Well, we made it all the way through the 00's, without really figuring out what to call this decade. I'm actually waiting for VH1 to produce I Love the ??'s so I know definitively what to call this decade. Although, perhaps the ambiguity will finally kill this series that started out so cool and ended so pitifully.
Today, I celebrated the last day of 2009, by sleeping until 10. I'm serious. I just woke up. It's perhaps the best day of my life. And, it's about as exciting as it's gonna get around here.
So, last year, I offered up my New Year's Resolutions and a promise to keep you posted monthly, an accountability if you will. Then, I updated you once and dropped that almost as fast as I dropped my resolutions.
This year, I have a novel idea. I resolve not to spend a bunch of time feeling guilty when I can't keep my resolutions, or even remember what they were.
I resolve not to worry so much about changing my life when I kinda really am okay with my life.
I resolve to not stress so much about being perfect and better at everything to the point where I fail to be myself.
And also, I resolve to take the GRE, because old habits die hard.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
In Memoriam
So, it seems that every idiot with a blog is spending this week compiling a list of people who died in 2009. I don't know why. I do know that I only know about this trend because I have google alerts set up for "Charles Manson" and "Manson Family," and most of these people are listing Sadie. So, I figured why buck the trend. Trending is a whole thing thanks to Twitter (which I have totally not figured out because I am apparently 80) so I think I should do something trendy today.
So, a few notes about my 2009 In Memoriam List:
1. I am not googling. So this is going to be random people that I can think of who died this year. That means that some of them may have died in 2008 or 2006. Or 1914 and I just found out about it, who knows.
2. It also means that these are not the most important dead people of the year, just the ones that I have something to say about. And pop into my head.
3. It's going to be random. Be prepared.
4. I hate these things because, you know, there are people out there who don't want to be reminded about these deaths and it seems unfair for us all to bring it back up, but I don't think that Mrs. Patrick Swayze reads my blog, so I'm gonna do it. Also because, as pointed out by my mother who is apparently being mocked by her RSS feed, I haven't updated since December 17. Also, I don't really know what to talk about.
So, here goes nothing -
In Memoriam 2009
1. Patrick Swayze - I honestly was never a fan. I mean, I, like every girl ever, love Dirty Dancing, but I think that even those of us who don't like that butch/ballet combo can agree that anyone who fights cancer like he fought cancer is deserving of our awe. Also, he had a great love story. Even if it didn't involve any corners or girls obnoxiously named Baby.
2. Farrah - Any time someone who spawns a generation of hair dies, it's got to be sad. I always wanted those bangs, but I never managed it. Honestly, her death was a shock to me, because I didn't believe the tabloids for a minute and I thought she was probably doing a lot better than they said. Alas, I was wrong and the first angel (Charlie's, at least) was lost to the world.
3. Sadie Mae Glutz (Susan Atkins) - This is just the beginning. Unless Charlie breaks prison tradition and lives to be 110, at least. Susan, for all the crazy, made us re-evaluate the meaning of the word compassion.
4. Brittany Murphy - Because she just up and died right before Christmas. And also because she was so young and so very talented. Oh, sure, I could list the 900 comedies that she was terrible in, but I could also say Girl, Interrupted and make you remember loving Angelina Jolie and also really believing Murphy was crazy. Also, 8 Mile where she was flawless.
5. Dom DeLouise - Did you know that the dad on Wizards of Waverly Place is his son? Neither did I. I bet he's sad. I feel bad for him.
So, there it is, my In Memoriam for this year. I'll let you know who I didn't even know died when the Oscars are over. There are always a ton of shockers in there for me.
And tomorrow I promise to blog about something a little less weird.
So, a few notes about my 2009 In Memoriam List:
1. I am not googling. So this is going to be random people that I can think of who died this year. That means that some of them may have died in 2008 or 2006. Or 1914 and I just found out about it, who knows.
2. It also means that these are not the most important dead people of the year, just the ones that I have something to say about. And pop into my head.
3. It's going to be random. Be prepared.
4. I hate these things because, you know, there are people out there who don't want to be reminded about these deaths and it seems unfair for us all to bring it back up, but I don't think that Mrs. Patrick Swayze reads my blog, so I'm gonna do it. Also because, as pointed out by my mother who is apparently being mocked by her RSS feed, I haven't updated since December 17. Also, I don't really know what to talk about.
So, here goes nothing -
In Memoriam 2009
1. Patrick Swayze - I honestly was never a fan. I mean, I, like every girl ever, love Dirty Dancing, but I think that even those of us who don't like that butch/ballet combo can agree that anyone who fights cancer like he fought cancer is deserving of our awe. Also, he had a great love story. Even if it didn't involve any corners or girls obnoxiously named Baby.
2. Farrah - Any time someone who spawns a generation of hair dies, it's got to be sad. I always wanted those bangs, but I never managed it. Honestly, her death was a shock to me, because I didn't believe the tabloids for a minute and I thought she was probably doing a lot better than they said. Alas, I was wrong and the first angel (Charlie's, at least) was lost to the world.
3. Sadie Mae Glutz (Susan Atkins) - This is just the beginning. Unless Charlie breaks prison tradition and lives to be 110, at least. Susan, for all the crazy, made us re-evaluate the meaning of the word compassion.
4. Brittany Murphy - Because she just up and died right before Christmas. And also because she was so young and so very talented. Oh, sure, I could list the 900 comedies that she was terrible in, but I could also say Girl, Interrupted and make you remember loving Angelina Jolie and also really believing Murphy was crazy. Also, 8 Mile where she was flawless.
5. Dom DeLouise - Did you know that the dad on Wizards of Waverly Place is his son? Neither did I. I bet he's sad. I feel bad for him.
So, there it is, my In Memoriam for this year. I'll let you know who I didn't even know died when the Oscars are over. There are always a ton of shockers in there for me.
And tomorrow I promise to blog about something a little less weird.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Santa of It All
I know. That title doesn't even sound like anything. Leave me alone. I've had 24 hours of blood and violence and confusion and collapse. It's been like the burning of Atlanta at my house, but without fire. And without Scarlet driving that horse and wagon past the Empire State Building laying on its side. Which was genius, because who can tell when it's on fire? No one, that's who.
Anyway.
When I entered motherhood, I did bulletin boards. I may have mentioned that here, but I'm not going to link to it, because the whole post is basically bashing them. I did get some good out them.
When Brynna was born and we switched over to mommies instead of expectant mommies, the conversations changed. Suddenly, we had no time to post pictures of the super-cute onsies we had bought because we were too busy taking them off for the fourth time that day. The conversations were a little mundane, so whenever a new topic appeared, I jumped on it.
One day, that topic was Santa. It was a debate, a 30 page debate about Santa. About whether or not Santa is good for your kid. Is it okay to lie? Isn't Santa really just a big ole lie? What about kids who don't get presents, are we supposed to believe that they are so evil Santa doesn't come to their houses? It's just tricking your kid, isn't it? Doesn't Santa just teach children to worship someone other than God? No, really, doesn't Santa lead children to believe that a God exists where there is none? No, I think that Santa pulls children away from God and the nativity story? There seemed to be many, many people who had decided that Santa wasn't real and they weren't pretending he was real and screw all the kids that do believe in him, because they weren't playing the game.
I thought they were crazy. I love Santa. And after I moved on and discovered that there were whole corners of the web where no one threatened to call social services on you for buying formula, I decided that perhaps it was just those crazy women. But, this year, I've been reading, reading reading blogs and I seem to have a different opinion than a lot of people about Santa. So, I thought I would share it.
Santa is real. Santa is magic. If you say otherwise, you are a big stupid-head.
That's it.
Okay, well, maybe I should elaborate. To me, Santa is the epitome of childhood belief. He is mystery and goodness and perfection. He is the greatest of all characters in the mind of a child. And why not? He is benevolent, funny, loves everyone, especially kids, he is forgiving and patient, wise and fair. He is the spirit of Christmas.
As parents, we often see Santa as the perpetrator of many crimes of materialism, but that's not Santa, that's us. From the mouths of babes, my daughter told me yesterday morning on the way to school that she didn't need to tell Santa what she wanted because just getting presents was the important part and she didn't need anything special. It's recognition that kids want, the recognition of Santa saying "You were on the nice list this year, here's a present." We are the ones responsible for mounding on the present and weighing down the sleigh. Trust me, if it were up to Santa, every child would have one toy that they loved thoroughly and completely and a stocking filled with all the little things that make kids' hearts pitter patter.
Santa is the head of a whole host of creatures who give to children: the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, the Marble Fairy. Santa holds the reigns, though, because he captures their imaginations so completely. Santa is jolly and fun and not at all creepy, like a fairy who goes around buying kids' teeth, which is, side note, incredibly creepy.
And, as an adult, I know that the real magic of Santa isn't truly understood until you are an adult. Sure, when you are a kid, Santa is great, but as an adult, Santa represents something much, much more worthy. Santa is the universal love of children.
Santa is the momentary acknowledgement by the whole world that children need more than food, shelter and clothing to survive, they need belief. Santa is something we can all get behind. Even if you don't practice Santa in your house, you probably have taught your kids not to ruin it for others. You have probably managed to explain Santa in some way that doesn't break that chain of belief for children who need it most.
I have a friend who has taught her children that Santa only comes for children whose parents can't afford presents. (As I watch her children look at my children while they talk about Santa, I take umbrage at this, in fact, Santa seems to miss many children whose parents can't afford presents.) I know another woman who has taught her daughter that Santa is important for some people, but not for others. One woman who is teaching her son that Santa is a fun game to play at Christmas, but not a real person. Another whose children believe that Santa loves Jewish children best because their presents get spread out over eight days and don't weigh down the reindeer so much. (That's my favorite.)
There are as many different Santa stories in this world as there are parents telling them. And that is part of the magic too. We all collaborate each others' stories even though we don't understand them. We all back each others' plays and put the belief and the magic of childhood first instead of our petty differences.
We all complain when a commercial on TV suggests that there may not be a Santa and send out emails and Tweets about movies that don't have a Santa-friendly message. We tiptoe around each others' kids until we figure out what they believe and why. We call each other and pretend to be Santa.
The belief in Santa binds our children, but it binds us as well. We all rally around the common good of proving to kids over and over and over that belief in the face of reason is a GOOD thing, that it's worth it, that it's important.
Maybe it does lay the groundwork for faith now that I think about it. And maybe if you are anti-faith, this would bother you, but frankly, I believe that everyone has faith in something. God, sure, but sometimes kindness, the basic goodness of humanity, science, community, education, fairness, justice, mercy, whatever. As we grow up, we have to be able to put our faith in these concepts to the test. We have to be able to believe in things that don't seem to make sense. We have to believe that people are basically good even as we read about terrorists and shootings and murders. We have to believe in justice even as we see the guilty walk free and the innocent punished. We have to believe in mercy even when none is evident. We have to. To not believe that those things exist, are possible would be mental suicide.
And maybe believing in Santa is something that helps us get there.
I will do what it takes to keep my kids believing as long as possible. Into their teens if at all possible. I will move mountains if I have to. Not because I think it's fun. Or because I don't want their appreciation on Christmas morning. Or because I like those Coke commercials. But because I want them to understand that the magic doesn't ever die.
I still believe. Not that there's a real, immortal man living at the North Pole. But that the magic of Santa is real. That the story of Santa is real. That Santa exists inside of us the way that love and kindness and forgiveness and happiness exist inside of us. That belief makes it real. That believing is worth it. That belief can be the only thing that matters.
Anyway.
When I entered motherhood, I did bulletin boards. I may have mentioned that here, but I'm not going to link to it, because the whole post is basically bashing them. I did get some good out them.
When Brynna was born and we switched over to mommies instead of expectant mommies, the conversations changed. Suddenly, we had no time to post pictures of the super-cute onsies we had bought because we were too busy taking them off for the fourth time that day. The conversations were a little mundane, so whenever a new topic appeared, I jumped on it.
One day, that topic was Santa. It was a debate, a 30 page debate about Santa. About whether or not Santa is good for your kid. Is it okay to lie? Isn't Santa really just a big ole lie? What about kids who don't get presents, are we supposed to believe that they are so evil Santa doesn't come to their houses? It's just tricking your kid, isn't it? Doesn't Santa just teach children to worship someone other than God? No, really, doesn't Santa lead children to believe that a God exists where there is none? No, I think that Santa pulls children away from God and the nativity story? There seemed to be many, many people who had decided that Santa wasn't real and they weren't pretending he was real and screw all the kids that do believe in him, because they weren't playing the game.
I thought they were crazy. I love Santa. And after I moved on and discovered that there were whole corners of the web where no one threatened to call social services on you for buying formula, I decided that perhaps it was just those crazy women. But, this year, I've been reading, reading reading blogs and I seem to have a different opinion than a lot of people about Santa. So, I thought I would share it.
Santa is real. Santa is magic. If you say otherwise, you are a big stupid-head.
That's it.
Okay, well, maybe I should elaborate. To me, Santa is the epitome of childhood belief. He is mystery and goodness and perfection. He is the greatest of all characters in the mind of a child. And why not? He is benevolent, funny, loves everyone, especially kids, he is forgiving and patient, wise and fair. He is the spirit of Christmas.
As parents, we often see Santa as the perpetrator of many crimes of materialism, but that's not Santa, that's us. From the mouths of babes, my daughter told me yesterday morning on the way to school that she didn't need to tell Santa what she wanted because just getting presents was the important part and she didn't need anything special. It's recognition that kids want, the recognition of Santa saying "You were on the nice list this year, here's a present." We are the ones responsible for mounding on the present and weighing down the sleigh. Trust me, if it were up to Santa, every child would have one toy that they loved thoroughly and completely and a stocking filled with all the little things that make kids' hearts pitter patter.
Santa is the head of a whole host of creatures who give to children: the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, the Marble Fairy. Santa holds the reigns, though, because he captures their imaginations so completely. Santa is jolly and fun and not at all creepy, like a fairy who goes around buying kids' teeth, which is, side note, incredibly creepy.
And, as an adult, I know that the real magic of Santa isn't truly understood until you are an adult. Sure, when you are a kid, Santa is great, but as an adult, Santa represents something much, much more worthy. Santa is the universal love of children.
Santa is the momentary acknowledgement by the whole world that children need more than food, shelter and clothing to survive, they need belief. Santa is something we can all get behind. Even if you don't practice Santa in your house, you probably have taught your kids not to ruin it for others. You have probably managed to explain Santa in some way that doesn't break that chain of belief for children who need it most.
I have a friend who has taught her children that Santa only comes for children whose parents can't afford presents. (As I watch her children look at my children while they talk about Santa, I take umbrage at this, in fact, Santa seems to miss many children whose parents can't afford presents.) I know another woman who has taught her daughter that Santa is important for some people, but not for others. One woman who is teaching her son that Santa is a fun game to play at Christmas, but not a real person. Another whose children believe that Santa loves Jewish children best because their presents get spread out over eight days and don't weigh down the reindeer so much. (That's my favorite.)
There are as many different Santa stories in this world as there are parents telling them. And that is part of the magic too. We all collaborate each others' stories even though we don't understand them. We all back each others' plays and put the belief and the magic of childhood first instead of our petty differences.
We all complain when a commercial on TV suggests that there may not be a Santa and send out emails and Tweets about movies that don't have a Santa-friendly message. We tiptoe around each others' kids until we figure out what they believe and why. We call each other and pretend to be Santa.
The belief in Santa binds our children, but it binds us as well. We all rally around the common good of proving to kids over and over and over that belief in the face of reason is a GOOD thing, that it's worth it, that it's important.
Maybe it does lay the groundwork for faith now that I think about it. And maybe if you are anti-faith, this would bother you, but frankly, I believe that everyone has faith in something. God, sure, but sometimes kindness, the basic goodness of humanity, science, community, education, fairness, justice, mercy, whatever. As we grow up, we have to be able to put our faith in these concepts to the test. We have to be able to believe in things that don't seem to make sense. We have to believe that people are basically good even as we read about terrorists and shootings and murders. We have to believe in justice even as we see the guilty walk free and the innocent punished. We have to believe in mercy even when none is evident. We have to. To not believe that those things exist, are possible would be mental suicide.
And maybe believing in Santa is something that helps us get there.
I will do what it takes to keep my kids believing as long as possible. Into their teens if at all possible. I will move mountains if I have to. Not because I think it's fun. Or because I don't want their appreciation on Christmas morning. Or because I like those Coke commercials. But because I want them to understand that the magic doesn't ever die.
I still believe. Not that there's a real, immortal man living at the North Pole. But that the magic of Santa is real. That the story of Santa is real. That Santa exists inside of us the way that love and kindness and forgiveness and happiness exist inside of us. That belief makes it real. That believing is worth it. That belief can be the only thing that matters.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Just So You Know...
Brynna started saying "Just so you know..." last night and I had a moment of wondering if my mother ever thought about ripping out my tongue.
"I need to go to the bathroom, just so you know."
"Mommy, I want my sauce on the side, just so you know."
"Just so you know, I can't find my little Rainbow Dash."
"There's only one cookie left and I'm going to eat it for breakfast tomorrow, just so you know."
"Milk, please. Just so you know."
"Just so you know, you're in my room."
"I helped Maren with her coat and shoes, just so you know."
I swear, it was either at the beginning or end of every sentence she said last night. Except for a charming exchange we had about whether or not Santa's reindeer would like carrots this year and if we should leave them on the lawn or in the house for Santa to take outside.
Then this morning, we had this cute talk:
Brynna: Mommy, what if Santa forgets to stop?
Me: He won't. He's got that list, you know. And he checks it twice.
Brynna: Right. Okay, well, what if his sleigh slides off the roof?
Me: Santa does this all the time, you know. He'll know whether or not he can land on our roof and if he can't, he'll land in the yard, or on the deck.
Brynna: Oh. Well, where's our chimney.
Me: We don't have a chimney. That's why we leave Santa a key. Remember?
Brynna: Right! The key. Okay. You'll call him and tell him about the key, right?
Me: Sure.
Brynna: Okay, I'm just making sure we're ready. Just so you know.
"I need to go to the bathroom, just so you know."
"Mommy, I want my sauce on the side, just so you know."
"Just so you know, I can't find my little Rainbow Dash."
"There's only one cookie left and I'm going to eat it for breakfast tomorrow, just so you know."
"Milk, please. Just so you know."
"Just so you know, you're in my room."
"I helped Maren with her coat and shoes, just so you know."
I swear, it was either at the beginning or end of every sentence she said last night. Except for a charming exchange we had about whether or not Santa's reindeer would like carrots this year and if we should leave them on the lawn or in the house for Santa to take outside.
Then this morning, we had this cute talk:
Brynna: Mommy, what if Santa forgets to stop?
Me: He won't. He's got that list, you know. And he checks it twice.
Brynna: Right. Okay, well, what if his sleigh slides off the roof?
Me: Santa does this all the time, you know. He'll know whether or not he can land on our roof and if he can't, he'll land in the yard, or on the deck.
Brynna: Oh. Well, where's our chimney.
Me: We don't have a chimney. That's why we leave Santa a key. Remember?
Brynna: Right! The key. Okay. You'll call him and tell him about the key, right?
Me: Sure.
Brynna: Okay, I'm just making sure we're ready. Just so you know.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
About Last Night
Last night was a bad night. A really bad night.
I should preface this whole thing with telling you about how tired I am. I am really, really tired. I'm worried about my blood iron, that's how tired I am. I also don't know if blood iron is a term, or if one should say the iron in my blood, but I am averse to trying to figure out how to spell anemic. I always add letters randomly. Well, looky there, did it anyway.
I am sleeping okay, but I never stop going when I am not sleeping and I am worrying myself into an early grave, which I think takes more energy than running a marathon. (Ironically, it causes you to horde calories (in case you're worried about starving) rather than burning them, so if you are trying to decide which activity that really wears you out you would like to participate in, pick a marathon. Unless you are dangerously underweight, then start worrying.)
Last night was grocery night. Well, actually Saturday was grocery day, but it didn't happen, okay? Okay. So, I went with both girls to the grocery. I don't know if there is a blizzard coming or what, but the grocery looked like some kind of fall-out shelter. The only carts that seat two children there are the stupid, cursed, evil, hated, miserable, terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad car carts. So, we got one, God help us.
We started at the bakery, because they give free cookies to the kiddos and who couldn't use a few minutes of sugar-induced quiet at the store? No one, that's who.
Almost immediately, though, Brynna started whining about how hungry she was. And how she had finished her cookie and she was still hungry and couldn't she have Maren's? Maren had only eaten a couple of bites, so couldn't she PLEEEEAAAAAASSSSSEEEEEE have the rest?
After arguing and slapping her hand away from the cookie a few times, we were on our way. Slowly. You see, the store was packed and the car carts are huge and hard to maneuver. Also, the seat belts are all broken in them, so Maren likes to stand up. This worries me, because she may just tip over the side, fall headfirst to the floor and die. Or scream. Both would be bad. So, I had to stop a lot to make her sit back down.
When we finally finished our shopping, there were only two checkout aisles open that were not Express Lanes. Every single, freakin' one of those was open and only two regular aisles. So, we waited. And some of us cried. And some of us whined. And some of us let the whining and crying continue in hopes that some errant Grocery employee would get annoyed and open an aisle for us, just to get us the hell out of there. I'll let you decide who was who.
On the way home, Brynna fell asleep in the car. When Brynna falls asleep in the car, one of two things is going to happen. Option 1: You are going to carry her into the house, body dead weight, head lolling around, almost drop her, nearly let the cat out the door and come close to giving yourself an aneurysm. Then, you drop her on the couch, pull a blanket over her and she opens her eyes, and completely clear-headedly asks for something to eat. You stare in amazement, because this child who usually requires 4.7 hours to be a functioning, awake human being, just woke up in 4.7 seconds. Or she was faking sleep. Option 2: You are going to carry her into the house, body dead weight, head lolling around, almost drop her, nearly let the cat out the door and come close to giving yourself an aneurysm. Then, you drop her on the couch, pull a blanket over her and she doesn't move. This is when you know you are in trouble. She will not be waking for nine to twelve hours. This isn't so bad if it's 7 or 7:30, really terrible if it's 2:00 p.m.
Last night was Option 2. When it's Option 2, your best bet is to let sleeping Brynnas lie. Carry her to bed, strip off her shoes and coat and pull up the blanket. No pajamas necessary because she'll never notice until morning. I chose to wake her for supper.
This was the wrong choice. 45 minutes later, I had her finally calmed down and eating something, although it wasn't what I had lovingly prepared (thrown haphazardly into the oven while putting away groceries). While she nibbled, I got Maren ready for bed. Clean pajamas, clean diaper. I was waiting on her medicine when she made a funny sound. Like a truck in reverse. Or a sea monster emerging from the deep. Oh who am I kidding? There is nothing to compare that noise to and every single solitary parent recognizes it. It is the sound of vomit. You have less than half a second between the sound and the vomit to do something about it. Anything. Get her over a towel, or run for the bathroom or point her somewhere else. I had no such options. I was sitting on the floor.
Moments later, I was stripping off her no longer clean pajamas and diaper and freaking out, because she may have a VIRUS!! Did I mention that The Husband had food poisoning this weekend. It was bad. I thought maybe it wasn't food poisoning. Maybe it was a virus. Maybe Maren has it now. Maybe we're all going to die!!!! Or miss work. Whatever.
Sitting in the bathroom, while my supposedly sick child splashed and giggled, I cried. I sobbed. I tried to figure out what I was going to do. She had one more pair of clean pajamas, no clean clothes whatsoever, one clean sheet that wasn't on her bed and I needed sleep. This was going to be a bad night. On top of that, I have time scheduled off this week for various Decembery type of activities and I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to get them done. Who would take Brynna to the dentist?!?! Who would accompany her to her open house?!? What would I do if I had to spend my precious time off trapped in the house with my vomiting child when I needed to be doing these other things.
I mentioned that I was tired, right. It seems that exhaustion makes me melodramatic.
The Husband offered to get his mom to come down and watch the house, which made it worse, because I'd have to clean for her. No matter what he thinks.
Finally, I got Maren to bed. She was wiped and she was asleep before I left the room. Walking down the hall, I noticed an odd noise coming from the bathroom. I opened the door, and saw a frightening sight. The Husband, plunging the toilet.
I asked what was wrong. Like an idiot. Oh, well, a squirrel called in and died, so I'm removing him by scooping him up with this funny bowl on a stick. What did I think was wrong?!? He told me that he had been at it for about ten minutes and he didn't think it was going to work. He said we'd probably have to call my dad and get the snake. I took one look at my beautiful toilet and thought about what that would entail: bailing out the water, pulling it up, snaking through the floor, replacing toilet. (I assume, I've never actually snaked a toilet, so I don't know if this is how it would be done, but I can only imagine.) It would be at least the next day before we could do anything about it.
I asked him if he wanted me to take a turn. He laughed. A patronizing laugh. Then handed me the plunger. I've never plunged a toilet before, but I had desperation on my side. And stubbornness. And a really bad day. And no tequila. I plunged to save my own sanity. And it worked. The only thing the whole night that worked, but it worked. I almost sobbed with joy. Instead, I forced him to declare me the Queen of the Toilet. He didn't want to but he eventually gave in.
Now, in addition to being tired and sleepy, my arms hurt. I was ready for bed. Except. Oh, there's always an except, isn't there. Except, I forgot about Brynna's snowflake presents. Her class, instead of buying gifts for each other, buys gifts for the classroom. Then they open the gift another child brought and they see how it takes a village or something. I really don't get the Montessori lesson espoused in the letter home, but I get this: Brynna doesn't come home with some crappy $5 or less piece of plastic flotsam that is going to add to the clutter on my floor.
She has two classes, regular and Spanish and needed a gift for each. Today.
So, at nearly ten o'clock, tired and miserable, I went to the basement in hopes of finding some shreds of last year's Christmas paper. Or bags. Oh, the prayers I said for bags trudging down those stairs. I had to unpack some stuff, but bags I found. Vaguely Christmasy ones and everything. There was much rejoicing. Songs of praise.
Then there was stuffing, pink tissue paper, because I didn't have red or white or green or even black. Then there was collapsing into bed. Where I slept until the 5:30 alarm. Because Maren doesn't have a virus and probably gagged herself with a Barbie brush.
I should preface this whole thing with telling you about how tired I am. I am really, really tired. I'm worried about my blood iron, that's how tired I am. I also don't know if blood iron is a term, or if one should say the iron in my blood, but I am averse to trying to figure out how to spell anemic. I always add letters randomly. Well, looky there, did it anyway.
I am sleeping okay, but I never stop going when I am not sleeping and I am worrying myself into an early grave, which I think takes more energy than running a marathon. (Ironically, it causes you to horde calories (in case you're worried about starving) rather than burning them, so if you are trying to decide which activity that really wears you out you would like to participate in, pick a marathon. Unless you are dangerously underweight, then start worrying.)
Last night was grocery night. Well, actually Saturday was grocery day, but it didn't happen, okay? Okay. So, I went with both girls to the grocery. I don't know if there is a blizzard coming or what, but the grocery looked like some kind of fall-out shelter. The only carts that seat two children there are the stupid, cursed, evil, hated, miserable, terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad car carts. So, we got one, God help us.
We started at the bakery, because they give free cookies to the kiddos and who couldn't use a few minutes of sugar-induced quiet at the store? No one, that's who.
Almost immediately, though, Brynna started whining about how hungry she was. And how she had finished her cookie and she was still hungry and couldn't she have Maren's? Maren had only eaten a couple of bites, so couldn't she PLEEEEAAAAAASSSSSEEEEEE have the rest?
After arguing and slapping her hand away from the cookie a few times, we were on our way. Slowly. You see, the store was packed and the car carts are huge and hard to maneuver. Also, the seat belts are all broken in them, so Maren likes to stand up. This worries me, because she may just tip over the side, fall headfirst to the floor and die. Or scream. Both would be bad. So, I had to stop a lot to make her sit back down.
When we finally finished our shopping, there were only two checkout aisles open that were not Express Lanes. Every single, freakin' one of those was open and only two regular aisles. So, we waited. And some of us cried. And some of us whined. And some of us let the whining and crying continue in hopes that some errant Grocery employee would get annoyed and open an aisle for us, just to get us the hell out of there. I'll let you decide who was who.
On the way home, Brynna fell asleep in the car. When Brynna falls asleep in the car, one of two things is going to happen. Option 1: You are going to carry her into the house, body dead weight, head lolling around, almost drop her, nearly let the cat out the door and come close to giving yourself an aneurysm. Then, you drop her on the couch, pull a blanket over her and she opens her eyes, and completely clear-headedly asks for something to eat. You stare in amazement, because this child who usually requires 4.7 hours to be a functioning, awake human being, just woke up in 4.7 seconds. Or she was faking sleep. Option 2: You are going to carry her into the house, body dead weight, head lolling around, almost drop her, nearly let the cat out the door and come close to giving yourself an aneurysm. Then, you drop her on the couch, pull a blanket over her and she doesn't move. This is when you know you are in trouble. She will not be waking for nine to twelve hours. This isn't so bad if it's 7 or 7:30, really terrible if it's 2:00 p.m.
Last night was Option 2. When it's Option 2, your best bet is to let sleeping Brynnas lie. Carry her to bed, strip off her shoes and coat and pull up the blanket. No pajamas necessary because she'll never notice until morning. I chose to wake her for supper.
This was the wrong choice. 45 minutes later, I had her finally calmed down and eating something, although it wasn't what I had lovingly prepared (thrown haphazardly into the oven while putting away groceries). While she nibbled, I got Maren ready for bed. Clean pajamas, clean diaper. I was waiting on her medicine when she made a funny sound. Like a truck in reverse. Or a sea monster emerging from the deep. Oh who am I kidding? There is nothing to compare that noise to and every single solitary parent recognizes it. It is the sound of vomit. You have less than half a second between the sound and the vomit to do something about it. Anything. Get her over a towel, or run for the bathroom or point her somewhere else. I had no such options. I was sitting on the floor.
Moments later, I was stripping off her no longer clean pajamas and diaper and freaking out, because she may have a VIRUS!! Did I mention that The Husband had food poisoning this weekend. It was bad. I thought maybe it wasn't food poisoning. Maybe it was a virus. Maybe Maren has it now. Maybe we're all going to die!!!! Or miss work. Whatever.
Sitting in the bathroom, while my supposedly sick child splashed and giggled, I cried. I sobbed. I tried to figure out what I was going to do. She had one more pair of clean pajamas, no clean clothes whatsoever, one clean sheet that wasn't on her bed and I needed sleep. This was going to be a bad night. On top of that, I have time scheduled off this week for various Decembery type of activities and I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to get them done. Who would take Brynna to the dentist?!?! Who would accompany her to her open house?!? What would I do if I had to spend my precious time off trapped in the house with my vomiting child when I needed to be doing these other things.
I mentioned that I was tired, right. It seems that exhaustion makes me melodramatic.
The Husband offered to get his mom to come down and watch the house, which made it worse, because I'd have to clean for her. No matter what he thinks.
Finally, I got Maren to bed. She was wiped and she was asleep before I left the room. Walking down the hall, I noticed an odd noise coming from the bathroom. I opened the door, and saw a frightening sight. The Husband, plunging the toilet.
I asked what was wrong. Like an idiot. Oh, well, a squirrel called in and died, so I'm removing him by scooping him up with this funny bowl on a stick. What did I think was wrong?!? He told me that he had been at it for about ten minutes and he didn't think it was going to work. He said we'd probably have to call my dad and get the snake. I took one look at my beautiful toilet and thought about what that would entail: bailing out the water, pulling it up, snaking through the floor, replacing toilet. (I assume, I've never actually snaked a toilet, so I don't know if this is how it would be done, but I can only imagine.) It would be at least the next day before we could do anything about it.
I asked him if he wanted me to take a turn. He laughed. A patronizing laugh. Then handed me the plunger. I've never plunged a toilet before, but I had desperation on my side. And stubbornness. And a really bad day. And no tequila. I plunged to save my own sanity. And it worked. The only thing the whole night that worked, but it worked. I almost sobbed with joy. Instead, I forced him to declare me the Queen of the Toilet. He didn't want to but he eventually gave in.
Now, in addition to being tired and sleepy, my arms hurt. I was ready for bed. Except. Oh, there's always an except, isn't there. Except, I forgot about Brynna's snowflake presents. Her class, instead of buying gifts for each other, buys gifts for the classroom. Then they open the gift another child brought and they see how it takes a village or something. I really don't get the Montessori lesson espoused in the letter home, but I get this: Brynna doesn't come home with some crappy $5 or less piece of plastic flotsam that is going to add to the clutter on my floor.
She has two classes, regular and Spanish and needed a gift for each. Today.
So, at nearly ten o'clock, tired and miserable, I went to the basement in hopes of finding some shreds of last year's Christmas paper. Or bags. Oh, the prayers I said for bags trudging down those stairs. I had to unpack some stuff, but bags I found. Vaguely Christmasy ones and everything. There was much rejoicing. Songs of praise.
Then there was stuffing, pink tissue paper, because I didn't have red or white or green or even black. Then there was collapsing into bed. Where I slept until the 5:30 alarm. Because Maren doesn't have a virus and probably gagged herself with a Barbie brush.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Miscellany
"STOP STARING AT ME SECRETARIAT!!"
When I started here, the painting that hung just above my computer screen was a hideous piece of art called, "Comin' Atcha." I'm not making this up. In fact, here it is:
Harness racing or something. Anyway, the picture does seem to be literally coming at you and it made me tense. I felt like I was about to be run over all the time.
So, recently, my office acquired some new art and rearranged everything. I took the opportunity to switch out the offending work for a nice, calm portrait of Secretariat. I would find an image of that painting, but it seems that there are more portraits of Secretariat than of all our Presidents combined, so you'll just have to use your imagination. It has a nice, calm green background and a nice, nondescript tan matting. It is the epitome of calm. And I thought it would make me happy.
But it doesn't, because Secretariat watches me. Right now, he is watching me and tsk tsking because I am blog writing at work. But even when I am busy, busy, busy with nonprofit work, he looks at me and judges. For illegible handwriting, and bad typing, for a messy desk and a half drunk cup of water that's been on my desk for a week. For the calculator that I am always losing and the post it notes that keep falling off my monitor. For my mismatched clothes and the fact that I didn't see the paint on my shirt until I got to the office today.
I don't normally care about racehorses much. I understand that people loved Secretariat, but I've never had many feelings one way or another about him. But now, now I hate him. Judgmental equine snob.
_________________________
"Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"
I love to once in a while ask my stat program how people find me. I find the answers intriguing. Usually, it's off a link from one of your blogs (for which I am eternally grateful). And my searches aren't all that hard to get, "Scattered Mind" comes up often, as does "Jessi's Mind." But sometimes, I just shake my head and wonder. Here are my current top three:
Crochet Bag - okay, self explanatory, it's a feature (although a much neglected one.)
Controversial Disney Movies - Well, aren't they all
Disappointed in my Wife - so am I, dude, so am I
________________________
"Arts and Crafts Time at the Office"
One of my responsibilities at work is to do these abysmal state registrations. You see, each state that we serve and therefore solicit money from the residents of requires us to do a crapload of annoying paperwork on an annual basis. Saying annual basis, however, makes it sound like you only have to deal with this once a year. There are actually three departments of each state that require your annual paperwork.
Many of these forms (8-10 pages on average) come to me in .pdf format. Because their programmers don't know how to make a fillable .pdf (my voice drips with scorn despite the fact that neither do I) and they are afraid of Word, I have to print them and fill them in hard copy. Which is alright, except they mostly would like the answers to be typed.
Which sometimes means hauling out the decades old IBM Selectric Typewriter and clicking my way to glory. Unless there aren't many things to fill out, or a large paragraph is included. In these instances, I believe the easiest solution is to type my responses in Word, print them, cut them up and tape them to the form, then make a photocopy of the taped up piece of paper. It's like high school journalism, people.
It's horrible. And what is worse are the tiny, tiny pieces of paper floating around my desk like flotsam, requiring that I think about vacuuming. I hate to vacuum and I try to not even do it at home. I average about three vacuums per year at work and I'd really like to knock it down to 2 (the days before our big board meetings would work).
I spent the morning literally copying and pasting, and I spent the afternoon crawling around on the floor picking up little shreds of paper in an attempt to avoid vacuuming. I am pathetic.
When I started here, the painting that hung just above my computer screen was a hideous piece of art called, "Comin' Atcha." I'm not making this up. In fact, here it is:
Harness racing or something. Anyway, the picture does seem to be literally coming at you and it made me tense. I felt like I was about to be run over all the time.So, recently, my office acquired some new art and rearranged everything. I took the opportunity to switch out the offending work for a nice, calm portrait of Secretariat. I would find an image of that painting, but it seems that there are more portraits of Secretariat than of all our Presidents combined, so you'll just have to use your imagination. It has a nice, calm green background and a nice, nondescript tan matting. It is the epitome of calm. And I thought it would make me happy.
But it doesn't, because Secretariat watches me. Right now, he is watching me and tsk tsking because I am blog writing at work. But even when I am busy, busy, busy with nonprofit work, he looks at me and judges. For illegible handwriting, and bad typing, for a messy desk and a half drunk cup of water that's been on my desk for a week. For the calculator that I am always losing and the post it notes that keep falling off my monitor. For my mismatched clothes and the fact that I didn't see the paint on my shirt until I got to the office today.
I don't normally care about racehorses much. I understand that people loved Secretariat, but I've never had many feelings one way or another about him. But now, now I hate him. Judgmental equine snob.
_________________________
"Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"
I love to once in a while ask my stat program how people find me. I find the answers intriguing. Usually, it's off a link from one of your blogs (for which I am eternally grateful). And my searches aren't all that hard to get, "Scattered Mind" comes up often, as does "Jessi's Mind." But sometimes, I just shake my head and wonder. Here are my current top three:
Crochet Bag - okay, self explanatory, it's a feature (although a much neglected one.)
Controversial Disney Movies - Well, aren't they all
Disappointed in my Wife - so am I, dude, so am I
________________________
"Arts and Crafts Time at the Office"
One of my responsibilities at work is to do these abysmal state registrations. You see, each state that we serve and therefore solicit money from the residents of requires us to do a crapload of annoying paperwork on an annual basis. Saying annual basis, however, makes it sound like you only have to deal with this once a year. There are actually three departments of each state that require your annual paperwork.
Many of these forms (8-10 pages on average) come to me in .pdf format. Because their programmers don't know how to make a fillable .pdf (my voice drips with scorn despite the fact that neither do I) and they are afraid of Word, I have to print them and fill them in hard copy. Which is alright, except they mostly would like the answers to be typed.
Which sometimes means hauling out the decades old IBM Selectric Typewriter and clicking my way to glory. Unless there aren't many things to fill out, or a large paragraph is included. In these instances, I believe the easiest solution is to type my responses in Word, print them, cut them up and tape them to the form, then make a photocopy of the taped up piece of paper. It's like high school journalism, people.
It's horrible. And what is worse are the tiny, tiny pieces of paper floating around my desk like flotsam, requiring that I think about vacuuming. I hate to vacuum and I try to not even do it at home. I average about three vacuums per year at work and I'd really like to knock it down to 2 (the days before our big board meetings would work).
I spent the morning literally copying and pasting, and I spent the afternoon crawling around on the floor picking up little shreds of paper in an attempt to avoid vacuuming. I am pathetic.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
My Newest Addiction
My newest addiction is personality tests.
I am compulsively taking every test that promises to tell me who I am, what I want and what I should do about it.
(They all seem to agree, by the way, that I should be either a teacher, librarian, social worker or psychologist. And here is what I think of that. I can't be a teacher because I have no patience with those who don't want to learn. I would like to be a librarian, I think, but I also wonder if I wouldn't get bored with it after a while. I can't be a social worker because I would get to emotional and I'd end up getting shot cussing some abusive son of a bitch out on his front porch. And I can't be a psychologist because I am just not ready for that much more school.)
The upshot is that I don't want to decide what I want to do. I don't want to say, "When I grow up..." because it's so freakin' final. And thus the obsession with the tests, because ultimately, I just want someone else to tell me what to do. (Which is probably why I'm even writing this post. And which is ironic because I hate being told what to do and will often do the opposite just to be contrary.)
I envy the people who have known what they wanted and stuck with it. The people who just always knew that they wanted to teach or be a doctor or build bridges in Paraguay. I can't do that, because I want it all.
I want to be a roadie for a really loud rock band. I'm thinking maybe Iggie Pop, here.
I want to be a DJ. Of the morning variety, I think. On a punk or 90's station.
I want to write books and have a seasonal home in the UK.
I want to teach kids to love books.
I want to own a bookstore.
I want to own a yarn shop.
I want to dress up as Miss Havisham and introduce kids to real literature.
I want to do kids programming about books.
I want to be a graphic designer.
I want to write ad slogans.
I want to be a storm chaser.
I want to steal cars. (For totally altruistic reasons. Think Gone in 60 Seconds.)
I want to be a professional surfer.
I want to talk about books, recommend books, discuss recurring themes.
I want to watch the lightbulb in kids' heads go on when I talk about setting as character.
I want to be a copy editor.
I want to be the person who reads the unsolicited submissions at a publishing house.
I could go on and on, but I won't. I don't want to be one of those people with career ADD. I want to dedicate myself and do something good that I love. I want to be passionate about my work. I don't ask to be happy every day, but I ask for moments of unfettered joy at the prospect of work.
And I don't think any of that is too much to ask, but then I think I must be wrong. There are a ton of people who don't do things that make them happy, but the paycheck makes them happy enough. People who aren't passionate about anything except five o'clock. People who have never had a single moment of unfettered joy on the job. People who do the work they do because they are good at it, whether they like it or not. People who do the work they do because the pay is good. People who do the work they do because they've done worse work and they appreciate it.
Am I being greedy for wanting to feel good about my work? For wanting to feel like I am making the world a better place while I toil?
Today, I proofread a letter for my boss. I won't go into the details, but I have to say that I didn't agree with much of it. Much of what we do in my unspecified nonprofit entity is good work that helps people and makes changes to the country that I believe are positive, impactful and important. I like a good chunk of what we do.
But I am not passionate about it. It's not my thing. It's good. You know, but not GOOD! I don't get excited about it or go on and on about the virtues of unspecified nonprofit entity and it's mission. And sometimes, like today, I kinda feel like I'm selling my soul for a short commute and a steady paycheck and the vacation days to go to my kid's Montessori open house.
I want to start over. I want to go back to school. With purpose this time, instead of just love for one subject. I want to get my Masters and go out into the world with a plan. I want to sink or swim at one thing instead of flailing around in the endless possibilities of the world.
The problem is that I am horribly indecisive and I can't decide what one thing. Plus, I can't afford to go back to school and I am worried about being away from my kids so much. So, I wallow, as The Husband says, in my own freakish misery and wonder if it should be any different.
I wonder how the internet can be so sure what is right for me when I am so unsure. And I wonder if I should listen to something so fickle as a multiple choice test. And I wonder if I would be a good teacher, if I could get kids excited. And I wonder if I wouldn't make a kick ass kids' librarian. And I wonder if I did either of those things, couldn't I retire to my bookstore and dress up as Miss Havisham every day? And I wonder if it's worth it. And I wonder if I need it. And I wonder if I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.
And I remember that on New Year's Eve, I bought a book to study for the GRE and I still haven't even scheduled to take the test. And then I wonder if I'm just scared. And what I would tell a grown up, scared Brynna in my position.
(And then I cry. Because I always cry. And because thinking of the girls grown up makes me cry. And because Hallmark commercials make me cry so just shut up and leave me alone.)
I am compulsively taking every test that promises to tell me who I am, what I want and what I should do about it.
(They all seem to agree, by the way, that I should be either a teacher, librarian, social worker or psychologist. And here is what I think of that. I can't be a teacher because I have no patience with those who don't want to learn. I would like to be a librarian, I think, but I also wonder if I wouldn't get bored with it after a while. I can't be a social worker because I would get to emotional and I'd end up getting shot cussing some abusive son of a bitch out on his front porch. And I can't be a psychologist because I am just not ready for that much more school.)
The upshot is that I don't want to decide what I want to do. I don't want to say, "When I grow up..." because it's so freakin' final. And thus the obsession with the tests, because ultimately, I just want someone else to tell me what to do. (Which is probably why I'm even writing this post. And which is ironic because I hate being told what to do and will often do the opposite just to be contrary.)
I envy the people who have known what they wanted and stuck with it. The people who just always knew that they wanted to teach or be a doctor or build bridges in Paraguay. I can't do that, because I want it all.
I want to be a roadie for a really loud rock band. I'm thinking maybe Iggie Pop, here.
I want to be a DJ. Of the morning variety, I think. On a punk or 90's station.
I want to write books and have a seasonal home in the UK.
I want to teach kids to love books.
I want to own a bookstore.
I want to own a yarn shop.
I want to dress up as Miss Havisham and introduce kids to real literature.
I want to do kids programming about books.
I want to be a graphic designer.
I want to write ad slogans.
I want to be a storm chaser.
I want to steal cars. (For totally altruistic reasons. Think Gone in 60 Seconds.)
I want to be a professional surfer.
I want to talk about books, recommend books, discuss recurring themes.
I want to watch the lightbulb in kids' heads go on when I talk about setting as character.
I want to be a copy editor.
I want to be the person who reads the unsolicited submissions at a publishing house.
I could go on and on, but I won't. I don't want to be one of those people with career ADD. I want to dedicate myself and do something good that I love. I want to be passionate about my work. I don't ask to be happy every day, but I ask for moments of unfettered joy at the prospect of work.
And I don't think any of that is too much to ask, but then I think I must be wrong. There are a ton of people who don't do things that make them happy, but the paycheck makes them happy enough. People who aren't passionate about anything except five o'clock. People who have never had a single moment of unfettered joy on the job. People who do the work they do because they are good at it, whether they like it or not. People who do the work they do because the pay is good. People who do the work they do because they've done worse work and they appreciate it.
Am I being greedy for wanting to feel good about my work? For wanting to feel like I am making the world a better place while I toil?
Today, I proofread a letter for my boss. I won't go into the details, but I have to say that I didn't agree with much of it. Much of what we do in my unspecified nonprofit entity is good work that helps people and makes changes to the country that I believe are positive, impactful and important. I like a good chunk of what we do.
But I am not passionate about it. It's not my thing. It's good. You know, but not GOOD! I don't get excited about it or go on and on about the virtues of unspecified nonprofit entity and it's mission. And sometimes, like today, I kinda feel like I'm selling my soul for a short commute and a steady paycheck and the vacation days to go to my kid's Montessori open house.
I want to start over. I want to go back to school. With purpose this time, instead of just love for one subject. I want to get my Masters and go out into the world with a plan. I want to sink or swim at one thing instead of flailing around in the endless possibilities of the world.
The problem is that I am horribly indecisive and I can't decide what one thing. Plus, I can't afford to go back to school and I am worried about being away from my kids so much. So, I wallow, as The Husband says, in my own freakish misery and wonder if it should be any different.
I wonder how the internet can be so sure what is right for me when I am so unsure. And I wonder if I should listen to something so fickle as a multiple choice test. And I wonder if I would be a good teacher, if I could get kids excited. And I wonder if I wouldn't make a kick ass kids' librarian. And I wonder if I did either of those things, couldn't I retire to my bookstore and dress up as Miss Havisham every day? And I wonder if it's worth it. And I wonder if I need it. And I wonder if I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.
And I remember that on New Year's Eve, I bought a book to study for the GRE and I still haven't even scheduled to take the test. And then I wonder if I'm just scared. And what I would tell a grown up, scared Brynna in my position.
(And then I cry. Because I always cry. And because thinking of the girls grown up makes me cry. And because Hallmark commercials make me cry so just shut up and leave me alone.)
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A Special Place in Hell
There is a special place in hell for people like me. I know that there is. What kind of person is that, you ask? The kind that hates puppies and kittens.
Yes, you heard me right. Go ahead and lecture me about the insanity of it. Please send me your lolcat links and tell me what I'm missing out on. Sure, sure, I'll look at your pictures and listen to your stories and say, "Awww. How cute!" And then I'll walk away thinking about how lucky I am not to have any of those monsters in my house.
Here's the thing. I love dogs and cats. LOVE them. I don't feel complete without pets in the house. It's a thing with me. But I only love them fully grown.
You see, for every ounce of "cute" a puppy or kitten may contain, there are two ounces of "untrained" and six ounces of "troublemaker." And honestly, do we need that much cute? At such a high trouble cost? I think not.
I crochet. Which, ask any crocheter or knitter, means that I collect yarn. I have random balls of yarn all over the freakin' house. Now, while an adult cat will only get into your yarn when she is mad at you, kittens... Well, kittens are kittens. Which is like saying boys will be boys and should be taken to mean that you are supposed to think that they are the most pwecwous wittle things even when they are destroying a year's worth of yarn scraps. Making them all cat-hairy.
I am telling you all this, because I am living in a land of horror today.
Remember when I told you about my small little cat-heat-unspayed problem? Well, I still haven't gotten it fixed. (Pun intended.) I mean, there were holidays and shopping and money issues, and really, she hasn't been all that annoying. In the grand scheme of annoying heat cats, Penny is at the bottom. The bottomy bottom. The rock bottom. She is pretty innocuous, really. So, we thought we could wait until January. Just a month, right. We can keep her out of trouble for a month, right? Right?
Probably not.
This morning, I said, "Move out, Girls," just like I do every morning. Every morning, I end up begging them to leave while I carry/hold hands/haul stuff to the car. This morning, they moved out. Quickly. Before I was ready. Brynna opened the door and walked out and then held the door open while Maren toddled behind.
I know you saw the fatal flaw in that last sentence. Held the door. Out ran the cat and since I had my hands full of other crap, I impulsively yelled, "Brynna! Grab Penny." I tossed everything in my purse, grabbed the lunch plate, remembered the 15 foot drop off the back of the deck and the now-unattended one year old out there, and ran for the door.
Then I decided that the best policy would be to load the car, strap down the children and then hunt for the cat.
I found her. In the darkest, farthest, smallest corner of the area under the deck. I couldn't get to it with liposuction and a million dollars hanging like a carrot. So, I cajoled. I called. I begged. I bribed with food. And finally, I left. It's going to be a fairly warm day. She's obviously discovered a safe place under the deck. It rained yesterday, so she shouldn't die of thirst. All in all, my cat should be safe for the day.
Except for her, well, let's say her decorum.
So, despite my extreme hatred for kittens, I will probably have some in (according to Google) 60-67 days. Oh, and the good news is that Himalayans mature slower than normal, so I'll have to keep them for 16 weeks after they are born. 16 WEEKS! Oh, and on average Himalayas have big litters. So, there, Jessi's sanity. I hope you weren't planning on staying.
Yes, you heard me right. Go ahead and lecture me about the insanity of it. Please send me your lolcat links and tell me what I'm missing out on. Sure, sure, I'll look at your pictures and listen to your stories and say, "Awww. How cute!" And then I'll walk away thinking about how lucky I am not to have any of those monsters in my house.
Here's the thing. I love dogs and cats. LOVE them. I don't feel complete without pets in the house. It's a thing with me. But I only love them fully grown.
You see, for every ounce of "cute" a puppy or kitten may contain, there are two ounces of "untrained" and six ounces of "troublemaker." And honestly, do we need that much cute? At such a high trouble cost? I think not.
I crochet. Which, ask any crocheter or knitter, means that I collect yarn. I have random balls of yarn all over the freakin' house. Now, while an adult cat will only get into your yarn when she is mad at you, kittens... Well, kittens are kittens. Which is like saying boys will be boys and should be taken to mean that you are supposed to think that they are the most pwecwous wittle things even when they are destroying a year's worth of yarn scraps. Making them all cat-hairy.
I am telling you all this, because I am living in a land of horror today.
Remember when I told you about my small little cat-heat-unspayed problem? Well, I still haven't gotten it fixed. (Pun intended.) I mean, there were holidays and shopping and money issues, and really, she hasn't been all that annoying. In the grand scheme of annoying heat cats, Penny is at the bottom. The bottomy bottom. The rock bottom. She is pretty innocuous, really. So, we thought we could wait until January. Just a month, right. We can keep her out of trouble for a month, right? Right?
Probably not.
This morning, I said, "Move out, Girls," just like I do every morning. Every morning, I end up begging them to leave while I carry/hold hands/haul stuff to the car. This morning, they moved out. Quickly. Before I was ready. Brynna opened the door and walked out and then held the door open while Maren toddled behind.
I know you saw the fatal flaw in that last sentence. Held the door. Out ran the cat and since I had my hands full of other crap, I impulsively yelled, "Brynna! Grab Penny." I tossed everything in my purse, grabbed the lunch plate, remembered the 15 foot drop off the back of the deck and the now-unattended one year old out there, and ran for the door.
Then I decided that the best policy would be to load the car, strap down the children and then hunt for the cat.
I found her. In the darkest, farthest, smallest corner of the area under the deck. I couldn't get to it with liposuction and a million dollars hanging like a carrot. So, I cajoled. I called. I begged. I bribed with food. And finally, I left. It's going to be a fairly warm day. She's obviously discovered a safe place under the deck. It rained yesterday, so she shouldn't die of thirst. All in all, my cat should be safe for the day.
Except for her, well, let's say her decorum.
So, despite my extreme hatred for kittens, I will probably have some in (according to Google) 60-67 days. Oh, and the good news is that Himalayans mature slower than normal, so I'll have to keep them for 16 weeks after they are born. 16 WEEKS! Oh, and on average Himalayas have big litters. So, there, Jessi's sanity. I hope you weren't planning on staying.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Oooey, Gooey Jessi
My baby turned one last week. Let me just say that I suck at the second child thing. I am totally going to be that mom with albums of pictures of Brynna, stacks of her original artwork and a single Christmas ornament with a snapshot pasted on it of Maren.I didn't get cupcakes made for the baby sitter. She had a birthday tangerine. Yep, that's right, a birthday tangerine. Have you ever heard of anything so sad. I didn't crawl in bed with her on the morning of her birthday and tell her the story of the day she was born like I do with Brynna and there was no extra-special birthday breakfast. I woke up late, turned over and almost crushed her beneath my body, screamed, said "Happy Birthday sweetie," looked at the clock and realized how late we were and panicked.
The cupcakes were an unparalleled disaster. First I forgot to get cake mix, then I bought cake mix, but thought I had frosting at home. I didn't. Then I finally got the mix and the frosting and realized I was out of eggs. Again. I swear, I've been out of eggs for 16 months, despite constantly buying eggs and almost never making eggs. It's weird.
Her party was on Saturday and it was a bit better. There was cake and ice cream and pop and presents and most of all, family. Which is really all a person needs for a first birthday.
She mostly got Little People and clothes. Because, you know. One year olds, not hip with the iPods and cars. Actually, she did get a car. It's a pink minivan and it plays "London Bridge" and she head bangs to it. Which is pretty much the funniest thing ever.
She has given me some pretty spectacular presents for her birthday, however. She has given me the gift of sleeping through the night in her own bed for four nights running. Which is pretty amazing. We hope we're on a roll and it will soon be with mixed nostalgia that I remember her tiny feet in my spinal cord. But we are not going to jinx it by acting like we have much hope.
She has willingly and without fight or protest given up formula for whole milk. And boy, does my weekly grocery budget thank her.
She has expanded her vocabulary, ever so slightly. Now she says Dada, Ha (Hi) and Tattoo (Thank you). She still does not say Mama. She may never acknowledge my existence, we don't know.
We had her one year check up and she gave me the gift of not crying too much when they stuck her full of pins like a bull in the arena in Spain. She's still got an ear infection (this will be our third round of antibiotics - which could very well explain the not talking). Other than that, she is still just my girl, perfect in every way. She's in the 90th percentiles for height and weight and 75th for head circumference. So, still giganto baby.
And today, I realize that I have hosted my last first birthday party. It's weird this time around. I know that she is the last. So, I try to treasure each first a little more. It's my last first steps. My last waiting to hear Mama the first time. My last first shoes.
Maybe that's why I'm taking so few pictures. I don't want to stick the camera between us. I just want to enjoy, not document. I'll hate myself for this in the future. I know that I will. I will want to show her the pictures and I will want to show me the pictures. I will someday want to show her kids the pictures. Let them hear her old man laugh and see her face wrinkle up. I will want them to see how beautiful she was with her chubby cheeks and elbow dimples. And I will have a handful of shots to show them. Just a handful of all the important times.
But right now, it feels like an invasion to hold that camera in front of me. Like pushing something between me and my last baby on her first birthday. I can't help it. It's just hard. I spend the whole time I'm holding the camera wanting to put it down.
I think the solution is The Husband. He must be trained to take pictures.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I Shall Make Millions!!
This morning, while on the way to work and mentally ranting about things outside my control, I came up with an idea that shall make me a millionaire. Are you ready?
The Locator
The Locator comes with up to 4 Locatelettes and 1 Home Base. Simply stick a Locatelette to any hard surface on any object. Then, at any point, you can press the button on the Home Base to illicit an ear splitting wail that will only stop when you have successful located the object.
Stick them on everything! Your cell phone, your car keys, your favorite earrings. The locator is so small that it will never be noticed. Tired of losing the baby's paci? Locate it with the Locator. Completely waterproof and nontoxic the Locator can safely be used on pacifiers, bottles or favorite toys. Need to find a lovey or a blankie, simply stick the locator to a Hard Surface Converter (sold separately) and attach the Converter to the soft object using a pin back or heavy duty velcro.
Need more than 4 things located? No problem, booster packs of Locatelettes are available. Call now and you'll never lose another thing!
_________________
This genius idea came right after I noticed that I have never seen a tacky inflatable Hanukkah decoration. Is there a hole in the market? Because I have some lovely designs in my head. The best one is a dreidel that turns.
It was a rough morning folks.
The Locator
The Locator comes with up to 4 Locatelettes and 1 Home Base. Simply stick a Locatelette to any hard surface on any object. Then, at any point, you can press the button on the Home Base to illicit an ear splitting wail that will only stop when you have successful located the object.
Stick them on everything! Your cell phone, your car keys, your favorite earrings. The locator is so small that it will never be noticed. Tired of losing the baby's paci? Locate it with the Locator. Completely waterproof and nontoxic the Locator can safely be used on pacifiers, bottles or favorite toys. Need to find a lovey or a blankie, simply stick the locator to a Hard Surface Converter (sold separately) and attach the Converter to the soft object using a pin back or heavy duty velcro.
Need more than 4 things located? No problem, booster packs of Locatelettes are available. Call now and you'll never lose another thing!
_________________
This genius idea came right after I noticed that I have never seen a tacky inflatable Hanukkah decoration. Is there a hole in the market? Because I have some lovely designs in my head. The best one is a dreidel that turns.
It was a rough morning folks.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Ghost Stories - The Ghosts in my Dreams
We've been listening to Christmas music on the radio and Brynna is intrigued by "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year." She is especially interested in the line, "There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago." And I have been trying to help her decipher that line. I mean, is it really anybody's holiday tradition to tell ghost stories? Does this refer specifically to "A Christmas Carol?"
But, that song confusion, linked with Brynna's sudden interest in vampires and zombies and werewolves, linked with a recent conversation with my mom has lead me to again be thinking about my personal ghost stories. (If you are interested and new, click on the ghost stories tag at the bottom to find all of my entries and links to everyone else's, too.)
The conversation with my mom was about dreams. See, she used to live in the house that I live in now. When she lived there, she had dreams. Lots of dreams about a deceased uncle that she has a weird link with. I won't go into detail, because it's not really ghosty and because it's her story. My house is not haunted. I've seen a lady there a couple of times, but no one has ever died there and I really think she doesn't belong to the house. She doesn't haunt it, just shows up in windows sometimes.
Anyway, when my mom moved back to the family farm, her dreams stopped. Cold. Now we all agree that house is haunted. And mom and I agreed that the house was blocking her dreams somehow.
I have the opposite issue. When I lived there, I dreamed. I dreamed vivid, incredible dreams every night. I had recurring dreams. I had scary dreams and happy dreams and peaceful dreams. They were always in color. They were always wild and they were always remembered. Not just when I woke up but for weeks, sometimes years afterward. Some of them I wrote down, especially the recurring ones, to see changes, differences, inconsistencies. But mostly, I never needed to write them down because I didn't forget them.
I have to admit that growing up in this house, I really didn't understand things like dream journals and the assertion that most dreams aren't in color. I didn't understand how people could forget their dreams or how people talked about them like they were fragile, made of gossamer. My dreams were made of steel, as real as everyday life. But separate somehow.
One of my recurring dreams had to do with a man in a long black trench coat and work boots. He had longish blond hair and beautiful blue eyes and a mischievous smile. I started dreaming about him when I was about 13 and I dreamed of him until I left for college. He had a pleasant voice and he would talk to me and tell me that everything would be fine, that all was well and the world was coming to peace.
I think I may have been in love with him. Either in my dream, or in reality, I couldn't say and I'm not sure it mattered. In fact, there was a guy at my high school who looked similar to this guy and I developed a heart thudding, blush inducing, crazy talking crush on this guy, and it was probably only because he kinda looked like the man in my dreams. Some may say that it was the other way around, that the man in my dreams looked like this guy I had a crush on, but the dreams started before I ever met the high school boy and they didn't look exactly alike, just a little alike. Like brothers.
The man in my dreams had many hobbies. He played guitar, he rode a motorcycle, he carved little animals out of pieced of wood. And he killed me. Every dream. He would comfort me, lull me and then he would kill me.
You have probably heard that old adage that if you die in your dreams, you die in real life. You may have even seen a movie or an episode of a supernatural show that expounds on this theme. I am here to tell you that it is not true. I never died in real life (unless I am the ghost and that's a whole 'nother post, as they say) but I died every night in these dreams. Once, he cut off my head. Once he hit me with a truck. Once he poisoned me. Once he slit my throat. And every night, I would dream my death and I would wake up... Well, that's the weird thing.
These dreams did not scare me. I would wake up strangely contented. Like all was right with the world. Not relieved that it was all a dream, or terrified or panicky, but content. Like the cat that got the cream. And then, as I lay there, I would start to feel unsettled. I would start to feel weird about the fact that I wasn't terrified of this man. Why wasn't I scared? The question would circle and circle in my head.
When I left for college, the dreams left completely. I came back for holidays and breaks and I came back to live for a semester and a summer, and never in that time did the man kill me. I can't explain his existence or my unstable feelings about him.
The other recurring dream that I remember vividly is the woman in the mirror.
Okay, so first we need a brief geography lesson of my Grandma's house. The house was originally a log cabin. It has been added onto and renovated a few times over the years. The house now boasts 4 bedrooms and a showpiece of a staircase. The stairs turn about halfway up at roughly a 90 degree angle. At the top of the stairs is a small hallway with a bedroom door on each end. At the bottom is the front hall that extends through the old part of the house to the newest part of the house. Across the hallway from the stairs is the formal living room. It is flanked with colums set into the archway.
We didn't really use the living room. There are pictures from Christmases in that room that include me, but they ended before my longterm memory kicked in. Occasionally, my grandma would have over the DAR or her Sunday School class and they would use the living room. There would be bowls of nuts. I always found little bowls of nuts to be sooo weird.
The living room is furnished for people to sit. There is a couch, loveseat and about three chairs. A few tables. A piano. That's pretty much it. But, there is a fireplace and over the fireplace a big, ornate mirror in a gilded frame. Standing about two thirds of the way down the stairs, you can see yourself in this mirror, but you are really standing beside it, not in front of it.
In my dream, there is a woman. This woman wears a long, dark skirt. It's the kind with a bustle in the back. Her white, lacy blouse has small pearl buttons up the front and a high neck. There are small ruffles around her wrists and a brooch at her neck. The brooch has a large, round stone. It's dark and could be onyx or a dark saphire or garnet. She has brown hair that is swept up into a loose bun. There are a few tendrils of hair that drape over the collar of her blouse in the back, but the front is immaculate. I can't see her shoes, but they are quiet, probably leather soled.
She is evil.
Unlike the man who kills me, I know that she is evil the second I see her and I am afraid, every time. She is watching me. I am at the bottom of the stairs. I am holding something, but I don't know what. I can't look down and I can't look at her. She is not looking at me, either, she is watching me in the mirror.
She is walking away from me, up the stairs and her head does not bob the way people's heads do when they are walking up stairs, it glides like a woman who has spent many an afternoon going up and down those stairs with books on her head.
She is smiling, but it is a humorless smile. One full of malice and satisfaction. She knows that she has won.
As she gets to the place where she is perfectly framed by the mirror, she stops. She turns to face it and she looks me dead in the eye through the reflection. Her smile widens. She looks as if she will laugh or say something, but instead, the mirror falls.
It falls in slow motion, sliding down the wall to the mantle, where it finally breaks away from the wall and begins its descent into the room. I can see her reflection, first sliding up the mirror, until you can only see her from the knees down and then angling, so that you can see her fully again, right before the mirror begins pointing at the ceiling.
When it falls it, of course, shatters. And shatters and shatters. The sound of breaking glass is maddening, deafening, horrible and never-ending. I breaks and breaks and breaks and I wonder if it will ever stop.
As the mirror falls, I am shocked. Confused. But as it shatters, I know that she did it. That she broke the mirror. I am angry and hurt. Wounded deeply by her betrayal, I want to lash out. I want to hurt her, to yell, but I am afraid, too. Because she broke the mirror with a look and I fear what she can do to me. What she will do to me. And I know that I must never admit that I know that she did it.
I typically wake from these dreams terrified, crying. I am afraid of the woman and what she could do. I am always left with a lingering sense of hatred, betrayal. The mirror never meant that much to me. It was just another piece of the grand ephemera at that house. Some of it I love (my grandma's dolls, the baby cradle in the upstairs hall, the purple bride's basket) and some if it I hate (the picture of the boy in the chair, the little roll top desk), but most are a piece of home and my feelings for them are just feelings connected to the place. That mirror means little to me, but in the heat after those dreams, I can't help but feel the welling hatred I would feel if one of my most treasured possessions was maliciously broken.
I use the present tense to describe this dream because I am still having it. But only at that house. Just a few months ago, I dozed off on the couch at my Grandma's and had that same dream. I've never had the dream in a dorm room or in my old house or in my new house. Only there.
I know how all this sounds. It's just dreams after all. They can't be controlled. Especially not from some otherworldly presence. But I know what I know. And I know that even if you could discount the other things in that house, discount the recurring dreams, discount the woman in the mirror, I dream differently in that house. My dreams just have a different quality. A different texture.
I also know that on a couple of occasions, usually during storms, I have heard breaking glass in that house. I have heard something break forever and I have panicked and ran downstairs. The mirror was always the first thing that I checked, but I walked through the house checking the china cabinets laden with my grandmother's cut glass, the lamps with their dangling prisms, the plates around the rail in the dining room and I found nothing. Nothing broken, or damaged. Nothing out of place. And that scared me.
But, that song confusion, linked with Brynna's sudden interest in vampires and zombies and werewolves, linked with a recent conversation with my mom has lead me to again be thinking about my personal ghost stories. (If you are interested and new, click on the ghost stories tag at the bottom to find all of my entries and links to everyone else's, too.)
The conversation with my mom was about dreams. See, she used to live in the house that I live in now. When she lived there, she had dreams. Lots of dreams about a deceased uncle that she has a weird link with. I won't go into detail, because it's not really ghosty and because it's her story. My house is not haunted. I've seen a lady there a couple of times, but no one has ever died there and I really think she doesn't belong to the house. She doesn't haunt it, just shows up in windows sometimes.
Anyway, when my mom moved back to the family farm, her dreams stopped. Cold. Now we all agree that house is haunted. And mom and I agreed that the house was blocking her dreams somehow.
I have the opposite issue. When I lived there, I dreamed. I dreamed vivid, incredible dreams every night. I had recurring dreams. I had scary dreams and happy dreams and peaceful dreams. They were always in color. They were always wild and they were always remembered. Not just when I woke up but for weeks, sometimes years afterward. Some of them I wrote down, especially the recurring ones, to see changes, differences, inconsistencies. But mostly, I never needed to write them down because I didn't forget them.
I have to admit that growing up in this house, I really didn't understand things like dream journals and the assertion that most dreams aren't in color. I didn't understand how people could forget their dreams or how people talked about them like they were fragile, made of gossamer. My dreams were made of steel, as real as everyday life. But separate somehow.
One of my recurring dreams had to do with a man in a long black trench coat and work boots. He had longish blond hair and beautiful blue eyes and a mischievous smile. I started dreaming about him when I was about 13 and I dreamed of him until I left for college. He had a pleasant voice and he would talk to me and tell me that everything would be fine, that all was well and the world was coming to peace.
I think I may have been in love with him. Either in my dream, or in reality, I couldn't say and I'm not sure it mattered. In fact, there was a guy at my high school who looked similar to this guy and I developed a heart thudding, blush inducing, crazy talking crush on this guy, and it was probably only because he kinda looked like the man in my dreams. Some may say that it was the other way around, that the man in my dreams looked like this guy I had a crush on, but the dreams started before I ever met the high school boy and they didn't look exactly alike, just a little alike. Like brothers.
The man in my dreams had many hobbies. He played guitar, he rode a motorcycle, he carved little animals out of pieced of wood. And he killed me. Every dream. He would comfort me, lull me and then he would kill me.
You have probably heard that old adage that if you die in your dreams, you die in real life. You may have even seen a movie or an episode of a supernatural show that expounds on this theme. I am here to tell you that it is not true. I never died in real life (unless I am the ghost and that's a whole 'nother post, as they say) but I died every night in these dreams. Once, he cut off my head. Once he hit me with a truck. Once he poisoned me. Once he slit my throat. And every night, I would dream my death and I would wake up... Well, that's the weird thing.
These dreams did not scare me. I would wake up strangely contented. Like all was right with the world. Not relieved that it was all a dream, or terrified or panicky, but content. Like the cat that got the cream. And then, as I lay there, I would start to feel unsettled. I would start to feel weird about the fact that I wasn't terrified of this man. Why wasn't I scared? The question would circle and circle in my head.
When I left for college, the dreams left completely. I came back for holidays and breaks and I came back to live for a semester and a summer, and never in that time did the man kill me. I can't explain his existence or my unstable feelings about him.
The other recurring dream that I remember vividly is the woman in the mirror.
Okay, so first we need a brief geography lesson of my Grandma's house. The house was originally a log cabin. It has been added onto and renovated a few times over the years. The house now boasts 4 bedrooms and a showpiece of a staircase. The stairs turn about halfway up at roughly a 90 degree angle. At the top of the stairs is a small hallway with a bedroom door on each end. At the bottom is the front hall that extends through the old part of the house to the newest part of the house. Across the hallway from the stairs is the formal living room. It is flanked with colums set into the archway.
We didn't really use the living room. There are pictures from Christmases in that room that include me, but they ended before my longterm memory kicked in. Occasionally, my grandma would have over the DAR or her Sunday School class and they would use the living room. There would be bowls of nuts. I always found little bowls of nuts to be sooo weird.
The living room is furnished for people to sit. There is a couch, loveseat and about three chairs. A few tables. A piano. That's pretty much it. But, there is a fireplace and over the fireplace a big, ornate mirror in a gilded frame. Standing about two thirds of the way down the stairs, you can see yourself in this mirror, but you are really standing beside it, not in front of it.
In my dream, there is a woman. This woman wears a long, dark skirt. It's the kind with a bustle in the back. Her white, lacy blouse has small pearl buttons up the front and a high neck. There are small ruffles around her wrists and a brooch at her neck. The brooch has a large, round stone. It's dark and could be onyx or a dark saphire or garnet. She has brown hair that is swept up into a loose bun. There are a few tendrils of hair that drape over the collar of her blouse in the back, but the front is immaculate. I can't see her shoes, but they are quiet, probably leather soled.
She is evil.
Unlike the man who kills me, I know that she is evil the second I see her and I am afraid, every time. She is watching me. I am at the bottom of the stairs. I am holding something, but I don't know what. I can't look down and I can't look at her. She is not looking at me, either, she is watching me in the mirror.
She is walking away from me, up the stairs and her head does not bob the way people's heads do when they are walking up stairs, it glides like a woman who has spent many an afternoon going up and down those stairs with books on her head.
She is smiling, but it is a humorless smile. One full of malice and satisfaction. She knows that she has won.
As she gets to the place where she is perfectly framed by the mirror, she stops. She turns to face it and she looks me dead in the eye through the reflection. Her smile widens. She looks as if she will laugh or say something, but instead, the mirror falls.
It falls in slow motion, sliding down the wall to the mantle, where it finally breaks away from the wall and begins its descent into the room. I can see her reflection, first sliding up the mirror, until you can only see her from the knees down and then angling, so that you can see her fully again, right before the mirror begins pointing at the ceiling.
When it falls it, of course, shatters. And shatters and shatters. The sound of breaking glass is maddening, deafening, horrible and never-ending. I breaks and breaks and breaks and I wonder if it will ever stop.
As the mirror falls, I am shocked. Confused. But as it shatters, I know that she did it. That she broke the mirror. I am angry and hurt. Wounded deeply by her betrayal, I want to lash out. I want to hurt her, to yell, but I am afraid, too. Because she broke the mirror with a look and I fear what she can do to me. What she will do to me. And I know that I must never admit that I know that she did it.
I typically wake from these dreams terrified, crying. I am afraid of the woman and what she could do. I am always left with a lingering sense of hatred, betrayal. The mirror never meant that much to me. It was just another piece of the grand ephemera at that house. Some of it I love (my grandma's dolls, the baby cradle in the upstairs hall, the purple bride's basket) and some if it I hate (the picture of the boy in the chair, the little roll top desk), but most are a piece of home and my feelings for them are just feelings connected to the place. That mirror means little to me, but in the heat after those dreams, I can't help but feel the welling hatred I would feel if one of my most treasured possessions was maliciously broken.
I use the present tense to describe this dream because I am still having it. But only at that house. Just a few months ago, I dozed off on the couch at my Grandma's and had that same dream. I've never had the dream in a dorm room or in my old house or in my new house. Only there.
I know how all this sounds. It's just dreams after all. They can't be controlled. Especially not from some otherworldly presence. But I know what I know. And I know that even if you could discount the other things in that house, discount the recurring dreams, discount the woman in the mirror, I dream differently in that house. My dreams just have a different quality. A different texture.
I also know that on a couple of occasions, usually during storms, I have heard breaking glass in that house. I have heard something break forever and I have panicked and ran downstairs. The mirror was always the first thing that I checked, but I walked through the house checking the china cabinets laden with my grandmother's cut glass, the lamps with their dangling prisms, the plates around the rail in the dining room and I found nothing. Nothing broken, or damaged. Nothing out of place. And that scared me.
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