but I always hesitate to do so because I'm afraid I'll annoy someone or forget someone who is really deserving. So I'm just going to tell you to please, please, please, go to my Rice and Beans page on my header and click on just one link or button that will take you to a blog you've never read before. See what you think. All of them will be worth it. (Also, if I never got your button back up there from that one time when I tried to re-do the page, please let me know so I can put it there.)

I'm also supposed to list seven things about myself that you might not know. Here I go...

1. People ask me if I'm Russian all. the. time. (I'm not.)

2. I'm afraid that diet soda will give me cancer, so I don't drink it. I go with the fully-loaded version.

3. In 2004 I made a pilgrimage to Alcatraz, and it was everything I hoped it would be.

4. I once managed apartments in a rather seedy part of Vancouver, Washington. Oh, the stories I could tell.

5. I'm afraid of the dark. The reasons behind this are too numerous to list.

6. I love to visit cemeteries. My favorite so far is the Mount Olivet cemetery in Salt Lake City, because a reanimated being was trying to unearth himself the last time I was there. But I'm headed to Park City soon to see another, and it might beat out the Olivet.

7. I don't like animals.

Alright, I think I'll save the story for later, as this is already long enough. Hope you all enjoy the last few hours of your weekend! My hubs has Mondays off, so we'll think of you while we're partying tomorrow! (Partying = weeding the front yard and figuring out exactly how much of my hair it takes to clog the bathroom sink.)

Me And Poison Control - We're Tight

Tonight marked the fourth time in a little over a year that I have called poison control.

I'm not sure if I'm really paranoid or just a huge nit-wit. So I present it to you all - and you can decide.

The first time was when I called my mom at work and told her that I'd had a day from hell and by the way, guess what weird things my kid had eaten that day? A paintball and a shell casing from a .22 pistol. (Or something like that - I don't keep up on my gun lingo.) I thought she would laugh and tell me how crazy my life was, but she didn't. She got all freaky and started to wonder what kind of metal those casings are made of, and could it be lead?

And then I was sure that if I didn't do something my kid would die of lead poisoning.

In comes poison control.

And they told me that I had to take my kid to the emergency room to have an x-ray to be sure he had not swallowed it, or that if he had swallowed it, it had passed through his bowels.

Long story short, the x-ray was clear. And that trip to the ER will be paid off in approximately five more months. But you know what happens if you call poison control and they tell you to take your kid to the hospital and you don't do it? Neither do I. But I bet they sick the CPA on your ass and make sure all your neighbors know you are an unfit parent.

Episode number two happened a couple of months later when I had been babysitting my nephew full time for about a week. He got hold of the diaper rash cream and thought he'd see if it tasted better than that crap, Enfamil.

It was kinda humiliating to tell my sister that it only took me five days to almost kill her child.

My third call happened when my husband asked me to help him work on his 1963 Volkswagen Beetle. (Tip for the men-folk: Don't hook your gas line up to a compressed air tank and tell your wife to look into the gas tank and tell you if there are bubbles coming up in it.) So two eyes full of supreme unleaded gasoline later, plus a little in the mouth, we had call number three in the books.

Tonight I just laughed. Trent brought me a tube of rub-on insect repellent, which he had unscrewed the cap from and taken a bite out of. I honestly couldn't believe I was about to do this again.

After that third incident, my mother brought me a fridge magnet with Poison Control's number on it and a pamphlet that is meant for thirteen year old babysitters who are idiots and let their charges drink Windex and snack on Vicoden. Mom knew it would come in handy for me, too. And boy, did it! It was nice to not have to Google the hotline number. This way is much more efficient.

So I called and told the operator, (I always get a man), that I had a pretty thick file there somewhere with my information. He still asked for my name, the culprit's name, and our phone number. I gave him all the info he asked for and assured him that even though I was a repeat offender and a bad mother, I had not used a fake name.

Apparently, deet, the active ingredient in this particular type of insect repellent that Trent decided to sample, can cause seizures in small children, but given the amount that Trent ate, (and likely spat out), and his astronomical weight, he'll be fine.

But the nice man from poison control called back an hour later to check on Trent. And probably also to make sure I hadn't negligently damaged any of my other children.

If there is a black list at Poison Control - I'm sitting right at the top.

Our Kind of Pillow Talk

Laying in bed with Andrew, trying to go to sleep...


Him: I can't sleep.

Me: Shhh...

Him: I'm going to steam roll you.

Me: No, you aren't.

Him: (Steam rolls me.)

Me: Gerroff! Yer squithing me!

Him: (Rolls off, laughing.)

Me: You bastard, I was almost asleep!

Him: Sorry! (Laughs.) You know, this lady came into the store today - she wanted...

Me, interrupting: Noooo! You're not going to talk about cabinets, are you?

Him, continuing as though I had not protested: ...cherry cabinets for the same price that IKEA had quoted her for cabinets she'd have to put together herself...

Me, interrupting again: How many celebrities do you think have three nipples?

Him: Who cares? Did you remember to buy me some deodorant?

Me: Yeah, but I couldn't remember which kind you like so I just sniffed them all until I found one that smelled familiar. Hope I got the right kind.

Him: I'm sure it'll be fine.

*Silence*

Him: Let's be Catholic.

*More silence*

Him: We got a billboard for our store. We're already getting a lot of traffic from it.

Me: How about you keep talking about work, and I'll be asleep in no time.

Him: Are you hungry? I'm hungry. I want ice cream. Do you want ice cream?

Me: No. I want to go to sleep.

Him: (Steam rolls me again as he gets out of bed to get his ice cream.)

Me: (Laying in bed, trying to decide if I'm more tired or turned on by the idea of ice cream.)

Him: (Clearing throat, tossing from one side to the other.)

Me: You're so freaking loud! I thought you went to get ice cream?

Him: I did. I'm back now.

Me: Well, crap! I was asleep then, and you woke me up!

Him: Sorry. I'll be quiet now.

Me: THANK YOU.

Him: (Clears throat and loudly flips to the other side again.)

Me: Aaaarrrggghh!

Him: Shhh. I'm trying to sleep.


It's this, and the thought of having my own bed with perfectly placed blankets at all times of the night, that make me want my own bedroom.

An Almost Victory Followed By Embarrassed Shame

Last night we had grilled ham and cheese with tomato and sauteed onion for dinner. Yum, right?

Andrew came home from work and asked me if I wanted his help making dinner, and I replied that yes, I would, but I would do the cooking because his grilled cheese is always soggy.

I have a trophy on my mantle for being the most compassionate wife ever.

Andrew asked me if I was kidding - "There is no way you're better at grilled cheese than me," he said.

Even Ethan chimed in and said, "Dad's are better." He's such a traitor.

"Dad's sandwiches are always soggy and barely toasted!" I had to stand up for myself, because no one else would. "Mine are tons better!"

Andrew told me to have fun burning the sandwiches, he'd be outside playing soccer with Ethan, who giggled as he followed his dad outside.

Well, fine. Game on! I buttered the bread, sauteed those onions until they were perfectly caramelized, sliced the tomato and ham and slapped the bread in a hot pan. Butter was sizzling and I was a watchful chef, being oh-so-careful to grill with perfection so that I could show Andrew that I did not inherit my mother's "burn the grilled cheese every time" gene. When I had a couple of sandwiches just about done, I called everyone in from outside and wasted no time in showing off my superior grilled cheese.


Is it just me, or is that crisp, golden perfection?

I stuck my frying pan right under Andrew's nose and said, "There! See! I am soooooo much better at this than you!" And then I turned out six more perfectly toasted works of art and sat down with everyone else to eat my delicious dinner.

And realized I had forgotten to put the ham on them.

There went my win. Gone.



*Speaking of win - don't forget to enter to win the $40 gift certificate from CSN Stores! Winner will be announced tomorrow!

Top Ten Moment - History and Reality

It was so amazing to see things on this trip that had previously only existed in the movies.

I mean, obviously, I knew that Washington DC and New York were real places, but I never imagined that I would get to see them. I'm so sheltered. It's sad.

Think about all of the people in America and then think about how many of them actually get to visit their nation's capital. How many do you think? I bet it's shockingly few.

While we were there in D.C., we saw so many bus loads of kids on field trips who I am sure had no idea how lucky they were to be there. But they'll appreciate it someday.

The first thing we saw in D.C. was Georgetown University. We were crossing a bridge into the city and then I turned my head and uttered the words, "This is so surreal!" (It was also "so cliche'", but it's true.) It was surreal because you could look out over the water and see the Washington Monument, The Watergate, and The Kennedy Center. Just like that, and you're in the middle of a place you never thought you'd find yourself. That bridge then became "the surreal bridge", and whenever I was turned around, Heidi could tell me where the surreal bridge was and I'd know right where I was. I have no idea what the actual name of the bridge was - but I'm sure she could post it in a comment or something.



It's a fantastic privilege to be surrounded by so much history, and it pretty much speaks for itself, so I'll leave you with just a few pictures. I will say that the Lincoln Memorial was my absolute favorite. I have a soft spot for Abe. I fought tears at that one.


Lincoln Memorial



Vietnam Memorial



Einstein and Andrew



Washington Monument



Me at the White House


At the National Museum of American Indians - Smithsonian



Me and the Capital Building



National Cathedral. Gorgeous day!

Top Ten Moment - Times Square and other New York Sites

I am a small town girl. Prior to last month, the furthest east I had ever been was South Dakota, and the furthest west I've been is approximately thirty feet into the Pacific Ocean.

Standing in Times Square was a dream come true! I'd always wanted to be there, in that spot, with chaos swirling around me. It was so good.



My first cab ride EVER, (small town - remember?), took me to Times Square. How cool is that?



The morning after the bomb incident, the Square was pretty quiet. It had only been a couple of hours since the police began letting people back in when Andrew and I wandered through it for the second time. There was quite a lot of security observation going on.






New York is a fantastic city. Definitely making a return trip someday.


My first glimpse of the city from New Jersey.



Plaza Hotel. Wouldn't that be nice?



Central Park



At the Met, and loving it!



Central Park bench



Andrew sitting of Forrest Gump's bench at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.



Heidi and me at Phantom



Sorta? Close? I was on the spot.



Empire State.



Groovy Cafe



Aren't they cute? Kate and Gary in Times Square.



Just for my sis!

The Homeschool Decision

Alright, folks, lets get down and dirty. I've decided to home school Cameron and Ethan next year.

There are two reasons I decided to do this, and neither of them include a desire to turn my kids into reclusive freaks who have no social skills and go on to spawn inbred children in their adult years.

The first reason is that Cameron has focus issues, not ADD or ADHD, mind you... He just likes to think about what he wants to think about - not what you tell him to think about.

For a variety of reasons, Cameron is lacking a lot of crucial building blocks in his education and consequently has a shaky academic foundation. And in a school system where we spend a maximum of about three days on any topic and then move on, ready or not, poor fundamentals are not going to fly.

The second reason for this decision is that Andrew works Tuesday through Saturday, and for three years now we have not had a proper family day. Sure, there's Sunday, but we go to church for three hours and then do not do other things because we do, believe it or not, attempt to keep the Sabbath holy. My kids need more time with their dad. (And that right there could spark an entire dissertation on how I think a lot of society's trouble today is based on lack of family time, poor priorities, and absent fathers. But I will refrain in attempt to keep on subject.) So there you have it.

Currently, the plan is to do this for one year only, but we won't know that for certain until we've tried it.

I know a lot of you have adverse opinions about home schooling, but I have to say that no system is perfect. If you've ever stepped foot in a public school, you know there are pros and cons, and I expect the same from home school. But home school allows me to put my children's needs first with the proper pros and cons - if that makes any sense.

I have to do what is right for my kids, and Cameron needs to catch up before he becomes a lost cause. He is so smart, and I know that with some one-on-one instruction he can really blossom. We're going to work on those fundamentals that he is lacking, organization, how to take tests, focus, listening skills, and maybe even have time to get a jump start on fifth grade if we make it through the fourth grade curriculum early. (Which is entirely plausible when you consider the amount of time he'll get individual instruction compared to what he would get in public school.)

I will be spending a good part of the summer mapping out where our journey will take us. I have no intention of making this a "fly by the seat of my pants" kind of school. Utah law states that Cameron and Ethan must spend the same amount of time in school at home as they would in public school and that the same subjects must be covered. Utah also states that no one can ask for proof or records showing what we've done. I will be keeping records anyway, for my own use and to cover my butt. It will not be an easy road and there will likely be a lot of trial and error involved. I'm ready for it.

If you have any questions or thoughts, please feel free to leave them in the comments section. Unless they are rude and then you can keep them to yourself and have a lovely day!

(Also, if you found any misspelled words here or poor grammar, etc., you go ahead and think that I have no place teaching my kids because I'll mess them up entirely. It'll make you feel better to just let yourself go there. Thanks!)

Top Ten Moment - The Metropolitan Museum of Art

I love me some good, classic, priceless art. The Met was a dream.

We had very limited time there, but every second was incredible. Making it all even better was my dear husband who didn't complain once, but took pictures of me, and tried his hardest to refrain from making adolescent boy comments about The Birth of Venus.



He tried. And failed.

I think it's beautiful.

As are these...





And Monet is breathtaking. (Not pictured) But Renoir will always be my favorite.

Like Mother, Like Son

Cameron just finished a four week course at school on how to make and keep friends.

Oh! You thought that was something that people just know how to do?

Well, only for the lucky.

During this course the counselor taught her pupils principles such as giving and receiving compliments, (don't we all struggle with that?), fairness, problem solving/conflict resolution and listening.

Those are fine and dandy.

I really wish she had covered topics such as how to approach a new person and engage them in conversation and how to include people who might not have someone to play with. That's what Cameron really needed.

Alas, the things he picked up certainly can't hurt.

When I was in second or third grade I attended a similar class. I was told it was a special club for an elite group of kids.

No one told me otherwise until about a year ago.

And all this time I thought I was special.

Turns out that being as shy as I was required intervention.

The kind involving a whale puppet and hot chocolate.

But I'm doing just fine now, so maybe Cameron is better off, too.

Here It Is

Remember when you were ten and anyone over thirty seemed ancient? I remember. I never even bothered to picture myself at this age until about a month ago.

Since then I've been dreading this day more than I thought I would, just because it came so suddenly. By the time I realized it was imminent, it was just weeks away. I can now say that I've had the experience of my life flashing before my eyes. For the past several weeks, the days of my existence have run like a silent slide show through my mind and I find that most of them are sunny. I'm glad for that. But when I really think back and let the images flow slowly, I realize it's all gone so fast. And now I'm sitting at that age that I had once qualified as old.

At 4 years old I am riding in the back of a Datsun with the radio blaring some tune I will never know the name of, the sun warming my skin.

At 5 I am smelling the stale cigarette smoke on my kindergarten teacher's breath as she leans over my shoulder to help me with a problem.

6, I am standing, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

7... wind pelting my face as I fly down a dusty street on my turquoise bicycle.

8...locked in the shed with the ghost of the dead lady...

9...in the cardboard world my mother created in the basement...

10...perched on a branch of a tree with spots of sunshine dancing on my bare arms and legs...

11...standing in the rain, clouds blanketing the sky, feeling lost...

12...trying to fit in with my sister, unable to keep up...

13...sitting on top of my desk at Mt. View Middle School, staring into the face of a bully named Jared and pretending that he hadn't humiliated me...

14...finally beginning to turn into the self I recognize now, but still pretending a lot of the time...

15...sitting in a car with a boy who would never love me...

16...in a parked car on a deserted dirt road in the black night with a boy who did love me...

17...driving, always driving...

18...in front of an audience, wearing a nose ring and heavy black eyeliner, feeling people's eyes on me, hearing the laughter, and knowing that the world was mine...

19...kneeling at an alter as the sun broke through the clouds and shone in on the moment that I had waited and prayed for through four years....

20...the last bit of freedom and sleeping in on weekends...

21...so tired, but happy and in love...

22...unintentionally invading someone else's home and depressed beyond measure...

23...sitting on the floor with two boys who might love each other more than they love me...

24...surrounded by paper, feeling like it all just goes in circles, migraines and bills...

25...everyone is growing up - kindergarten and promotions and landing at a quarter of a century...

26...being torn in a hundred different directions, but feeling tighter than ever...

27...getting stronger and feeling more seasoned in my roles...

28...more happiness and trying to remember what it felt like to not be tired...

29...discovering that I am still growing into myself and that creating my own happiness is a lot simpler than I ever realized, maybe because I know myself better than I ever have...

30... I don't know. But it will be fun to find out.

Gettin' Comfy

I have a sis in law who loves Applebee's. It seems that she and her husband go to that restaurant whenever they go out, (I'm sure they really don't), and over the years I have spent a collective hour of my life telling my husband how boring and unadventurous that is! Why do I care, right? I don't really. But I don't like Applebee's, so maybe I just don't understand.

Every time I try a new restaurant I think of this particular sis in law and wonder if she's still eating good in the neighborhood or if she's found a new favorite. I know - I'm so much cooler than her. (That was sarcasm, and I'm getting to my point.)

So this last Saturday was date night and Andrew and I had planned on a bike ride along a trail we've never ridden before and a picnic somewhere along the way. I was looking forward to it and even hit a couple of bike shops looking for a cute basket to carry our dinner in.

As the day wore on I became more and more exhausted and irritable, just because the week was winding down and I had had my fill of just about everything. When Andrew got home from work I had to admit that the last thing I wanted to do was go on a bike ride, get sweaty, and eat a cold dinner in a mosquito infested prairie. And I was grumpy about it. I seriously needed some down time to just relax.

So where did we end up? At the only place that I felt like going to. The restaurant that is my favorite when I'm craving a casual atmosphere and unpretentious food. My fallback. We went to Wingers. And it was good.

While I was sitting there in the booth, sipping my chocolate Coke, (not gross, by the way - I know you just made a face), I was thinking of my sis in law and her Applebee's habit, and then I understood it. Sometimes you just need to go where you want to go because you're comfortable there and it makes you happy.

We can be creative on our next date.

What are some of your favorite things to do for date night?

Andrew is always unimpressed when I take pictures of him eating.

Made It To Tin, Hoping For Diamond

What the heck kind of tin gift are you supposed to give your spouse on the tenth anniversary, anyway? How about a nice can of chili? That's the gift that keeps on giving! Ten years ago today, I married my dear, sweet husband. My Stewart Little, my Andy-Candy-Pants, my.....nope, those are the only nick-names I have for him.

I so much wanted to write a beautiful, profound tribute to him and our decade of marital bliss, but that's just not me. It's hard to be sappy about Andrew. We are simple. Our love is comfortable. He is my best friend. He occasionally makes me want to throw heavy objects at windows. (But less often than you might think.)

Our wedding day was everything that I hoped it would be. Except for the cake, which was a disaster of a carrot cake masquerading as banana creme underneath that beautiful bead-adorned frosting. When Andrew put a piece of that cake in my mouth it gave me such a shock that I almost spat it out. But that wouldn't have been very lady like, would it? Oh, and I could have done without the multitude of pictures my photographer took of Andrew's sisters, (and one of his brothers), licking his face and groping his pecs. What was up with that? And also, I didn't especially appreciate the black flatware the caterer brought as though it were a funeral, or the DJ who actually had the nerve to play The Macarena in spite of my explicit instructions to keep that horrid song shelved. But all of the important things were perfect.

Since our wedding day, I have been learning to tolerate Andrew's gas, his inability to close a dresser drawer and his love of sauerkraut, and he, in return, has been trying to ignore my compulsive worrying, choke down my cooking and act as though my obvious revulsion at the sight of the blisters on his feet doesn't hurt his feelings. Things are going great!

In a lot of ways the past ten years have flown by with surprising haste. We've been through a lot of moves, four children, several jobs, ups and downs, fights and make-ups, and days and days filled with mostly incredible memories. I don't think I believe in soul mates, but I know my soul needs Andrew. Even when he calls me Devil Woman and leaves empty soda cans in the kitchen sink.

That Psychologist One, Version 9.3

I have written several versions of this post in the last few weeks, all of them ended up in the recycle bin because I couldn't stop them from sounding dramatic and it always seemed like I was fishing for something like sympathy or - I don't even know. But I have felt like it's a story worth sharing, maybe because someone out there can relate or because someone in the vastness of cyberspace needs to be clued in to what's going on under their nose. Or maybe just as an explanation as to why I am the way I am. That's it. That's why I'm putting this out there and I'm going to attempt to make it very matter-of-fact. (And I'm closing the comments.)

-----------------------------------------

For a very brief period of time in my teenage years, I was a cutter.

I look at that word now and it gives this impression of doing something trendy. Like, "Oh, she's a cutter. Cool. I tried that once, it was no big deal." Well, let me tell you, it's a dark thing. The first time I did it, I was not thinking about showing anyone how daring and jaded I was and I certainly hadn't thought of it as something that might get me attention.

Cutting was instinctual. I didn't know there was a name for it or that other people did it. It just happened. I saw the pair of scissors on my nightstand on that first occasion, and I picked them up almost without thinking about what I was going to do with them. They had hot pink handles. I opened them as far as they would go and drug them across the flesh on my thighs, making shallow cuts in straight rows. With each slice of my skin, some of the pain that was filling me seemed to escape through those cracks until the physical pain drowned out the emotional pain. It was almost like opening the cap on a bottle of soda pop that's been shaken. All the pressure just fizzles out and you're left feeling relief. Calmer. A little numb.

I always kept the cuts where no one would see them, usually on my upper thighs. I wasn't much for short shorts. I don't know exactly how long I did this, but it was long enough that it became a little addicting. After a while, it would take less to push me to do it.

I suppose that everyone who has cut does it for different reasons, but we're all looking for the same result. We want to feel better. It's as simple as that.

Usually, I would cut when I felt like I didn't matter. Let's be clear that I was never suicidal; I essentially liked my life and was content in most things. I just wished that my life meant more or was worth more than I gave myself credit for.

I know now that those are just typical teenage feelings that were authentic, but they were not founded on fact. Growing up is hard and in some ways I handled it poorly. Today, I don't understand why I felt the way I did. I had amazing parents who were fun and loving and even disciplined in a way that let me know that it was done out of love and the worst part of any punishment was knowing that I had disappointed them. Okay, that's not exactly true. I do remember the reasons that I felt like an outsider. Some of them were unwarranted, but others were entirely valid. But I know that no one ever intended to make me feel the way I did.

My childhood makes the cutting all the more bizarre because I grew up in a stable home where love abounded and everything was normal. Except me, perhaps. But it goes to show that this kind of thing can happen anywhere, and no one should feel like everything in their world is safe and happy and perfect, unless they know for a fact that it is. And how can you? Have you asked? How well do you really know your friends or your children or your neighbors?

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For me, time passed and I knew I needed help. I didn't know how else to sound the alarm, so one day I cut my arms. Someone would see them and then we'd talk.

And talk we did. I found myself in a psychiatrist's office within hours of my dad confronting me about the cuts and that was nothing short of a disaster. I'm not sure where that doctor got his degree, but I'm pretty sure it was a mail order thing because I played him like a fiddle. All I had to do was give him the answers that fit the conclusions he had already come to. I didn't want to talk to him about it, I wanted to talk to someone who knew me and cared about me. The shrink, for some reason, assumed my cutting was about anger. He was wrong. It was entirely about self-worth.

After that visit I made a deal with my dad. If I never cut again, he would never make me go back to that psychologist. I don't remember any of us ever talking about it again.

The reality is that my history is made up of much more than just this cutting phase, but I still see pieces of how those feelings shaped me in the way I behave today. I do things and say things just to be included or to get a reaction or to shock people. I don't want anyone to forget I'm there, and I want them to like me. Maybe it seems ridiculous, but there it is.

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Recently I've heard my son say that sometimes he is tempted to touch the stove burners when they are turned on or to let go of the branch he's holding when he's climbed to the top of a tree. Those statements put me on alert. Another of my kids is in the habit of shouting that nobody loves him whenever he gets punished or sent to his room. More reminders to be very, very close to my kids. I want to know everything about them and how they feel about everything and what makes them sad and happy and everything in between.

I don't ever want my children to wonder what the world would be like without them in it and decide that it would be exactly the same because no one needs them anyway. I live in fear of one of my kids thinking that they are less important or less loved than their siblings. Because I know, I remember, how those thoughts can plague a person until they can't believe anything else.

So pay close attention to the people in your life, because everyone will struggle in some way at some point. Be ready to come to their rescue.

Does Flexing My Bum While I Type Count As Exercise?

There are only seventeen days until I leave for my anniversary trip back east, and because I have a limited wardrobe to take with me, I have to go on a little crash diet.  Right at this moment, I would have to grease my butt and thighs to get into my one truly fabulous pair of pants. 

I have never dieted before, IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, but I figure that after three decades (almost) and four babies, I shouldn't feel bad about having to start now.  Some of you might be thinking that I don't need to lose any weight, and I have to tell you that while I might not weigh much, every ounce of me is flubber.  So unless you've seen me naked, you don't get to tell me I'm thin enough.  And believe me, if my pants were more forgiving, I wouldn't even bother.

This morning I plopped on the bed and looked at Andrew as he zipped up his pants, (only slightly sucking in), and said, "We are leaving in just a little over two weeks.  Want to starve with me between now and then?"  

"Sure," he said.  And then he informed me that he planned to lose five pounds by Monday.

"That's only two days!" I said.  

"It's just water weight," he scoffed.  

Men have all the luck.  Not only will he hardly have to work to drop those five pounds, but he won't have to bleed from any orifices while he does it.  I, on the other hand, will have to skip that therapeutic milkshake, not even look at the leftover Easter candy in the cupboard, exercise, (gasp!), and suffer the pains and fatigues of Aunt Flo's visit at the same time.  And in two days, while Andrew is standing on the scale, gloating over his loss of five pounds, I will be exactly eight ounces lighter than I am today, and if I'm lucky none of that will have come from what's left of my boobs.  

In attempt to start off well, today I drank four glasses of water, (Hello, did you fully appreciate that statement?), only drank one can of soda, and stopped short of eating that second burrito at lunch.  They were small burritos, and these are all big steps for me.

I would love to be at my pre-Drew weight before we leave, so I'm going to tell you exactly what that is and that way feel accountable and maybe actually see it happen.  I want to be at 135 pounds, and in spite of my best efforts, I seem to have gained two pounds today, so I need to shed seven pounds by my birthday.  Then I won't have to put a can of Crisco in my suitcase.  That's possible, right?

I'm Still 29!

This is the gray hair that I plucked from my head this morning.  Time has absolutely no patience. 

Notice the confused look on Drew's face?  I felt the same way.

TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM

Last night I got a little present.  An ace of spades, a golden ticket, a free pass, if you will.  A really good one.  One that can only be used once, so it better be good.

And to get what I want, or to get out of what I don't want, all I will have to say is this:

"Andrew, remember the time that you forced me to help you work on your bug, (even though it was freezing outside and I am a girl and I had expressed concern over the absence of safety glasses), and you sprayed half a gallon of premium gasoline directly in my face?  Remember that?  The burning, the eye-washes, the 9:00-on-a-Friday-night calls to poison control and my optometrist, the ice packs, the inability to use a blow-dryer for who knows how long for fear of my head bursting into flames, and, oh yeah, the insane burning?  Remember that?

You owe me."

And that, my friends, is all I will have to say.

Now I just need to use this ace wisely.

One of these would have been exceptionally helpful.