I am a Disgrace to Military Wives Everywhere

When Blaine and I got married twenty years ago, and I started preparing for our first move eight months after the wedding, I was a little freaked. Actually, I wasn’t so much freaked, as I was boggled by the concept of moving. I grew up in the same house my entire life … which was less than two miles from my grandparent’s house, where my mom lived her entire life … which was only two blocks from my great-grandparent’s house --- you get the picture. The furthest I had ever gone away was my freshman year of college, when I lived in the dorms of the college that was about fifteen miles from my parent’s house. And I came home every weekend so I could drink with my friends spend time with the family I missed so very much. Growing up, I had never even moved from one house to another, let alone moved clear across the country, to a strange city, where I knew no-one, nor where anything was. Obviously, “adventure” was not in my bloodstream.

Back then, I remember talking to a girl I worked with who was a few years older than me. She had been a military brat growing up, but was now settled in one place, married, with kids of her own. She told me how much she missed moving around, and that after a few years in one place she started getting antsy to try someplace new. I remember thinking that was the most bizarre thing I’d ever heard ---- who in their right mind would WANT to move all the time?

Then, the day came for us to go, and although I wasn’t technically kicking and screaming when I left that final morning in OKC, I was certainly a reluctant participant as we drove out of the Denny’s parking lot and left my family, waving behind us. I can’t remember exactly, but I think there might have been a discreet dabbing of tears. And an even more discreet mumbling under my breath of “This better be worth it, you military bastard, or I will be on the first plane home before you can blink” shot in Blaine’s direction. Just maybe.

It took us three days to drive to California, partly because we didn’t want to kill ourselves trying to get there in two, so we stopped early every night and had a nice dinner, and partly because I made Blaine wait on me every morning so I could shower, fix my hair, and put on a full face of make-up which just makes me laugh because hello? We were driving half-way cross-country and saw no-one but gas station attendants and hotel clerks who I’m pretty sure didn’t give two hoots if I had on mascara or not.

But at last we arrived in California and yep, it was a bit of culture shock for this born-and-raised-in-one-place gal.

That assignment was for training for Blaine, at Vandenberg AFB, and was only four months long. So we knew we would need to rent a furnished apartment, and that I would be spending most of my time there alone while Blaine was off doing whatever it is they do to prepare young men and women to be nuclear missile launch officers. Personally, I didn’t see why it would take four months ----- push a button and end the world, or don’t push the button. See? How hard could it be? (Ha! That shows just how stupid I really was because did you know? They don't even HAVE big red buttons down in those missile silos. Did you know that? It's all done with a KEY, not a button. A KEY that Blaine actually got to turn one time. But that's a story for another day. For now, I'm still babbling about what a baby I was the first time we moved. Read on.)

But nonetheless, we went looking for furnished apartments with the list of available and Air Force-approved places the base housing office gave us. Naturally, we started at the cheap end of the list because we only had “x” amount of money to spend each month on housing and hey, it’s just four months, how bad could it be?

Wow, pretty bad, actually.

Most of the apartment complexes were run down, shabby, and not too inviting. I’m not a snob, by any means, but when we came to one that had several big, fat, Mexican women, sitting in the doorsteps, smoking cigars and giving us the hairy eyeball (no offense to any large, cigar-smoking Mexican women who might be reading this blog) I turned to Blaine and said, “You are planning to leave me alone here every day for four months in this apartment, and if you think I’m staying **here** by myself, you are on crack …… let’s just jump to the other end of the spectrum right now” and I demanded we wound up selecting THE most expensive apartment complex on the list. Which again, now I’m laughing, because at the time it was $550 a month, for a one-bedroom, one bath, furnished apartment, and it didn’t even have a television. Back then, twenty years ago, to us especially, that was an astronomical price, and I remember thinking I would NEVER in my life spend so much money to live anyplace again. Yes, we started with no TV, back in the day before home computers and the Internet. I was bored out of my mind. We wound up buying a 13 inch tv to put in the living room, and I learned to crochet. I had no friends, no cable, and made about 170 blankets while we lived there.

Anyway, I’ve gotten way off on a tangent here. The point was that I wasn’t crazy about the idea of moving in the first place, but after four months there, I was ready to move again. Temporary assignments have always been a little harder for me, because you’re not really there long enough to make friends or get comfortable. Just about the time you learn your way around, and find a new dentist, and a hairdresser you actually trust, it’s time to move again. I was eager to get to our next assignment, where we would be for four years, so we could settle in and make more of a home for ourselves.

And so we moved to Minot, North Dakota, the assignment where anyone who has never been there looks at you with a slightly horrified, slightly nauseous look on their face when you tell them you lived four years (and hence through four WINTERS) in Minot, North Dakota ….. but where the vast majority of people who have actually LIVED there, us included, will tell you in reality, it’s a really nice place. Sure, a little brisk in the winter, but a great place to live, especially if you’re like Blaine and like to hunt and fish --- or, as Blaine put it, North Dakota is GOD’S COUNTRY.

We made great friends; thanks to a departing squadron of fighter pilots we secured wonderful base housing above our rank; I worked for a year, then I went back to college; Blaine loved his job, and finished his masters degree --- all in all, a fantastic four years for us. (Well, except for those last few months when we had started trying to have a baby and we were all “WTH? We’ve been trying for three months now and I’m not pregnant, what is up with that????” Little did we know what lay ahead ….)

But I had to admit, after the four years there, I felt ready to move on. I felt a little “been there, done that, time to try something new” and that was the first time I felt like an authentic military wife. One who actually gets excited to move, and try new places and see new things.

We moved to Kansas for ten months (more training).

We moved back to OKC for three years, which was great for us because our family was right there. And leaving the second time was no-where near as hard because we had done it once and I knew I would survive the separation.

Then we went back to California for two years, a little more south than the first time, and I was WAY more than ready to move at the end because my GOSH, I am the only person on earth who didn’t like living in sunny Los Angeles, but ugh how I hated that place.

Then Ohio for three years, where we made some of the dearest friends we’d ever made. By now, we were in a completely different place as far as our lifestyle went. We had three kids, and loved what Ohio had to offer families. Leaving there after three years was the hardest move we had done, from an emotional standpoint. But we did it, because that’s what military families DO, and of course we survived it.

Then Alabama for ten months, which again, was a temporary assignment, and not long enough to enjoy what Alabama had to offer.

And then, Georgia, and now, preparing to move back to Oklahoma. So that’s nine moves in nineteen years, not counting the two additional moves we did (once in LA, once in Ohio) when we qualified for bigger base housing due to another baby each time.

And I can say, proudly, that I got the hang of this moving gig and actually started to enjoy it. Exploring new towns, making new friends, broadening my horizons --- all that crap. I liked it. And although I NEVER thought the words would come out of my mouth, I even started to feel antsy when we were in one place for very long.

But as you know, we got stuck here in Georgia for a long time --- five and a half years, the longest assignment we’ve ever had anyplace. I shouldn’t stay “stuck”, really, because that implies we haven’t liked it here, when just the opposite is true. We’ve liked Georgia very much --- we like our house, we like our neighborhood, we love our kids’ school. It’s a safe community, and my kids are active in local sports. It’s a nice town, with enough shopping and restaurants that it doesn’t feel “small town” but not too big, either. We’ve made lots of friends, although many of them have been military and have moved on, but local friends, too. And the state as a whole has lots to offer, which we’ve been lucky enough to see and do.

We *requested* to stay here, so Kendrie and Blaine could both finish their cancer treatments at their respective clinics, and the Air Force honored that request. Blaine had orders overseas that he turned down at the time of Kendrie’s diagnosis, and without our request to stay put, we’d probably have moved at least twice by now.

But we stayed here, by choice, and it was the absolute, best, without a doubt, smartest move for our family. And we like it here (have I mentioned we like it here?) so we didn’t mind.

And now here we are, poised after five and a half years to finally GO HOME, which has been our goal since Day One --- finish out Blaine’s military career with a final assignment back home, and then retire. Full circle, if you will. We’ve planned it, we’ve dreamed it, we’ve worked for it, we got lucky (sometimes luck has a large part to play in all this) and it’s happening.

So why then, after dreaming all these years that this would happen for us, after not only getting the hang of moving so often, but starting to truly enjoy these moves, and after being in one place for so long, and with our home town just sitting there, waiting for our arrival --- WHY do I feel such angst about leaving??? This is where the disgrace part comes in … what kind of military wife am I?

I can’t wait to go home -- I don’t want to leave.

I can’t wait for my kids to go to my old school -- I don’t want to take them away from the school they love here.

They will be with their cousins and will make new friends -- I feel guilty because they will miss their friends here.

Everything, EVERYTHING fell into place for our move. We found a house we love, in the school district we wanted (no small feat, which you already know if you were reading my blog last summer.) And after being told that there were no jobs available at Tinker, one literally falls in Blaine’s lap. In his career field. That he’s excited about. Not only does the job fall in his lap, but they want him to report six months earlier than we planned, which means our family doesn’t have to be apart during that time. Call it what you will; fate, destiny, providence -- God’s hand was all over this.

But I can’t help feeling this sadness about leaving Georgia. Sadness and worry and anxiety about a move that SHOULD be old hat by now. The kids will be fine -- they are smart and funny and genuinely nice kids and THEY WILL MAKE NEW FRIENDS. Every military kid on the planet faces this at some point in time, many of them face this numerous times. For us, though, this is our FIRST time for them to move after starting school and I feel such guilt about taking them from the place they are comfortable and happy and secure. Also, the security of knowing one of the best children’s cancer clinics in the country is only two hours away; I pray every night we never need it again, but I can’t believe its right here and we’re LEAVING it.

And then I’m all, “Oh, suck it up you moron, the kids will be fine and you’re certainly not the first or only person to do this and why are you having such a hard time with it???” and then I’m all, “Oh, my precious babies, I just want them to be happy and safe” and then I’m all, “Well, it’s reasonable to feel conflicted about leaving when you’ve been somewhere for over five years, cut yourself some slack. You’ve put down roots as a family, but you’ll do fine and put down new roots, just pull yourself up by your bootstraps for now“ and then I’m all, “But what if my kids hate it and wind up needing years of therapy because we’re ripping them from the bosom of security they’ve had for so long” and then I’m all, “OMG, woman, You are making me sick with your whining about this, would you just shut up about it already.”

See what I mean?

I am a DISGRACE.

I am a military wife. I’m supposed to be confident and capable and self-assured, poised to move my family into the future that is best for them, and to do so with proficiency and competence and mad-skills moving talents. I am NOT supposed to be a dithering nitwit who talks to herself and stress-eats chocolate by the boatload.

So don’t be surprised, when the packers show up in a few hours (I *think* we are ready … we’ll see how this goes) if there’s a bit of melancholy in the air. Also don’t be surprised if after discreetly dabbing a tear or two twenty years ago when I left my family for the first time, if I don’t discreetly dab a few more when we finally head back home on Sunday.

Because I am a disgrace.

And maybe a little bit insane.

PS. We are keeping the computer and taking that ourselves, because I told Blaine I couldn't bear to be offline more than a few days. And at that, I'll still probably try to squeeze in a trip to the local library to check my e-mail one last time after we pack up. And then curse the fact we are too cheap to buy a laptop. And the packers are not allowed to unplug the TV today because I need to see who gets voted off DWTS tonight. And they're not allowed to unhook the washer and dryer because I want to pack as many clean clothes as possible, right up until the last second. Obviously, my movers will think I'm insane as well.

Breaking My Heart

There reaches a time in every parent’s life when you realize your children have outgrown some of the traditions and beliefs of their youth. The Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Santa --- they all bite the dust at some point.

Somehow, some way, my kids still believe. I didn’t *think* they did, because their oldest OKC cousin was quick to blab the truth to them a few years back. Perhaps they were still young enough at the time that they chose to believe us over him …. perhaps my kids are just extremely gullible, who knows? But every year since I hold my breath, thinking THIS will be the year they ask the hard questions and discover the truth.

Tonight, almost in passing, Kellen said to me: “Mom, Alexander says there’s no Santa Claus.”

Stalling for time, I couldn’t think of what to say. I mean, he’s NINE, for goodness sake, how much longer do I think I can pull the wool over his eyes? By the same token, I wasn’t about to blurt out the truth if there was any way I could salvage this. So I stalled with, “Um, Alexander who?”

Kellen: “The Alexander in my class”

Kristie: “Oh, um. That’s too bad that he doesn’t believe. {awkward pause} Sooooo, who does he say brings the presents on Christmas morning?”

Kellen: “The parents.”

Kristie: “Wow, that’s so not good. You know the rule, you don’t get presents if you don’t believe, so Alexander must not get much.”

{Stalling again ……. Shit, what do I say now????}

Kristie: “So, Kellen, what do you think about that? About what Alexander said?”

Kellen, “I think he’s got it all wrong. I mean, parents aren’t magical enough to make it to ALL the houses around the world in one night, even if they had their own jet. Only Santa can do that.”

And I just smiled inside and said, “Yep, you’re right. Too bad he doesn’t get it.”

And while part of me was thrilled to know he hadn’t talked himself out of believing, another part of my heart just broke for the innocence he’s destined to lose someday.

(weep)

Po-Go Maniacs

Yes, the "Po-Go Maniacs". When told they had to come up with a name for their act at the Talent Show, this is what Kellen and Kendrie selected. Considering how they behave most days, I think "maniac" might have hit the nail right on the head.

It was truly a dazzling display of balance and skill and .... and .... um, jumping. The highlight of their performance was most certainly when Kellen very carefully laid his pogo stick down at the end, powerfully strode to the end of the stage, and took the biggest, cheesiest, one-arm-extended-and-one-arm-bent-across-his-waist bow you ever saw. Not sure if the audience was clapping louder for their talent, or for his cheek.

It was an enjoyable night. We had a gymnast, a juggler, lots of singers and dancers, and one poor kindergarten girl doing a jump-rope routine who popped herself right in the eye with the rope and ran off the stage crying. To her credit, she got back out there a few minutes later and tried it again, with much better results. Personally, I was impressed. I know adults (oh, hello, ME!) who wouldn't have gotten out there in the first place, and that five-year old had guts to do it not once, but twice.











I know I promised you guys I would branch into some new technology and figure out how that YouTube get up works and share the video ..... and my heart was in the right place ..... but MOVERS! COMING! IN! 72! HOURS! NOT! READY!

The Family That Chats Together ….

Another PS. I think I mis-led a few of you into thinking I had gotten a complaint from Cheryl or Jenny, when that is the farthest thing from the truth. They are both wonderful people (with great senses of humor) and my only wish is that I lived closer to either of them so we could visit more often. The complaints have been from people who feel the need to tell me there are moms on this earth who have lost their children (Like I don’t know? Like I haven’t attended the funerals myself?) who would give anything for what I have and that I should quit complaining about my own kids so much. I just wanted to clear that up, in case anyone misunderstood what I meant. But you're right. Pooey on those people anyway.

********************************

Sitting around the table this morning, I’m not even sure how, but the subject of girls’ bathrooms vs. boys’ bathrooms came up, and Kellen mentioned that at Kendrie’s new school, it will probably confuse everyone when she goes in the girls’ bathroom since she is such a tomboy.

Then he commented, “If you went in the boy’s bathroom, people would think you’re pooping all the time because you’d go in the stall every time.”

I replied with: “Do you have stalls only at your school, or do you use a urinal?”

Kellen: “A what???”

Kristie: “A urinal. You know, one of those white things on the wall that you pee into.”

Kellen (pause): “Oh, I get it! A urinal! Because it’s got URINE, ALL over it!”

At which point Blaine cracked up laughing, and I realized two things simultaneously:

1. We have very inappropriate breakfast conversations, and

2. They do not pay the custodians at my kids’ school NEAR enough money.

Almost as Much Fun as Being Boiled Alive

Our oldest daughter Brayden has gone through some sort of growth spurt recently. Actually, she’s been going through one for the past year and a half, and quite frankly, I’m sick of it. I had to buy her all new jeans last winter, and all new shorts this summer, and wouldn’t you know, not one single pair of jeans in her closet fit her now. I wouldn’t mind buying so many pairs if there was a snowball’s chance in Hell of passing them down to Kendrie, but no way **that’s** ever happening, seeing as how Brayden wants her jeans embellished with pink stitching and butterflies and sequins and feathers, for God’s sake, and Kendrie will ONLY wear jeans purchased in the boy’s department. (sigh)

But facing the fact that fall has finally arrived here in Georgia, and it was only 54 degrees when I took the kids to school this morning, and especially as it is certain to be cooler than that when we get to OK in ten days (OMG TEN DAYS I’M SO NOT READY WHY AM I SITTING HERE ON THE COMPUTER I SHOULD BE PACKING I TELL YOU PACKING!) I figured it was time to replenish her winter wardrobe. Not only are her jeans too small, but she’s outgrown all her long sleeve tops as well. And shoes. Oh, geez, don’t even get me started on the shoes.

And thus began the shopping spree otherwise known as “Who Invented This Fresh Hell?!”

We started with jeans, since that seemed to be the most desperate need. Brayden is average sized -- not heavy, not skinny. Just starting to get a little bit of a girlish figure, which she despises because “it makes me look fat!” -- but the biggest problem is she has short legs. The past year or so she’s probably put on ten pounds, but not necessarily grown much taller. So, 12’s are too small in the butt and thighs, 14”s are too long and too big in the waist, 12 plusses were the right length, but so big we could have hidden another kid in there with her. She wants LOW rise, but then complains when she sits on the floor (as she insists on testing in every fitting room) and the back rides so low her crack shows. She wants the big flare leg that is so popular, but because her legs are short, it’s like a stinking wedding train dragging behind her. I estimate she tried on 4,823 pairs of jeans. And every pair had a belt she had to fasten and unfasten. Not one pair fit.

I was exhausted, and we hadn’t even started on the shirts yet.

I love Brayden dearly, but I’ll be the first to tell you she has crap taste in clothes. I could take her to the nicest, most upscale department store in the state, and she will instantly gravitate to the clearance rack with the cheapest, tackiest, most poorly made clothes in the whole store. The shiny-er, and sparkly-er, and shimmery-er, the better. Sequins a plus -- GLITTER a double plus.

Then, because she’s just starting to develop a chest (won’t she be glad I shared *that* with you in years to come?) and she can’t stand her shirts to be skin tight (Thank you, God, at least we did one thing right) she’s topping out the girl sizes … girl plus sizes hang on her like gunny sacks … and junior sizes are flat-out too big. Plus, a lot of the Junior stuff seems to be even tackier and sequiny-er than the smaller sizes. I’m working very hard NOT to raise a Britney Spears Jr. but those clothes designers sure aren’t helping.

Anyway. The really depressing moment of the evening was when we discovered she has officially outgrown the biggest size in Children’s Place, one of my all-time favorite stores. After that disappointment, I caved and let her buy a piece-o-crap High School Musical long sleeve T from JC Penneys that will no doubt fall apart and shrink to doll size the first time we wash it. But at least we didn’t come home empty handed.

Then, the shoes --- my God, the drama of the shoes. I would swear, based on her behavior whilst trying on shoes, that she has some sort of sensory processing disorder. That, or she’s a spoiled rotten brat. One of the two, anyway.

First we disagreed over the general GOAL and PURPOSE of the shoes. I was looking for casual shoes she could wear with blue jeans; something besides tennis shoes. SHE was looking for something that would have been more appropriate for a Kid Rock video. And the problem is, we discovered tonight that she currently wears a size 8, which means not only are we forced to shop for Junior shoes, which we also discovered tonight means slim to none pickings, or we were in the ladies department where everything is too dressy. Plus, if her feet are already that big, she’s probably going to be twenty-seven feet tall, hence the too-long blue jean problem will soon disappear to be replaced with a permanent high-water situation.

We tried on shoes in eight, count ‘em, EIGHT stores tonight. Personally, I prefer the stores that have all their stock right out on the floor, so she and I can help ourselves to the various sizes, considering this is how most of our conversations went:

Kristie: "What do you think of these?" {indicating a black ankle boot with a modest heel}

Brayden: "I don’t like ankle boots. Can I get knee-high boots? Ooh, look! Those have fringe!"

Kristie (snort!): "No, I’m not buying you knee high boots .. these are to wear with blue jeans. What do you think you are, a go-go dancer?"

Brayden: "Well if I can’t have knee highs then I want low ones."

Kristie: "Here, here, try these."

Brayden: "That buckle is ugly."

Kristie: "Oh, for Pete’s sake!"

Brayden (sulking): "Fine, I’ll try them on."

Kristie: "Here’s a 7."

Brayden: (cue whining voice): "They’re too tight! I can’t even fit my foot in them! Ow! Ow!"

Kristie: "Calm down …. Here’s a 7 1/2."

Brayden: (cue dramatic voice) "They’re still too tight …. I don’t like them! They’re hurting my toes!!! Why can’t I try those?" {Indicating some bizarre pair of freaky crocheted pumps with a six inch heel. Or something, I wasn’t even sure.} "You never let me have anything I want, and those won’t hurt my feet!"

This is the point where I got annoyed, made a comment about ungrateful children, then made another comment about trying on boots with thick sports socks, and then snatched a pair of trouser socks off the rack, ripped open the package, and thrust them at Brayden.

Kristie: "Here, your socks are why the shoes are too tight, put this on. OK, is that better? Now … try the 8."

Brayden: "They’re too tight across the toes, but too big around my ankle."

And she proceeds to walk across the shoe department and yes, the shoe comes right off the back of her foot, at which point she makes a big display of almost falling down because of “these stupid shoes! Ugh! They’re all wrong!!!”

I glance at the helper-girl, only to discover she is psychic and can read my mind, as she says aloud, “Nope, no extra wides in that style.”

Damn.

Brayden: "Should I try the 9?"

Kristie: "Why would you try the 9? The 8’s are falling off your feet!"

Brayden: "They’re still too tight on the toes and I don’t even like these. Why can’t I have this pair of brown plaid lace-up Sketchers with the wedge heel? Or these hot pink party sandals? Or look, here’s another pair of knee-high boots!"

Kristie: "Because none of those match ANYHING in your closet!!! And for the last time, no knee-high-boots!"

This was about when I looked at the cashier and asked her to please kill me now. Or wait, let me pay for the trouser socks I opened, and THEN kill me now. The heck with this mother-daughter bonding crap.

My child will be the naked, barefoot one at school. Because I just don’t have the stamina to try again.

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PS. I do feel compelled to mention, so that people will know (mainly the one or two people who have the need to e-mail me on a regular basis and let me know what a fucking whining complainer I am) that I *AM* kidding. The above journal entry is a JOKE. I mean, it all happened, exactly like I said, right down to the drama in the fitting room with the whole butt-crack thing, but the “kill me now” and “I’d rather be boiled alive” is clearly an exaggeration. Well, maybe not CLEARLY, if you’re not familiar with my sense of humor. But it’s supposed to be funny. I have no misconceptions that there are other moms out there who would give anything for a shopping date with their daughters. Even if their daughters are hard to please and impossible to find clothes for and the simple sight of a shoe store gives the moms hives. I KNOW that I’m lucky.

Favorites

Blaine: So what part about moving home are you looking forward to? What excites you the most?

Kristie: Ooooh, that’s a tough one. There’s so many. Oh! I know! The sub sandwiches from City Bites. Man, I love those. I’m going to eat there for dinner every single night the first week we are home.

Blaine: Yep, they do have some good sandwiches there.

Kristie: Oh, and Braums, too! Every night after the subs we are going to go there so I can get *real* ice cream; two scoops of chocolate almond on a cake cone -- my favorite! I miss Braums soooo much!

Blaine: Anything else?

Kristie: Oooh, yeah. The cinnamon rolls from Grandy’s. I’m going to buy a dozen the first day back so we can have them for breakfast every morning.

Blaine: I can’t help but notice everything you brought up is food related. You didn’t mention your mom, sister, or nephews on your “favorites” list.

Kristie: Well, a girl’s gotta have her priorities.

Pause.

Blaine: And how is it you’re always surprised when you look in the mirror and see the size of your ass?

Kristie: Zip it, skippy.

OK, so that last part didn’t take place OUT LOUD. But I know he had to be thinking it in his head!

I Feel So Betrayed

Anyone familiar with this site knows of my deep and abiding love for the Sonic beverage. For the Styrofoam cups that don’t sweat, for the rabbit pellet ice, for the fact they serve God’s chosen drink … Diet Dr. Pepper … on tap. I have made no attempt to hide my obsession and in fact, have trumpeted the glory that is the Sonic beverage all too often in this journal.

Too often, would you say?

So often that they got cocky? Over-confident? Too sure of my love?

What else could explain the travesty, the outrage, the grave state of affairs that has just unfolded at my local Sonic? {cue scary tympani drum music}

Why else would they raise the price of their large drinks --- not by ten, not by twenty, but by THIRTY cents this week? $1.59, the old price, plus tax is $1.70. I could hand the car hop two dollars and feel generous when I said, “keep the change.” Now, the price of a large beverage has been raised to $1.89. Math isn’t my strong suite, but if I did the sums correctly, once they add tax the total cost just went up to $2.02.

It’s the two pennies. Those two pennies are testing my limits, pushing my boundaries, taunting me to see if it’s still worth it.

Oh, Sonic, what did I ever do but love you, and nuzzle you, and hold you close while I whispered sweet nothings in your straw? And this is how you repay me?

Is my love for the Sonic beverage strong enough to withstand the economics of the penny?

Only time will tell.

I might be forced to drive to the Chick-Fil-A across town, where I can purchase a same size Diet Dr. Pepper, also on tap, also in a Styrofoam cup, also with rabbit pellet ice, for only $1.49 (with tax). Sure, I’ll spend more than the difference in gas, getting to and from. But sweet, sweet vindication could be mine, as I thumb my nose at the corporate greed that has overtaken the Sonic people.

Or maybe I should find something more worthwhile to do than dwell on stupid shit like this. Like the fact my movers will be here in seven days and me ??? Still not ready!

If At All Possible

If at all possible, you should really try to avoid getting radiation to the side of your head, including your mouth. Otherwise, the following scenario could possibly, maybe, perhaps, conceivably, arguably, actually occur:

You could go to the dentist for a cleaning.

At which point they discover you have a cavity.

At which point you make an appointment to return the following day to have the cavity filled.

At which point they discover you actually have FOUR cavities.

At which point, they discover one of the cavities is so bad you need a root canal.

At which point, they refer you to a civilian dentist for a root canal the next day.

At which point, the civilian dentist realizes that the tooth cannot be accessed like normal for a root canal, due to the abutment you still have screwed in your mouth from your previous surgery.

At which point, they will decide the abutment must be taken out temporarily in order to do the root canal.

At which point, they will try to call your oral surgeon in Augusta to ask what kind of special screw is needed to remove and replace the abutment.

At which point, you will find out your oral surgeon is on leave.

At which point, your root-canal-dentist-guy will confer with your oral surgeon’s superior officer, and make the pronouncement that the cavity is way, way, way, way, way, and I mean in a BIG way, way below the gum line.

At which point these two gentlemen will decide, given your history, that it is best if the tooth, and the tooth next to it, also sporting a monster cavity, are pulled, rather than repaired.

At which point they will remember that you have had radiation to the bones on that side of your mouth. {Radiation which is pretty much the catalyst for these problems since they told you it would weaken your teeth, hence all the cavities in a person who prior to the radiation had only had four cavities his entire life, and in the year and a half SINCE the radiation, has had TWELVE. Radiation will also destroy your salivary capacity, which although none of us like drooling on our pillow while we sleep, did you know spit is actually very healthy for your mouth, and keeps your teeth in good shape, and enables you to actually chew stuff and swallow it …. Important stuff, like food that is not bananas or yogurt or oatmeal, and without it, without SPIT, you’re in a world of hurt. Although at least the bright side is you no longer accidentally gleek people.}

At which point someone will remember that oxygen therapy is needed when pulling teeth out of an irradiated head.

So see?

If at all possible, avoid radiation. Otherwise, you could go to the dentist for a cleaning, and wind up in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber.

But hey, remember that one time you went to the dentist for a cleaning and they found cancer?

Yeah, this is still way better.

T Minus -- heck, I’ve lost track

We had our Pre-Move Inspection on Friday. This is when the moving company sends a representative to go through your house and take a look at what you will be moving, so they can guesstimate the weight of your belongings, how much time it will take them to pack up your stuff, how big a truck they might need, how many packers, how many movers, gives them a chance to rummage through your underwear drawer and make fun of your granny panties, and see if you have any unusual or special items they need to worry about. A hot tub, baby grand piano, or stuffed polar bear, that sort of thing.

We? Have nothing. The Pre-Move Inspection Person has always shown up to our house and laughed in our faces, because they usually allot three days to pack up our house, and it never takes more than one. I realize Blaine and I aren’t pack-rats, but geez, are we that pathetic that we own so little?

When Blaine called to tell me the Mover Guy was coming, my mind went to a stereo-typical blue-collar worker, wearing jeans, a chambray shirt, and work boots. Perhaps even a cigarette behind his ear, and a cheerful face with wrinkles by his eyes from smiling in the sun. Sort of like a construction worker, only without the hard hat. Until you get into Brayden’s room, at which point hard hat is optional. Perhaps even recommended.

So imagine my surprise when Blaine walked in the door yesterday morning, followed by a gentleman that can only be described as David Niven, on a sophisticated day. Much older than I expected, wearing white shoes, white slacks, a light colored sports shirt, and a blazer, which for goodness sake had a silk hanky in the pocket. Gray hair, and a debonair little gray mustache which was clipped neatly so as not to extend past his lip. I swear the only thing missing was the British accent and an ascot around his neck. The guy looked as though he should be teaching a wine tasting class on a Seniors cruise, or lecturing on hot house orchids at the local garden Expo, not walking through my house with a clipboard, wondering what kind of slobs we are that we don’t even own a dining room table (sold in the garage sale, along with the hutch, sofa, and glider … no WONDER they can always pack us in one day!)

Normally when the movers come to pack up our house, I have donuts and juice waiting in the morning, and we buy sub sandwiches or burgers for them at lunch. If *this* guy shows back up to do any actual packing, I’ll need to offer tea and scones, or whatever it is elegant people eat for breakfast, and for lunch, watercress sandwiches on my best china, which will most likely be already packed by noon. I have never felt like such a big fat slob, next to a gentleman so refined and classy.

But the best news of all is that thanks to (due to?) the Thanksgiving holiday happening right in the middle of our move, that will delay the moving truck enough that we can plan on a house-to-house move, which all military people know is a fabulous plus. Because when you have as little as we do, I guess it’s easy to lose the entire she-bang in a warehouse somewhere.

Then, Blaine and I made arrangements (shhhh! Don’t tell them!) to get the kids their Hepatitis A vaccinations next week. Apparently Oklahoma public schools require it, and Georgia schools don’t, so they’ve never had it. **That’s** going to be a fun surprise for all three kids on Monday, isn’t it?

Then, the lovely couple who are going to be renting our house here in Georgia came by yesterday to drop off their first months’ rent, measure the space to make sure their fridge will fit, measure for curtains, etc.

Then Blaine spent all day today cleaning out the garage, and I just don't understand the laws of physics that show you can place a small-to-medium-sized mountain of crap out by the curb (to include cracked rubbermaid bins, bent hula hoops, broken soccer chairs, a fertilizer thing you push across the yard missing a wheel, a card table with a ripped top, a bag of beat-up beach toys, and various and sundry other crap) and yet your garage doesn't seem ANY emptier?????

Holy crap. We’re really moving, aren’t we?

Book Fairy Bust

After my journal vent last year about how churches and their Fall Festivals were putting a big ole’ cramp in our neighborhood Halloween activities, I decided to take the bull by the horns (or the ninja by the sword, if you took a good look at the costumes last night) and declare my very own Fall Festival right here in my neighborhood. “Festival” is probably too generous of a term, but I did invite about ten of our neighbors over for a pre-Trick-or-Treat get together, which wound up being a lot of fun and a nice chance for us to be together with all our neighbors for what is probably the last time (sniff, sniff).

We had chili with all the fixings (thanks, Jeanette!) and hot dogs and chips for the kids; everyone brought salads or sides or desserts to share. I hit a clearance sale at Big Lots which means I was able to get Halloween tablecloths and decorations, and party favors (forgotten) and glow sticks (also forgotten and half of which were defective once we remembered them) for the kids. And the KidzBop Halloween CD playing in the background, which was really fun, until it started skipping on the Time Warp and none of us noticed for at least half an hour.

After the eating, and the chatting, and the swatting of the flies (hello? Was it not the last night in October and why are there still FLIES here???) the kids all ganged up and went trick or treating around the neighborhood, parents trudging along in their wake. Blaine and I always split up on Halloween; one of us goes with the kids and one of us stays home to pass out candy. I convinced Blaine that holding down that chair in the driveway and passing out candy was hard, hard work, and sat there all night and BS’d with my neighbor, who passed out candy with me. Whew, I was exhausted.

All in all, a successful night.

Then, right before bed, after the Gluttony of the "Halloween Night, I Don't Care, Eat Candy Until You Puke" Free For All, as it is every year, it was time to put the rest of the Halloween candy back in the buckets and leave it on the front porch so the Book Fairy could come and make her trade. Now, the Book Fairy was very organized this year, making plans ahead of time. No running out at the last minute to get ready. She knows that the boy child in this house loves Magic Tree House books, so she double-checked to see at which number his personal collection stopped, and the next two in line were the ones she bought from Books-A-Million brought in her magic fairy bag. The youngest child in this house loves Ramona Quimby, so the Book Fairy brought some Henry Huggins books, also by Beverly Cleary, thinking those would be just as good. Since the oldest child in this house enjoys Judy Blume, she brought a couple of those as well.

Wouldn’t you know, when the kids put out their bags of candy last night they quickly wrote letters to the Book Fairy telling her exactly which books they wanted in exchange. NONE of which were hidden under my bed in her magical fairy bag. I mean, do any of you let your kids wait until Christmas Eve to write to Santa? No! You get those lists in early December so you have some idea of what you kids are hoping to get --- hedging your bets, if you will. Last night, the Book Fairy was so screwed.

Most years, the next morning, the books on the front porch are met with smiles and happiness and an enthusiastic “Yes!”’ from each child. This year? Not so much.

Kellen took one look at his books and said, “I’ve already read these.” I said, “What do you mean you’ve already read them? They’re not in your book shelf. Uhhhhh, I mean …… are they in your book shelf? Maybe the Book Fairy didn’t realize you had already read them. When did you read them, anyhow?” to which he grumpily replied, “We have a library at school, Mom.” in his most patronizing tone. Little brat.

Kendrie was completely under-whelmed by hers as well, and Brayden’s only comment was, “Well, I’m excited to read these, but they are below my AR level at school. That’s why I’ve never bothered to read them before.” Leading me to the harsh conclusion that Book Fairy struck out not once, not twice, but THREE times this year.

I promised the kids I would take them to Books-A-Million to pick out some new books. I don’t want them to feel like they traded in all their Halloween candy for a bum deal. I still believe in the power of reading. I still believe in the power of the Book Fairy --- it’s a fantastic idea, and I want to continue the tradition for as long as my kids trick or treat. Thank you, Lisa B, for sharing it with me so many years ago!

But I can tell you that next year, that damn fairy is giving out Books-A-Million gift cards and calling it a day.

T Minus ---- Oh, crap

Our drive-off date is November 18th. It would have been November 16th, right after the kids finish their last day of school here in Georgia, but Kellen and Kendrie both have their final soccer game of the season on the 17th, and their end-of-season soccer parties, and what kind of parents would we be to deprive them of such important, monumental, fun-filled events in their lives? It’s all about the trophy, baby.

Regarding the move, the left side of my brain is all ….., oh, la-dee-dah ….. no worries. We’re not leaving until the week of Thanksgiving, which everyone knows is the last week in November, which means it’s practically December, which everyone knows is the last month of the year, and the end of the year is so far away from now that it feels like it’s never really going to get here so what does it matter if we haven’t heard from our movers or done one single thing to get ready? We have loads of time …. Loads --- AGES. Practically months left.

The right side of my brain is all ….. holy crap! Sure, we’re not driving off until the 18th of November, but there are only two full weeks in November before that, and the movers are coming one of those weeks, which means we’ve only got one full week of November left before we move, and TOMORROW is November for goodness sake, which means basically, we are moving in a few days and I haven’t heard from the movers and I don’t have anything ready and WHY HAVEN’T I HEARD FROM MY MOVERS???? THEY WILL BE HERE ANY MINUTE!

It’s official. Pre-Move Panic has set in.

*************************************************************

PS. Regarding last night's Dancing With The Stars Elimination Show ... I won't spoil it for anyone who hasn't watched it yet, but I only have one thing to say ---------------------------- THE HELL??????????????????

Debate

Brayden: “Apollo is a better dancer.”

Kendrie: “But Helio has a cooler job.”

Brayden: “But Apollo is cuter.”

Kendrie, conceding: “Yeah, Apollo’s cute. But I’m not going to marry him until he shaves that Mohawk off his face.”

Monday Morning

Child #1 announces pancakes are too cold.

Child #2 refuses to get out of bed.

Child #3 says shoes hurt her feet, and, no, despite appearances to the contrary which include a full shoe holder in her bedroom, she actually does NOT have any other single pair of shoes that can be worn to school this day. MUST wear painful shoes, complaining all the time about how they hurt her feet.

Child #2 announces pancakes are too hot.

Child #1 decides TODAY is the day she needs to take all the soda can tabs to school and gets angry when you won’t let her dig through the trash to retrieve them. Never mind she’s had all weekend to get this organized.

Child #3 cries when you can’t magically go to store and somehow purchase new pair of shoes before school.

Child #1 makes big production of re-heating pancakes, several times, including slamming of microwave door, and much huffing and puffing, to get them to the proper hot-enough temperature.

Child #3 announces she doesn’t want pancakes, but would prefer chocolate pudding for breakfast.

Fine. Whatever.

Child #3 cannot get peel-top off of chocolate pudding, but rather than calmly asking for help, throws a tantrum, flings pudding container on the breakfast table, throws down her spoon, and announces shrilly that “SHE’S NOT EATING BREAKFAST ANYWAY!!!”

Child #2 doesn’t understand why brushing his hair with his fingers isn’t good enough.

Child #1 confesses she only brushed teeth for a few seconds, then gets righteously indignant when you suggest she return to the bathroom for a re-brush.

Child #1 throws incredible tantrum when you have the audacity to ask if her hair is brushed, because WHEN she ignored your suggestion the night before, that she brush her hair after her bath, she ensured a total rat’s nest for herself this morning, but the parental announcement that you are “GOING TO CUT THAT SHIT OFF IF YOU CAN’T START BRUSHING IT” is met with much tears and drama.

Female parent refuses to open chocolate pudding until Child #3 can ask for help properly and politely, instead of rolling around on the sofa, crying about how nobody loves her.

Male parent confirms chocolate pudding lid is indeed defective, opens said pudding, and then slinks off to work like the coward he is.

Child #1 highly offended by parental observation that piling personal belongings in a corner does NOT qualify as “cleaning bedroom”.

Child #3, after being told to pick her cleats and shin guards off the living room floor, moans aloud “Why do I have to do EVERYTHING around here?”

Child #1 is finally dressed, teeth and hair brushed, but refuses to pick out a snack.

Child #2 is finally dressed, teeth and hair brushed, sort of, but refuses to get a jacket.

Child #3 is finally dressed, teeth and hair brushed, but half way around the corner to school remembers something she forgot in her bedroom, necessitating a return trip to the house.

Children dropped off at school.

Female parent wonders if 8:35 am is too early to return to bed --- with a very large bottle of wine.

An 8-yr old Interview

If you could have one superpower, what would it be? To run really fast.


What was the last chore you did? Empty trash cans. The ones in the house.





What was the last movie you went to see in the theater? I’m forgetting the name of it. Wait, hang on. What was the name of that new movie that just came out?


What he is your favorite song? The Cheating Song {Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood}





Do you get an allowance? How much? Ten dollars, as long as you do all your chores.


How do you get to school? My mom takes me to school and I ride the brown bus home.





What do you like to eat for lunch? Nachos. And hot dogs. And mashed potatoes. And peaches.


What’s the nicest thing you’ve done lately for someone in your family? Told Daddy the truth about something. But I don’t want to talk about it anymore since Daddy already took money off my chore chart for it.





What makes you mad? When Brayden and Kellen sing that song {Run, Joey, Run} and then it gets stuck in my head.


Where would you like to go on vacation next year? Georgia, because all my friends are here.





What do you think of the house we are going to move into in Oklahoma? Lager won’t be able to get up the stairs.


What would be the most perfect pet in the world, and what would you name it? A dog and I would name it Lager Jr. And a hamster and I would name it Willy since our hamster in kindergarten named Willy died but then Nicholas bought a new one.


Who is your favorite relative and why? My cousin Lawson because he’s almost my age and we play games every time I go to his house.

Mickey Mouse Club

Yep, Grandma J, I remember learning the Mickey Mouse Club theme song, and other music, for a Disney-inspired PTA performance we did in elementary school.

I remember there was a boy a grade below me named Brent Rains who was made to dress up like Pinnochio, and told to "dance around, all jerky like a puppet" and I remember thinking I wouldn't have wanted that job because he looked a little spazz-y until my mom mentioned, "You guys are eight --- ALL of you are spazzy"

And I remember another little boy they dressed up like Tigger with a big ole', huge, round, paper mache head that bobbled and wobbled when he bounced up on stage, and that also probably impaired his breathing, and killed gobs of youthful brain cells, what with his face being surrounded by glue and all, but hey, what did it matter, at least he looked cute. And I remember, clearly, distinctly, remember thinking, "Tigger's head is going to fall off and the little kids are going to be fuh-reeked out", not even realizing that I was a little kid myself and shouldn't *I* have been fuh-reeked out by our teachers dressing us up like puppets, and animals with paper mache heads???

Ah, yes. Happy childhood memories.

The Sad State of My Elementary Education

Ok, seriously. I obviously got RIPPED OFF in elementary school! First I can’t spell, and now I find out I’m practically the only person in America who never learned the Nifty Fifty State song. Blaine, by the way, swears he doesn’t remember singing anything *before* the states, but does remember the “North, South, East, West, Oklahoma is the state we love the best” or whatever that part is at the end. Fine, whatever.

But I got gypped. I never won any cool coffeehouse bets, or passed a college geography test with flying colors, OR won a beer in a bar with this knowledge. The only time *I* ever got free beer was on Penny-Longneck night, if I found spare change in the parking lot. Thank goodness you kind people shared the Nifty Fifty YouTube link with me so I can at least learn it now. (Although you know I won’t, because the precious few brain cells I have left must be saved for high-impact learning like the new version of Photoshop and figuring out who got eliminated on Dancing With The Stars.)

It does make me wonder why my elementary school never taught us this song. It’s genius, I tell you, pure genius. I do remember learning the Mickey Mouse theme song in music class …. How is *that* important? It also makes me wonder if they’re teaching it now, or if I need to push to get it included on the curriculum. After all, Blaine and I worked our living situation pretty hard to get our kids in this same school district, and they’ll be starting there next month. Have I doomed them to a Nifty-Fifty-free life? Oh, the shame and horror if I have.

Well, I’m off to practice. Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas …. Something, something …. La-la-la- ….. some c states, and Delaware … then maybe Florida ….. God, I suck.

The State Song -- A Challenge for You

At my children’s public elementary school here in Georgia, every morning they say The Pledge of Allegiance, sing The Star Spangled Banner, and “have a moment of quiet reflection on the anticipated activities of the day”, much to the horror of the ACLU. Back in the day, at my own elementary school in Oklahoma, we skipped the Star Spangled Banner, but said the Pledge and recited The Lords Prayer aloud, which I’m sure would have turned that O’Hare chick in her grave, had she been dead yet, but she wasn't. Blaine attended another elementary school not far from me, where they also did the Pledge, but instead of the Lord’s Prayer, they took a more geographical-historical route, and every single morning sang something he has long since called “The State Song.”

Basically, it is the complete listing of all 50 of the United States, in alphabetical order, set to music. Blaine has tried to teach it to me several times, but since the music is lodged firmly in his head, and he can’t play an instrument or display it to me in any other way, I can never get past the first five or six states before losing the rhythm entirely. Blaine always gets frustrated with me, “No, no, that’s not how it goes!” and I have to remind him it’s like trying to teach somebody how to do the Time Warp with no music --- it just doesn’t work.

But back to the song ---- it starts out quick, there’s a rapid rolling part in the middle, lots of Proper Pronunciation, with emphasis on certain syllables, and a BIG FINISH on WyOOOOOming! It sounds quite fun and educational, and I really wish they had done it at my elementary school, as well, because even to this day, Blaine sings loud and gets excited and pumps his fist in the air on the final note and damn, if that isn’t some fun, I don’t know what is.

Fast forward ten or twelve years: One of Blaine’s favorite stories is about an ROTC instructor he had in college. This guy was a pompous little ass, short in stature and character, with a huge Napoleon complex. At the time, he acted SO grown up and worldly because he was a CAPTAIN, for goodness’ sake, and everyone should RESPECT THE RANK, which just makes me giggle now because dude, most Captains are in their late twenties, so just how mature could he have been? But he definitely enjoyed lording it over the cadets and impressing them with just how wonderful he thought he was, and all the life-military-experience he had. Needless to say, Blaine couldn’t stand him.

One morning, he had all the cadets in his class, and he told everyone to get out a sheet of paper. Told them to number the paper one through fifty, and then made the following comment: “OK, you guys think you’re so smart? Let’s see how many of you can name all fifty states. You’re going to be DEFENDING them, you should at least be able to name them ….. you’ve got five minutes …. Go!”

And as people started scrambling, mentally scanning US maps in their head, Blaine looked calmly at the teacher, raised his hand, and with an innocent-yet-totally-ha-ha-conniving expression, asked: “Do you want this list in alphabetical order?” The captain sneered at him, thinking no doubt Blaine was being a wise-ass, but in record time, before anyone else in his class had even come close, Blaine handed in a perfect list, of the fifty United states, in alphabetical order. Got up, walked out of class, and gloated about the look on his instructor’s face the rest of the day. All thanks to the State Song he had memorized when he was in elementary school.

When he came home and told me the story, I laughed. And congratulated him. And then I laughed some more, in a smarmy way. Sure, I was pleased for Blaine that he’d been able to best that arrogant twit, but still ….come on, really …. How hard could it be? Fifty states? {shrug} I could do that. I could *probably* even mange them in alphabetical order. At the time, I was working at a nation-wide insurance agency, and our department was arranged geographically. Each girl handled certain states, and we all knew who handled what …. So all I had to do was go through the list of co-workers in my head and write all the states down. Easy-peasy.

Except it wasn’t.

Except it’s NOT.

I wasn’t able to list all fifty states that day. It was maddening. And humbling. Oh, and did I mention maddening?

Every time I’ve ever tried it through the years, I’ve missed at least one or two states. I’ll scour the list, certain, positive, 100 percent sure that I’ve got them all listed …. But I’ll have only gotten to 48 or 49. And I’ll make comments like, “What the hell?? I’m missing NOTHING --- they are all here!!! So why am I two states short???” And then I’ll consult a map, and figure out which states I’m missing, and I’ll want to smack myself, because normally it’s a state right next to my home state, or a state I’ve even LIVED IN, or something ridiculous like that. Seriously, it can drive you crazy.

We’ve had friends try over the years --- very, very few can do it. Bright, intelligent, educated people. But it’s so hard to list all 50!! I tried it again today, before typing this journal entry, just to prove, just to SHOW MYSELF, that I could do it. This time, I would be successful.

I only got 47. Possibly my worst attempt yet. Obviously, all the years of being a stay-at-home mom have sucked the brain cells right out of my head.

So, this journal entry originated when Blaine was performing (ie, showing off) the State Song to our children the other day, and promising them that he would teach them how to sing it, all the while I’m scoffing in my head because seriously, Blaine, you STILL can’t play the piano so how are you going to teach someone a song with no music????

But this entry ends with a challenge for anyone who is reading this. Get out a sheet of paper. Number it one to fifty. Set a timer for five minutes. See how you do. And bonus if they’re in alphabetical order. Big huge super bonus if you get as frustrated as I always do. And no fair if you already know the State Song.

Leave your results in the comments section. I’ll leave mine there, too, because if I tell you *here* which three I missed, that’s cheating. But I will give you this hint: There are a lot more damn “M” states than you think there are.

I will miss …..

As the time for our move draws nearer, I’ve started recently doing what I always do before a move --- analyzing all the things we’ve loved about our current home and what I’ll miss when we leave. Besides the obvious and predictable (friends, school, etc, yawn) it’s usually local restaurants that top the list, since I know I’ll most likely never get another chance to eat at these places.

I had one of those moments this past weekend. The kids had friends with them, and Blaine and I took them all to the kid-friendly (see also: cheap) local pizza parlor called Stevie B’s. Similar, I think, to what a CiCi’s Pizza might be? Not sure, since we don’t have those here. Basically, a relatively decent pizza buffet (with, I might add, the most pathetic salad bar I’ve ever seen) and a small arcade area, where the kids can go through five dollars worth of tokens apiece in about forty-five seconds flat and then squeal with glee to go to the ticket exchange counter and discover they’ve earned enough tickets to trade for a plastic spider ring, a pair of Chinese finger handcuffs, and three Tootsie Rolls. Ah, to be eight years old again and have no concept of the value of money.

While my kids will certainly miss the buckets of cinnamon jaw breakers and vampire teeth, all there for the winning, you know what I’ll miss? One of their specialties, the Baked Potatoe Pizza. Can you think of anything more delicious for a carboholic like myself? Pizza crust, with an alfredo-y, ranch-dressing-y sauce, then thin slices of potatoe, bacon pieces and cheese. It is like heaven on a plate, if you ask me. Really, I can think of nothing more perfect in this world, except perhaps Brad Pitt’s ass.

Although, the item that will rank highest on my “What I WON’T miss about Georgia” list came to light today: the fact that it’s the fourth week in October, and I’m still wearing summer clothes. This time of year, I should be sporting my favorite jeans, a fuzzy and oh-so-warm ultra-fleece pullover, and a great pair of boots. Not shorts, sleeveless shirts, and sandals. Didn’t Mother Nature get the memo about me not shaving after October 1st? What’s up with this eighty-five degree weather the week before Halloween? And the humidity, my GOD, the fecking ninety-bazillion degrees of humidity, who the hell ordered that? It’s like walking around outside with a wet rag on my face, and you all know how I feel about that. **And** the humidity does such lovely things to my hair (she said sarcastically.) No shaving, and no sweating. Those are my rules for October, but it doesn’t appear anyone is paying attention. Especially not the gobshites in charge of global warming.

(Why, yes, “fecking” and “gobshites”. I just finished another Marian Keyes novel, how did you guess?)

I think I’ll go have me a piece or two or seven of baked potatoe pizza, to make myself feel better about this weather, except then I’ll most likely gain another five pounds and schlepping this giant body around in this kind of Amazon jungle weather will probably give me a heart attack.

So, what was I saying? About how much I’m going to miss Georgia???

My Rainbow Flag Appears to be Drooping

OK, let me just say it up front, since I’m sure I’ll be accused --- no, I’m not homophobic. I’m not anti-gay, anti-lesbian, anti-anything-that-is-not-a-typical-nuclear-family-with-two-point-five-children-one-dog-and-a-minivan. I had a gay best friend in my 20’s and spent more time dancing in gay bars than straight ones. Some of my favorite co-workers have been gay. I *liked* the purple Teletubby; I thought Will and Grace was hysterical; I have lots of George Michael downloaded on my iPod, I have gay friends now; and a few of the best parents I know are gay. So,ok? We clear there? I have no problem with the gayness.

Why, then, am I so disappointed in the recent announcement by JK Rowling that Albus Dumbledore is gay? That he [quote] “fell in love with Grindelwald [a bad wizard he defeated long ago], and that added to his horror when Grindelwald showed himself to be what he was. To an extent, do we say it excused Dumbledore a little more because falling in love can blind us to an extent, but he met someone as brilliant as he was and, rather like Bellatrix, he was very drawn to this brilliant person and horribly, terribly let down by him." [end quote]

First of all … what? Excused Dumbledore? Excused him from what? For falling in love with the wrong person, or with a person who turned out to be completely different than what Dumbledore thought he was? I mean, that pretty much fits the bill for the majority of the human race at one point or another, so why does he need to be excused for it?

You know how I want to remember Dumbledore? I want to remember him as being the greatest wizard ever known. I want to remember him as a brilliant, kind, wise, empathetic, good-hearted, astute, prudent, almost-father-figure. (Yes, I know he's imaginary --- I just really loved him.) Gay or straight, I don’t care. But why are we bringing it up NOW, when the story is done??? I don’t understand --- How is his sexual orientation even remotely important here?

I’m sorta confused. Was there a story line or plot line I missed? Whether Dumbledore was gay, straight, trans-gendered, asexual, or worked nights as a Chippendale dancer --- what does it even matter? I would have been equally disappointed if she had blurt out that he was from the Wizarding equivalent of stereo-typical-Mormon-Ville and had twelve wives, or that Madame Hooch had a husband and four kids at home we never got to meet, or if she had mentioned after the fact that Professor McGonagall was a hooker who wore leather boots and a saucy bustier under that black robe of hers ---- Why does it matter? It changes nothing of the story, it’s not relevant, or significant to anything that happened, and as long as she’s not writing any more books, why put out new information at this point?

She obviously wasn’t opposed to developing relationships throughout the books --- there were quite a few hetero-relationships that occurred during the series -- Harry and Cho, Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermoine, Hagrid and What’s-Her-Face, the Giantess, Tonks and Lupin (although seriously, did her name have to be *Nymphodora*??? That’s a little inappropriate, isn’t it?) Bill and Fleur, etc, even the mention of the unrequited love Snape felt for Lilly. If she had wanted to work a gay relationship into the story for Dumbledore, fine. I WOULD HAVE BEEN FINE WITH THAT. It’s certainly not that amid all this yin and yang-ness I begrudge one measly little homosexual relationship ---- it’s that there WAS NO relationship in the book for Dumbledore at all, so why does this have to be mentioned now? I feel a little bit like I’ve been tricked. I had finished reading the books, and mentally put everyone in the place I felt they belonged at the end of the story. JKR ended book 7 with a nice little synopsis that was very satisfying for people like me, who like their packages tied up neatly at the end with shiny bows. My middle name is “closure” and I thought I had gotten it. Now? Not so much.

Now, I need to revise my opinions and beliefs about Dumbledore because he is not the person I thought he was. Not because I like him any less, but because now I like him *differently*. I had never given one minute’s thought to his sexuality. Why would I? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t even on the horizon --- at all. Not even a SPECK on the horizon! Now, this changes things. Now, as Kellen and I prepare to begin reading The Prisoner of Azkaban together, having just finished The Chamber of Secrets last week, I can no longer sit back and just enjoy them with my son. I’ll be hyper-analyzing the story, looking for hidden meaning in her words, searching for clues that I missed the first ten times I read the book. Clues that will help me understand Dumbledore, (who is, in my opinion, one of the most freaking awesome characters ever invented in literature) a little better.

So, see? I’m not happy that he’s gay. Because this means more work on my part. I told you, I’m not homophobic. I’m just lazy. And as far as I’m concerned, this is all wrong because it means I’ve got to start thinking again. Geez, I hate that.

Our Child Prodigy

So, Kellen came running in the living room tonight, animated, bursting to tell us about something … something obviously very “cool”, something obviously worth sharing ---

Kellen: Mom, Dad, listen to this, listen to how cool this is! {eyes glittery, big smiling face, clearly very excited}

Kristie: Ok, what?

Kellen: I just went in your bathroom ….

Kristie: Uh-huh ….

Kellen: And got on your bathroom scale ….

Kristie: Yes, I see …. {thinking to myself, woo-boy, this is fascinating stuff indeed}

Kellen: And I weighed 70.0 pounds!

Kristie: Wow, 70 pounds, that’s a lot {*that* is what this kid is excited about??? That he finally hit 70 pounds? Sheesh, he’s sure easily entertained}

Kellen: 70 pounds, Dad, did you hear that?!

Blaine: Um, yeah. 70 pounds. That’s a lot, huh?

Kellen: But this is the cool part --- are you listening? THEN, I pooped, then I weighed myself again, and I only weighed 69.5 pounds!!!! That means I was half a pound less!



Total silence.



Kristie: Wow, that’s um. Hmmmm. I don’t even know what to say to that. I guess, um….. good job?

Blaine: For what? His math skills, or the other?


So, in a nutshell, now you understand why Dancing With the Stars is the cultural highlight of our week, don’t you?

Why He's a Keeper, Cancer and All

Because when a prospective renter for our house here in Georgia called yesterday, at 4:15pm, to ask if he could stop on his way home from work and pick up his wife, then come see the house ... "in about half an hour" .... this is what Blaine started doing.



He didn't try to finish watching any tv shows, or lounge around on the sofa scratching himself, or pretend he was busy in the garage "supervising" the children. He just grabbed the swiffer-thingy and jumped right in. Like he always does. Which is one of the reasons why me and my sparkly clean mini-blinds love him so.

And thank you Lord, that apparently that lovely couple were so blinded by the shine of my clean mini-blinds that they didn't notice the pile of toys shoved in the corner of Brayden's room or the dirty pajamas hidden under the pillows on Kendrie and Kellen's bed, but said they loved the house so much they agreed to rent it right then and there, because despite all my talk and bravado and confidence that things would turn out fine, I was getting a teensy bit worried we would have two mortgage payments to make without any rental iincome and even a diet of beans and rice every night wouldn't have made it possible.

Why I try to never take them out in public. Ever.

You know those parents; those sick, twisted, masochistic parents, who turn a simple trip to the grocery store into educational and high-quality family time? You know who I’m talking about? The ones where the husband AND wife AND the kids go to the store together, and each parent pushes a buggy containing a kid or two, with the wife giving the husband instructions on which kind of peanut butter or breakfast cereal or dishwashing detergent to select …. Or worse, the moms who are in the produce section, helping their toddlers learn their colors by “Ok, little Johnny, point to the RED apples … good! Now point to the GREEN apples … excellent!” Or helping them learn their numbers by opening up the egg cartons and counting to twelve together --- you know the ones I’m talking about, don’t you? Those parents who believe every situation is a learning opportunity?

I am not one of those parents.

I am the mom who, if we were to run out of toilet paper at the house, and I had recently been diagnosed with a bladder infection, and I had to choose between taking my kids with me to the store to buy lovely, fluffy Charmin, or using folded up cheap, generic, tree-bark paper towels, I would use the paper towels.

I am the mom who waits until dad comes home from work, so he can stay home with the kids and then goes grocery shopping by herself in the evening. I am the mom who will gladly give up a Saturday afternoon so I can go to the commissary by myself, while the kids are again home with dad. I’ve never understood couples who go to the store TOGETHER --- what is up with that? If the husband is off work, then he can stay home and watch the kids. I can get the entire shopping trip done in less time, for less money, and with a WHOLE lot less frustration, if I just go by myself. It probably helps that Blaine feels about the grocery store like I feel about Auto Zone. Or total body waxing. No, thanks. Forget that quality time nonsense. Quality time is a picnic in the park, or family game night, or a bike ride together ---- not scurrying your buggy past the cookie aisle hoping your kids won’t notice and start whining and clamoring and begging for mint-flavored Oreos.

I am the mom who, if meeting friends at McDonalds for a playdate, will go through the drive through to buy the Happy Meals, then get out and carry the food in with me. Because standing in line with all three kids, waiting on them to make their selection, and then trying to pay for my order, fill the soda cups, carry the trays, squirt the ketchup, and balance the shoes they’ve abandoned in their gleeful sprint for the play-land, seriously gives me hives.

When we lived in Ohio, I discovered the best invention ever: drive-through liquor stores. I would go once or twice a week after our morning playdates. Not because being a stay at home mom to three kids under the age of two drove me to drink … often ... or a lot ... normally I didn’t drink until **at least** 2pm, that was my rule. But the drive through liquor stores in Ohio also sold MILK by the gallon --- GENIUS for someone like me who would rather stab myself in the eye with a rusty fork than take a newborn, a one year old, and a two year old into the grocery store. Shoot, it would take so long to get them in and out of their car seats the milk would have expired anyway. But drive through liquor stores? Brilliant.

Even now that they can manage the seat belts on their own, I try to avoid taking them to stores. Maybe when they’re older, and it’s important to teach them the proper way to grocery shop, I’ll take them one at a time for instruction. Otherwise, let me zip in, get what’s on my list, and zip out again, without them bugging me. That’s my motto. It might be a selfish one, but it works for me.

Yesterday I had to fill a prescription at Eckerds and had two of the three kids with me. Eckerds has a drive through, but I needed a few other items as well, so I reluctantly took them in with me ---- because no matter how much I hate dragging them with me, I’m not about to leave them in the car unattended. I might be willing to do that, oh, say, maybe when they’re 30.

So I was standing in line at the pharmacy, waiting to be helped, while Brayden and Kellen played with the automatic arm pressure cuff machine that measures blood pressure. And they were giggling, and getting along, and not bothering anyone, and not pestering me to buy candy or toys, and I began to chastise myself for being so impatient. And cranky. They’re good kids … well-behaved …. I should just take them more often … it’s not such a big deal, right? I looked around, feeling good about my kids’ behavior, not really paying attention, and then realized they had wandered off. Well, they knew better than to go far, so I wasn’t worried.

Then, a moment later, I heard peals of laughter coming from the next aisle, and then a young boy’s voice, suspiciously familiar, exclaiming loudly: “Beano!!! Beano!!! Helps control gas! You know what that means??? It keeps you from FARTING!!!” and then more hysterical shrieking laughter.

The lady in line behind me just looked at me, and yep, you know exactly what I did. Pretended like I had no idea who they were, gazed around, whistling innocently, and made a mental note to see if Blaine is available to watch them on Saturday so I can go grocery shopping alone.

Images From The Fair (or the one where you realize I'm trying to learn more in PhotoShop 7)

Late Effects

The purpose of Tuesday’s visit to the AFLAC Cancer Survivor Clinic Workshop, besides giving us an excuse to do a happy dance, because woo-hoo, SURVIVOR CLINIC, BABY! was to get a baseline check of Kendrie and her medical/social/emotional/neuro-psych needs now that she is {almost} two years off treatment. Also, to educate and enlighten us as far as what late term effects are likely or possible and how to watch for them.

Twenty-six months of chemotherapy, while directly responsible for saving my daughter’s life, also can, unfortunately, bring with it a host of potential problems. Learning problems, gross motor skill deficit, fine motor skill deficit, etc. Most of these problems occur, if they’re going to occur, either during treatment, or in the first two years off treatment. That is the window of time after which, if these problems haven’t already popped up, chances are good that they won’t. Hence the reason our clinic wants children to wait two years before attending their first Survivor Clinic appointment. We squeaked Kendrie’s in a little early since we are preparing for our move, but still, we’re pretty darn close to two years, which makes me smile just thinking about it. Especially if you compare this week to where we were this week four years ago:


Diagnosis and beginning of treatment, Oct, 2003.

We are fortunate, as it appears Kendrie has, so far, dodged the bullet(s) for complications and late term effects. One of the chemo drugs she took can cause heart problems, but both the EKG and echocardiogram from Tuesday were normal. She doesn’t have recurrent foot drop, or joint or bone problems from the steroids. Her growth does not appear stunted, nor does her weight seem to be an issue. Her blood counts were fine (although she was MAD AT ME for forgetting her emla cream and had to endure not one arm stick, but TWO, BOTH OF WHICH REALLY HURT HOW COULD YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN MY MAGIC CREAM?!?!?!?!?!) and did you know Scottish Rite no longer keeps freeze-y spray on hand so all you parents out there, when you go to Survivor’s Clinic, don’t forget the emla for pete’s sake, or your child will STILL be harping on it three days later, is all I'm saying.

There are other potential problems we will need to watch for later in life --- periods of time where learning problems might crop up (making the switch from elementary to middle school, or from middle to high school, for example) problems to watch for when she goes through the hormonal changes of puberty, and also, she will need to be watched by a cardiologist when/if she ever becomes pregnant. Her teeth and bones might be softer than average, and, she's at greater risk for secondary cancers for the rest of her life.

But overall, it was a very encouraging, positive visit. Kendrie is not having any of the common issues that crop up for kids who have received long-term chemo (kids with ALL leukemia). She also received different, less-intense kinds of chemo than say, brain tumor kids, plus no radiation, so in all likelihood, we dodged those potential problems, as well. She is physically active, and is doing well in school.

I left the clinic feeling very blessed, very fortunate, very privileged. Because NOTHING separates us from those kids who have these types of problems than pure, dumb luck.

Then, we arrived home, and before I realized what was happening, before I could even prepare myself for the shock of what was to come, she appeared to have fallen victim to a side effect so insidious, so sneaky, that they didn’t even mention it as a possible problem. I was so busy celebrating our clinic appointment that I didn't even see it coming. Quite frankly, it’s so dire, I’m not sure how we’ll cope. It seems that one horrifying late term effect of chemo is that my tomboy, my so not a girly-girl, my “rough and tumble, I’d rather skateboard than play house, I’ll wear blue jeans and t-shirts but not dresses, and let’s chase frogs and bugs all day long” daughter --- has been reduced ------ to {gulp!} ---- playing with DOLLS:



Oh, the horror.

I was stunned.

Then she told me she was only feeding Brayden’s Baby Alive doll to see if it would poop.

Ahhhhhh, *that’s* my girl!

Or maybe ...

…. more neglectful than the mom in the previous entry is a blogger who after being gone for over a week, comes home, only to leave again the very next day to take her kids to Atlanta so her youngest daughter can attend her first-ever appointment in the Scottish Rite Cancer Survivor Clinic, which pretty much rocks as a milestone, if I do say so myself, and I didn’t even mind getting stuck in that hellacious Atlanta traffic one last time because God willing, it’s one LAST time!

… or who then spends the entire next day taking her kids to the fair, and allowing them to ingest obscene amounts of various and sundry breaded, fried, sugar-coated and calorie-laden food items (and then puts her middle son on a spin-y ride which was perhaps not such a good idea) but hey, we walked what felt like twenty-seven miles up and down the mid-way today so surely we burned off *some* of those calories? Right? Oh, and did I mention that I damn near killed myself eating a caramel apple? But that’s a story for another day.

For now, though, I must go. And frantically clean my house. Because wouldn’t you know, the day *after* my twelve-day extravaganza of totally and completely neglecting every household chore known to man, we’ve received the first serious inquiry for potential renters for this house, and they are coming TOMORROW to look at it. To look at the rooms which haven’t been dusted or vacuumed for two weeks, the dining room whose floor needs to be mopped because the dog pee’d on it yet again yesterday afternoon (note to self: next time you spend the entire day in Atlanta, put him outside. The old boy’s bladder just isn’t what it used to be) The kitchen which, despite my not cooking anything in it for the past two weeks, still manages to be cluttered and messy, the master bedroom which looks like a Samsonite factory threw up in it, what with the only-half-emptied suitcases here and there and everywhere, and the kids’ bedrooms, which, well ….. God help us. In fact, I should get off the computer this very instant and inquire about renting a back hoe.

Wish me luck.

PS. On a more serious note, please visit this site. This family has been through enough. ENOUGH. They need prayers, good thoughts, and encouragement. They deserve to catch a break.

What is ...

... the only thing more neglectful than a mom, abandoning her children to a weekend of grilled cheese sandwiches and too much soda and excessive tv watching** so that she can spend the weekend visiting friends in NYC????

A mom who is home less than 48 hours before leaving again to spend a long weekend scrapbooking in Pennsylvania with her girlfriends.

**I'm totally kidding. Blaine is a fabulous stay-at-home dad the times I go away, and in fact, would probably make a better house husband than me. Plus, the kids LOVE the soda and excessive tv watching.

Also, to the general public of the Atlanta-Hartsfield Airport from Thursday morning: the human dandelion you saw walking through your jetways was me. Deciding to park in long-term (ie, cheaper, NON-covered) parking during a wicked downpour, pelting, thundering rainstorm was perhaps not the best idea for someone with naturally coarse, frizzy hair. So I'm sorry for any small children I might have frightened yesterday. All the flat irons in the world are no match for Mother Nature.

Note to self: Umbrellas INSIDE suitcases really do no one any good. Moron.

You asked for it .....

… so here goes. I’m not sure the story of the tattoos is really that interesting, although in hindsight, it did involve scary-biker-men who didn’t speak English and prostitutes, so maybe it’s a little out of the ordinary after all.

Everyone knows in life, that if you want a child, or even better, a rebellious teen or young adult, to do something, just tell them that they can’t. Such used to be the case with tattoos in Oklahoma when I was growing up. Oklahoma was the last state to legalize tattooing (at least I *think* it’s legal now) but when I was growing up, tattoo parlors were illegal. That doesn’t mean they didn’t exist, but I am nothing if not a rule follower, so was never willing to go to any of the unregulated, “underground” tattoo parlors in the city. Not that I even knew where any were. Because, yeah. I’m pretty much NOT in the cool crowd, so wouldn't have even known where to go. But like every other young adult from Oklahoma who was told she COULD NOT GET A TATTOO ABSOLUTELY NOT ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND IT’S AGAINST THE LAW, MISSY, I always wanted one.

So when Blaine and I traveled to Germany on vacation (1994, maybe?) to visit his brother and sister-in-law, I got a wild hair to get a tattoo. What better holiday souvenir, right? So one night, Blaine and his brother left for a boy’s night out, and no, it didn’t actually INVOLVE prostitution, at least not in the sense that anyone paid for or received sexual favors, of course not …. But let’s just say that prostitution is a very above-board, legitimate profession where they lived and since Blaine had never actually stepped foot in a house of ill repute, especially a classy house of ill repute, he JUST HAD to go see what all the fuss was about. In other words, gawk at pretty, scantily-clad women. Sort of like eating at Hooters in this country, only with way more potential. So off they went.

My sister in law and I went out and shot a few games of pool (Who am I, The Female Hustler?) and then headed to the local parlor. I kept thinking about how cool this would be, to get a tattoo in a foreign country. I thought about what a great souvenir it would be, and thought about what a neat story it would make. What I *didn’t* think about, unfortunately, is what image I wanted to get tattoo’d on my body. Which meant I had to make my choice from the selection they had at the shop.

Oh, my.

Skull heads with bleeding eye sockets, naked women on the backs of Harleys, she-devils, fire-breathing dragons, etc. ….. shockingly, no Polly Pockets or Care Bears anywhere. Seriously, not one single image I was willing to have permanently placed upon my body. My sister in law suggested one of those Chinese sayings, maybe the sign for “love” or “happiness”, but I’ve always been a little suspicious that some tattoo artist with a warped sense of humor would put the sign for “gullible asshole” on me, and that just wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.

So I decided to design my own tattoo, perhaps not the best idea for two reasons. Well, three. One, I have no artistic talent whatsoever. Two, the artists, big scary German bikers guys, were waiting for me and not the most patient in the world. I’m not very quick on my feet so had trouble coming up with anything original under the gun like that. Three, and perhaps most importantly, neither of the gentlemen spoke any English.

I decided on getting my initial, the letter “K”, in a nice cursive script, with a trail of roses curving around the back (straight line) of the “K”. Personal, simple, feminine, what could go wrong? I wanted the tattoo on my waist area so it wouldn’t be readily visible, that much I knew. I got into position on the chair-recliner thing, and he got started. Naturally, I couldn’t see what he was doing. My sister-in-law, who is a very artistic type of person, kept making these strange faces, and saying things like, “Oh, yes, I see. That’s, yes … oh, um, ok.” I guess things weren’t going well.

When he finished, I assume he asked if I liked it, but since I spoke no more German than he spoke English, I couldn’t be sure, so I just paid him and left. We headed back to the bar where we had been playing pool earlier, where Blaine and his brother were now waiting for us, in very high spirits for some reason. I guess staring at pretty women will do that.

“Well, did you get it?” Blaine asked. Proudly, I lifted my shirt on the side of my waist and showed off my new design. It was met with silence for a few seconds, then Blaine blurted out, “It looks like a cattle brand.”

Wha-aa--aa--aa-t?

I went into the bathroom to take a closer look, and sure enough, because I had been stretched out on my side when he did the tattoo, the “K” looked more like an “X” when I stood up. And instead of a delicate trail of lovely English roses, he put one big fat rose down at the bottom.

Truly, one of the ugliest tattoos ever done. And perhaps the worst vacation souvenir EVER.

A few weeks later, acknowledging that I couldn’t live with the cattle brand the way it was, Blaine drove me to Texas for some “repair” work. (Yep, gotta love having no legal tattoo parlors in the entire freaking state.) We stopped at the first shop we saw across the border, and I explained my dilemma to the artist there. He tried, bless his little inked heart, I know he tried, but I think he made it worse. He added clouds above and a rainbow going through the initial, going for a sort of happy-aura scene, but to this day, it just looks like a big fat ugly cattle brand with clouds, a rainbow, and a blobby rose, all discombobulated and slapped on my waist. Of course, I blame the tattoo for the fact I will never be hired as a bikini model, therefore, there’s no real need to diet. So in the end, it has served me well, don’t you think?

But I still wasn’t happy. I wanted a tattoo that would look nice, darn it, a tattoo I could show off with pride! So for my 30th birthday, we spent the weekend in Dallas with a group of friends, and I treated myself to another one. This time, I went to a very well-known parlor in Deep Ellum called Tiggers. I had my image selected already (hey, I wasn’t making the same mistake twice) and knew right where I wanted it. For that tattoo, I got two blue dolphins chasing each other round in circles, sort of a yin-yang design, on the small of my back. Let me just tell you that even someone as chubby as me does not have a lot of fat on the small of my back and that one? Stung just a wee bit. But, it's also served me well since every time I've ever given birth, the anesthesiologist just aims for the middle of the circle for the epidural --- automatic target practice.

The things is, tattoos are addictive. Ask anyone. (see, also: deep fried foods) So after Kendrie was born, I was ready to get another. I was 33, living in Ohio, and was well-ensconced in my Americana-country-treasure-folk-art decorating phase. So I selected an Americana heart, which I like to this day. I also felt a bit more daring, so had it put on my left shoulder. You can see it when I wear a swimsuit, or a shirt with straps, if I have my hair up.

At that point, I felt done. I wouldn’t mind getting a few more, except I’m not willing to get one anyplace that is highly visible. I think they look cool wrapped around ankles and biceps, but not for me. I wear shorts in the summer, dresses to church and work (when I used to work) and personally, don't want a tattoo that would be easily seen. I like thinking that I’m somewhat discreet with them, even though to some people I imagine that defeats the purpose.

I still like them, and I’m glad I got them. Well, not the ugly cattle brand one, but the other two are fine. I do wish that I had gotten, however, and encourage my kids all the time, if *they’re* ever going to get a tattoo, to get a temporary one. Six months or eight months or however long those things last would have been long enough for me. I could have put one in a more visible location had it been temporary. I don’t regret mine, but don’t feel the need to have them on my body until I’m wrinkled and bent over in a nursing home. But I will, because even more than that I don’t feel the need to go through the time and expense of having them removed. Am I sorry I got them now that I'm older, as anti-tattoo people always predict? No. Would I get them again if I could go back in time? Eh, probably not. Although I probably would, just to prove my point about being told NOT TO DO SOMETHING my whole life.

Next time I go to Germany, though, I’m bringing home a beer stein or nice cuckoo clock.

In Calendar Years

Kristie: Hey, thanks for washing the sheets and making the bed before I got home. It was nice to climb into fresh clean sheets last night.

Blaine: That’s ok. I sort of had to wash them because I got Ben-Gay all over them.

Kristie: Ben-Gay? Why?

Blaine: Well, this change in weather really bothers the leg where they took the bone from that surgery, and makes it ache a lot, so I was using Ben-Gay trying to make it hurt less.

Kristie: Oh.

{pause}

Blaine: Hey, I forgot to tell you, while you were gone the base called and they should have my temporary false teeth ready by next week.

{another pause}

Kristie: So, in calendar years, you're 43. But basically, in physical years, you’re like, 72, aren’t you?

Blaine: Pretty much.

Super

Super is ...

Getting to visit friends you haven't seen in a long time.

Getting to hang with their kids, who are growing and changing and turning into such enjoyable little people. And not so little people.

Hanging out in Times Square on a beautiful fall afternoon.

Taking in a Broadway play.

Mary Poppins.

It's super.

In fact, it's supercalifragilisticexpialidicous.