~Who Wants to Hear A Sick Story?~

       I think that my brain is on fire, and not in a good way.  Is there such a thing as good burning brains?

      My family has been suffering with this that and the other for the last two weeks and apparently I am not immune.  The good news is that after I put the Ikeman on the bus I can go back to bed.  And I like going back to bed.

    The bad news is that I have the pukes and a killer headache.  The killer headache and the burning brains reminded me of the first time that I said "Eff you!" to my husband.  You see, when we started dating we made the rule that we wouldn't say that to one another, ever, under any circumstances, and for ten years I followed that rule.  Oh sure, I flipped him off behind his back many times, and I muttered the words under my breath after I left the room--but I hadn't said them loudly and forcefully, as per our rule. (stop me if you've already heard it):

     Several years ago I was at my in-laws house in Missouri.  I woke up to the smell of pork being cooked, I rubbed my eyes and wandered down the stairs to find my husband at the stove with a big ol batch of pork parts sizzling in a pan.

     "Sausage?"  I asked.

      "And eggs" he replied.  (He would later use those two words as his excuse--he didn't actually say he was cooking sausage now did he?)

     In general I am not a breakfast eater, primarily because I am to lazy to cook breakfast, but when bacon or sausage or ham are being cooked I will gladly eat.  I like the morning meats; If you were trying to seduce me (And you know you are) you would cook me breakfast and then offer to rub my feet.

     We all set down to the table and Martin handed me a big steaming plate of scrambled eggs with meat in it.  I also got a biscuit, some hash browns and a cup of coffee.  I took the first bite and I thought, "Hm.  This seems a little slimy.  I am not digging this texture, is the pork not cooked enough?"

    My second thought was, "This ain't Jimmy Dean.  Must be butcher sausage that is lacking spices."

     My third thought was, "I am a freaking adult woman and I don't have to eat everything on my plate if I don't want to."

     After breakfast was completed and cleared away, Martin and I walked outside.  He was carrying a white container, such as one that you would get full of potato salad from the deli.  The container had a skiff of blood sloshing around in the bottom of it. 

    We were having a pleasant conversation about our day, "So what shall we do today?  Want to walk back to the pond?  Go swimming?  Lovely morning isn't it?  What's in that container?"

    Halfway to the garbage can my beloved said, "This is what the pork brains were in."

    I stopped walking.  "The who?  Brains?  Pork brains?  For why did you have a pork brain container?"

     "That's what we had for breakfast, pork brains and eggs."

     And that, ladies, is when I lost my shit.  I dropped the f word on him so many times he just stared at me in stunned silence.  "You effin effer--you gave me effing brains for effin breakfast and you didn't effin bother to tell me what the eff I was eating?  Are you effin out of your effing mind?  Why the eff would you effin do that to me you effer.  Eff you.  Eff you and your effing container.  Don't you ever effing do something like that to me again. Effer.  What the eff?  I wouldn't effing do that to you.  Oh man.  I think I am going to puke."

    And the tirade might have continued--I might have even puked--but my FIL walked out of the house at that time and I had to get myself under control, lest the in-laws think I was a savage.

   A non-brain eating savage.

    Anyway, that is my "brains on fire" story.  Isn't it much more entertaining then listening to me blather on about my poor sick self?

      

~That's a Wrap~

    In case you haven't heard, clubmom is shutting down the mom blogs and concentrating their energy at cafemom (Which is a really cool site, if you haven't check in yet, you should.)

    This means that in the next few weeks I will no longer be posting here, instead I will be posting--somewhere else.  When I got this gig I was beyond excited.  I happy danced, called every one I knew, bragged like only a big fat bragger can brag and then I transfered all of my archives from my personal site to here.

     Which shut down my old blog.  Which was a mistake.  It isn't that my old site was fancy--I had no graphics--but it was the original casa de Deborah and it had a nice familiar feel.  I am currently trying to figure out how to transfer the neat and groovy things from this site back to my old site. 

    But, I am trying to figure out how to do that while in the final throes of this Fall semester.  I am getting pretty old so my brain can only handle so much technical information at a time. 

   So!  I am not exactly sure how the wind down at this site is going to work, or how the start-up of my new site is going to happen.

    All that I really know is that I will be moving from here to my own personal spot in the next few weeks.  And when I get my new spot running?  I will keep it forever and ever.  amen.

    Also? 

    It won't have advertising or a sponsor and that means I will settle into my old ways in which I say bad words, talk about inappropriate subject matter and ask all of you questions like, "Do you feel that pads without wings are inferior?"

    The cool thing is that for 18 months I had a gig at clubmom and I was able to tell people that I wrote for a living.  I added the title, "Freelance writer" to my tax return.  Writing here for 18 months gave me an extra boost of self-esteem and for awhile there I felt oh so very special. 

   And now?  I am hoping I can transfer all of this to someplace else so I can say the 'f' word again. 

    My mother should be so proud of me and my goals for the future. 

~Hola Creepy Stalker Dude~

     The majority of any social exchange happens mentally, so it is possible the fella I am calling 'creepy stalker dude" wasn't actually stalking me--he just happened to want to be in exactly the same place where I was.

     On black Friday I took the kids to Walmart anticipating falling prices and hordes of people.  I was shocked (and oh so very pleased) to find that Walmart was less populated than usual.  Apparently all of the good bargains flew out the door around 6:00am and the kids and I arrived at 3:00 when all the serious shoppers were at home river dancing around their $14 dvd players.

     As we were walking in I took note of my boys and decided that their shaggy haircuts made them look like urchins, and so it was time for a haircut.  To the salon we went.  It was outside the salon entrance that I first spied creepy stalker dude (let's just call him csd).  I took note because he was staring at me.  He had a bald head and a creepy little Howie Mandel love patch beneath his chin.  Because I was raised in the West where people are still polite, I acknowledged his stare with a half smile and a head nod.  Perhaps he took that as, "come hither". 

    I placed my boys into the capable hands of the stylists and set down to check out the magazines high lighting the best after baby bodies of the stars, csd set down in the chair next to me.  I thought it was sort of funny that a bald guy would be in the market for a haircut, but then--doesn't a bald head require some sort of salon care?  Again I noticed he was staring, and again I fell back on my good manners to shoot him a little smile.

     When the boys were groomed I grabbed a shopping cart and we headed to the produce section.  While I was picking sweet potatoes from the bin, csd was on the other end of the display fondling tomatoes.  I moved my posse to the meat section to peruse the pork, csd was checking out the spare ribs.  We moved through the food section and csd either followed or appeared at the end of the aisle to which I was just entering.

     Every time I looked up csd was staring at me. 

     To be honest, bells and whistles did not start to go off until I was at the feminine hygiene section and csd was ten feet away from me shuffling through boxes of tampons.  That's when it occurred to me that he was apparently searching for the same products that I needed, but he didn't have a cart or a basket, or a single piece of merchandise in his sweaty hands.  And he certainly didn't look like the proper gender to require tampons, nor the proper 'type' to buy the product for the little lady waiting at home. 

     At that stage of the shopping trip I yanked on the invisible umbilical cords of my children and required each of them to stand next to me either holding on to the cart, or my purse strap.  One of my major reasons for going to Wally world on black Friday was to purchase $20 worth of lights to decorate the outside of my house.  I herded my children to that section and told each of them that they could pick two strands of lights--any color.  When my children were fondling the racks of color I turned my back to them and noticed that csd was standing ten feet away with his hands on Christmas ornaments, but his eyes on me.

     When I turned to look at him, he put his eyes on the Christmas display.  I fixed my eyes on the side of his face until he glanced at me.  We made eye contact, and again he looked away.  I put my hands on my hips and stared at him until he looked at me again.  And then we had a staring contest that lasted for probably only 5 creepy seconds; but it felt like many uncomfortable minutes.

     I am a nice woman from the West who was taught that staring is wrong and that people should be greeted with a hearty "hello!" and a giant smile.  I stifled my good manners and continued to stare at csd until he looked away.  After he looked away I continued to stare at him until he glanced at me again--and then csd walked away from me.  He reached the end of the aisle and turned around to glance at me one more time.  Maybe he could feel my blazing mother eyes boring into the back of his bald head.  He turned the corner--and that was the end of csd.

    It is possible that csd wasn't stalking me.  Maybe he was store security and he thought I had the perfect shoplifter front with my entourage of small children.  Maybe he mistook my first polite smiles as an invitation to conversation and he was trying to work up the courage to say something to me.  Maybe he was a purse snatcher and I looked like the perfect scatter brained victim.

     Maybe he was none of the above.  Perhaps he was just a man shopping and if he were to retell this story he would end it with, "And then she stared at me with these crazy eyes until I left the store..."

    Whatever his intentions were,  csd spent more than an hour following me around Walmart, and this means he has spent more time following me around Wally world then my own beloved husband.  (My own beloved can't stand to be inside the mecca for more than 1/2 hour and we achieve that goal by taking two carts and going our separate ways.)

    It also means that I have reached a stage of feminine maturity in which I am not afraid to abandon my good manners to make it clear that I know you are watching me, and I could identify your creepy little face in a police line-up.

    

~I May Be Contagious~

     I had conversations with three different men yesterday:

    Today is a good day to be me.

      Why is that?

      I got an 85% on my last algebra test, I don't have to go to school this week, I got to go to town with my ol'man and I have food to cook for dinner.

      You're easy aren't you?

     Second conversation (I assume the man was from India):

    So Mrs Chessey, would you care to explain why you allowed this account to become delinquent?

     Not really, but I would like to pay it off and close it.

      Do you still work at the stop and shop c-store?

      No, I quit and now I am a student.

      Good for you Mrs Chessey! You have made the right decision to get an education.  Now that you have paid off this account, we will send you a new credit card in two weeks.

      Thanks for the words of support, I feel like I made the right decision to go to school also.  As far as the credit card goes, can you please put a note in my file that says, "This woman is not allowed to have credit cards"?

     Third conversation (with my beloved):

      Are you okay?

      Yeah, why?  Don't I look okay?  Are my eyes puffy?  I didn't wash the mascara off last night...

      Your eyes aren't puffy--they are twinkling.

       Oh!  That's called 'happy'.

      Yeah, I remember that look.

     All in all, yesterday was a most excellent day to be me.  Today is also a fairly decent day to be me, except I have to go to the grocery store, so that takes off some of the twinkle.

     But!  I have moolah for food and look at that, the twinkle is back.

    

   

      

~Do You Want Me To Be Happy?~

     Two holidays have burst upon the scene at the same time.  The first holiday is Ike's birthday--he will be six on Wednesday.  The second holiday is the arrival of the Walmart circular that contains 37 pages of toys.   

     "Do you want me to be happy?"  he has asked me, and every other person who comes into the house. "If you do..."

     "You will get me this work bench for my birfday, and I will let daddio borrow my tools if he wants to."  (You never know when daddio is going to need a plastic black and decker saw, or a drill with a foam tip.)

    "Do you want me to be happy?  Then get me the Dora kitchen for my birfday, and I will let you cook in in anytime you want."

     "Do you want me to be happy?  Then get me dese fighting guys."

    The Ikeman is in luck, because he does have parents that want him to be happy.  Because of our desire to please the boy we will be celebrating the event in grand fashion.  The first thing we will do is wrap the house in lights, and turn them on the night of his birthday.  (Hm.  Christmas lights the day before Thanksgiving...)  There will be two Huckleberry cheesecakes--one to sing happy birthday over, and one to share at the Thanksgiving party the next day.  There will be one toy, and it is certain to be one of the toys he has asked for, as he has asked for every toy in the magazine (including the bratz fashion chair). 

    One of the nice things about being a parent is that we get to make extravagant displays designed to make our babies happy.  Another nice thing about being a parent is that sometimes we do things for our children that they were not expecting--such extravagant displays that our children are awed by the depth of our desire to please them.

     Ike's birfday celebration began with the Walmart circular, it got hyped on Sunday when the congregation sang to him, it will peek on the actual day of his birth  and it will twinkle until after New Year's Eve when we stop lighting the Christmas lights.

    In ten years Ike won't remember what gift he got from the circular for his sixth birthday; but I am pretty sure he will always remember that the house got lit up for the holidays on the day of his birth.   

    

    

~I CAN Do Things That Suck~

     Let's bag the fancy intro and cut to the chase:  I got an 85% on my algebra exam.  (Why do I suddenly feel like a fifth grader talking to her mother?)  This is good news and bad news.  The good news is, I can do algebra if I spend an hour a day working on it.  The bad news?  I have to spend an hour a day working on it.  An hour is a very long time to devote to my enemy: math.  I keep hearing from people that once you get it, doing equations can be really fun.

     And you know what else can be really fun?  Laundry.  Stain removal can be very rewarding, as can ironing.

     In other news:  I wrote an article for the paper titled (and you may think this is a strange coincidence, but it really isn't since I titled both the article and this post) "I can do things that suck". 

    Next week is Thanksgiving break for both the children and I.  Because none of us have to go to school I anticipate getting all sorts of work done.  I anticipate this because, in case you haven't noticed, when I get alone time I veg.  I only work when my family is at home.  Maybe I work then so that I can show them what a good hard work ethic is all about--

     --or maybe I work when they are home so that I don't give them impression that I have nothing to do and thus I am open to suggestions as to what we could do to entertain the kids.   

~Intelligent Designer Shunned~

    I have been taking astro-physics and again I admit:  I took it because it had 'physics' in the title (it's really just astronomy.)  I have learned some things that I will probably forget:  a kelvin is hotter than Fahrenheit but not as hot as joules and that the farthest star away is so far there isn't even a number for it, just a little symbol. 

    I have also learned some pretty cool things:  an atom with the electrons and protons and neutrons is essentially the same as the universe with its stars and planets and comets.  The elements that created a star are the elements that compose a person.  Every single particle of energy is experiencing both internal and external pressure. 

    I found this today and once again I was flabbergasted by the debate. The people against creationism want the entire idea of any sort of god or 'intelligent designer' removed from the curriculum.  The reoccurring argument from their side seems to be that if we assume that there is a creator, then we will no longer wonder about human origins.  It seems to assume that people will look to the stars and smile while saying, "God did that" and cease to question:  How did he do that?

     The creationists keep trying to come up with more clever ways to insert god into the equation.  First they fought the teaching of evolution, then they started talking about the intelligent designer.  The way the creationists are portrayed it seems they fear that if the people are not taught that there was a driving force behind creation (the driving force being the big G of course) then people will get educated and forget about their religious belief.

     It seems to me that the more we debate the issue the more we get to hear intelligent things like, "And if you believe that the world was created by a superior being you are an idiot."  Isn't it funny that what this debate has done to the educational system (At least my educational systems) is that teachers can't talk about the big G--unless they are disparaging him.  If they want to say something about the ignorance of the believers--that is fine.  But to say something along the lines of, "SO--the similarities between the atom and the universe show signs of the efficiency and intelligent design" just ain't gonna happen.

     For me personally, the more science classes I take, the more I see the hand of God.   

     I would like to think that eventually they will get it straightened out--the scientists will stop suggesting that a person can't believe in God and understand natural selection and the creationist will understand that science class is science class. 

   And guess what?  Those of us the are believers will remain believers, even after we discover that we share 99% of the DNA of a monkey.

~Slugfest '07~

     Saturday afternoon Daddio came home with a fabulous plan:  we could all go to the cabin and spend one last night before there would be to much snow.  Not only could we stay in the bone cold cabin, we could wake-up at 5:00am and go scouting for deer.  And maybe, if we were really lucky--we could find a thirty point buck to murder. 

    My kitchen cleaning children were overjoyed with the idea.  The cabin!  Overnight!  There is wood to burn, marshmallows to roast, hot dogs to fry and the creek!  Oh the lovely creek, god save the creek! 

    I said, "No can do.  I have to much work to do.  Besides that, I have dinner arrangements with Karyn, so I can't possibly go."

     "But we could go without you" Daddio suggested.

     One hour later I stood in the drive-way waving to my family, "good-bye!  I love you, I will miss you!  I wish I could go too!  Have fun..."

     And then I contemplated all of the things I could do with my thirty plus hours of home alone time.  I do have quite a lot of school work to do, but the timing didn't feel right.  I did some housework and decided I could have a party for adults only, or I could go out dancing or to the movie theater. 

     What I did was drive to the video store and the liquor store.  I rented three movies and purchased three airplane bottles of 'xrated'.  I took a bubble bath, fixed a cocktail and spent the rest of the evening either on the couch watching movies, or in the kitchen fixing myself something to eat.  I had a steak and two granola bars for dinner. I made myself mashed potatoes for a snack. 

       It was glorious.

    When the family arrived at home the kids were unwashed and strung out on cookies, laffy taffy and capri-sun.  They had thirty hours in which to confirm their belief that daddio is a stud and mommy-roh is a dud.   

     And I had thirty hours to discover that a clean and silent house is fabulous--but a messy house bursting with children is better.   

      

      

~She's at it again~

   I've had another parenting revelation via melt-down:  I can not ask my kids to clean the kitchen nicely. 

    I have been floating through this frustrating phase of motherhood in which I assume that every member of the family knows what their responsibility is--and they will take care of their duties so that we can have a peaceful house.  I am aware that I am talking about children here, so I give them reminders, "Hang your coat up, the living room is not your closet" and "if you want clean clothes for school, you better put that in the hamper."

    There are areas where my children are amazingly responsible--the girl has excellent hygiene (without mother nagging) and the big boy takes out the trash the first time I ask him to.  There are some really great things about these kids, and so I had gotten into the habit of speaking to them like they were my friends.

    The other night, after my family had eaten dinner, I decided to take a bath so that I could feel sorry for myself in seclusion.  Before hitting the tub I said, "Hey guys, get the kitchen clean while I am in the tub alright?" 

     When I got out of the tub, the kitchen was not clean.  In fact, plates had not even been removed from the table.  It occurred to me that I had not asked my children in a proper manner.  I had spoken to them like they were equals inside of our home.  I asked nicely.  Apparently in kidland, when a parent asks nicely it means we are giving them the option to say no.

    I asked them to clean the kitchen again, but this time I did it like my dad used to ask me: volume being a prime factor.  I proved to my children that they could clean the kitchen in ten minutes by standing in the kitchen kvetching through the entire process. 

   And once the kvetching starts, it's rather hard to stay on one subject.  I started fuming about the kitchen, but before I was done I was calling into question their rooms, their aim (boys only) their candy wrapper stuffing habits and their abuse of socks.

   The kvetching reached such volumes that Daddio came into the scene, and he got sucked into the kvetch-fest.  When the kitchen was spotless (in under ten minutes--I knew it could be done) everyone went to bed crying.

     After the family was removed from my line of sight, I began to reflect over my reaction to a dirty kitchen (as usual).  I wondered if I was wrong to expect my children to clean the kitchen--is my assessment that Daddio buys the food, I cook the food, the kids clean the mess--unfair? 

    I came up with the answer:  nope. 

    The method of getting the kitchen clean needs some tweaking.  Surely there is a parental happy medium between asking nicely--and thus giving the kids the idea that they have the choice--and the temporary loss of motherly composure.

     

    How does it work in your family?      

~I am an efficient scaredy-cat~~

     I just registered for spring classes and when I registered I took two things into consideration:  driving and math. 

   In case I haven't mentioned it, I have a driving phobia.  (And by the way, when I searched my own site I found out I have mentioned my fear of driving more than 40 times.)  Driving freaks me out;  I have a left lane phobia.  This means that I fear passing vehicles in the right lane because--oh--I don't know--maybe if I pass a semi I will get sucked underneath of it and I will be turned to road leather.  Or perhaps, I will whip into the left lane and collide with another vehicle, thus killing an entire van full of nuns and orphans and myself.

     There really isn't anything that anyone could say that would cure my fear of death by vehicle; I could take an entire cocktail of happy pills and all that would do is create a situation in which I was cool with dying by vehicle.

   So!  I have a valid fear, and I make arrangements that accommodate my fear and my desire to have a life that requires leaving my house. 

   I arranged my schedule so that I could go to school two days a week by bus.  (check it sister, I am using the public transportation, and that means I am doing something about global warming.)  My schedule is fabulous, and it has this caveat built in:  "Daddio?  My car is being wonky, could you drive me to the bus stop and then pick me up later?"

   I have also built the math factor into my schedule.  I made a vow to give math my all, and I have been doing that.  I have spent many hours a week doing math since I failed my last math test.  I have done it on-line, on paper and in class. 

    My test scores are decreasing--which blows my mind because each time I take a test I think, "I rocked that test like it was 1999."  But honestly?  NO!  I am rocking the tests like I was a third grader. 

    My schedule for spring embraces my driving phobia and my math deficiency.  I won't be driving 60+ miles a day on the freeway. 

   And if I don't pass my next math test, I will know that I gave it my best effort--and guess what? 

    Next semester I will be taking history instead of algebra.