Fan Obnoxiousness

Well, it has begun.












Hello, gravity??





Despite appearances to the contrary, her middle name is NOT Grace.



The hours and hours of practice, the driving to and from the fields, the night after night after night of English muffin pizzas for dinner because that’s all I have time to make. And the loads and loads of dirty, stinky, smelly, sweaty, shin-guard-socks in my laundry basket. And as you might have guessed, I love it. Its fun and we enjoy it and it makes me happy and it sure beats sitting at home watching Disney channel or worse yet, thanks to our "No-TV-on-school-nights" rule, reading them {roll-y eyes} educational material. Although seriously, one daughter came home from the Scholastic book fair this week with “Candy Apple” books and the boy came home with Pokemon books and the other daughter bought a Suite Life book, so really, how educational is ANY of that?

But I digress -- soccer.

Games started last week for Kendrie. They were beat so soundly in their first game that I turned to the parent of the he’s-gotta-be-a-native-Brazilian boy who single-handedly scored all ten of the opposite team’s goals, smiled cheerfully and said, “Wow, you really spanked us, didn’t you?” The shocked look on his face led me to believe he perhaps didn’t speak English very well and might have thought I just propositioned him with something naughty.

Kellen’s game last night was rained out (thanks for telling us that after all the parents on both teams schlepped themselves and their children to the field in our waterproof jackets and set up chairs and umbrellas …. THEN the officials decided to cancel? Would a decision beforehand and a few phone calls have killed you?)

Kendrie had her second game today. Once again, they lost, although if you ask any of the kids on the team they will tell you it was a tie. Delusion is the best medicine. It was definitely a much better game this week, compared to the rout we suffered last Saturday, and the teams were pretty evenly matched. And again, let me repeat, I’m not a competitive person and it truly doesn’t bother me if my kids lose a game. Or two or three or eight. What bothers me is when they lose to a team that’s not any better than they are, and part of the reason for the loss is a lazy referee. Or maybe he’s not even part of the reason, maybe *I'm* the one who's delusional, but it’s certainly no fun to lose AND have to watch that, at the same time.

He got hit with the ball three times, for goodness sake, because he didn’t move quick enough -- didn’t move AT ALL -- to get out of the way. He didn't help or try to correct any of their mistakes at all; this is an instructional league, after all, and some of the refs are fantastic about helping the kids understand what is happening and why. This one? Not so much. He didn’t call many fouls, and it wasn’t that the other team was blatantly fouling --- they weren’t malicious little kids, at all --- it just annoys me when kids are getting away with going out of bounds, or sloppy play, because the ref either can’t or won't see it. He was about three months BEYOND the cute-longish-hanging haircuts that teenage boys are wearing these days, so perhaps that shit flopping in his eyes meant he really COULDN’T see the ball, who knows? I just find it hard to believe that the ten dollars a game he’s earning is worth it, seeing as how he sure didn’t appear to be enjoying himself. At all. Not for one single second.

As I stood on either end of the field, taking photos of our players, I saw several fouls, particularly hand slaps on the ball by the other team, that he didn’t call. Just didn’t seem to care. Until finally on the third one, right in front of me, I yelled at the top of my lungs in an exasperated voice: “HANDBALL!!!” like I was an officially trained and sanctioned Soccer Association Important Person And By Golly Young Man, YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME AND CALLS THESE FOULS CORRECTLY!!!!

Immediately, immediately, I realized that from my position at the end of the field, I was NOT the anonymous crabby parent who is yelling, but instead had suddenly morphed into “That Obnoxious Mom Who Yells At The Ref Whenever Her Kid Is Losing”. I broke out with the dreaded “confrontation-rash” on my chest and wanted to curl up and become invisible. The ref looked at me with this hurt look on his face, and I remembered that “You moron, that kid is like 13 years old and you are a grown woman and YOU JUST YELLED AT HIM OVER A MISSED CALL IN AN EIGHT YEAR OLD SOCCER GAME!” Seriously, could I be any more embarrassed of myself?

But at least the soccer ball didn’t hit me in the head, so all told, except for the yelling, a successful day.

Until after the game, when I was passing out snacks to the kids on our team, and one of the boys, in an attempt to be funny (I think?) held his hand out to me and grunted. Not once, but twice. And I thought, “Oh, hell to the no if he thinks he can GRUNT at me and get a snack.” So I looked him right in the eye and said, “Little boys who grunt don’t get anything. Try again. With manners this time.” Only to realize his MOTHER was standing behind me the entire time I corrected her son. She then made him apologize for the grunting, which made me feel worse because honestly, who am *I* to correct her kid????

Geez, are there many more ways I can make friends and influence people today? I've yelled at a teenage referee and scolded a 2nd grader whose only sin was wanting his fair share of the cookies. I’m going out tonight with my girlfriends. There will be liquor involved. I’ll bet with enough, I can find LOTS more interesting and creative ways to insult and belittle people!! That's me, always the over-achiever!!

Stay tuned to find out.

Fifteen Minutes Forty-Two seconds of Fame

Oh my word, they made it. The Talent Show list came out, and shocker of all shockers, the Escoe kids are on it.

That means there is either a dearth of talent amongst their elementary school population, or there’s more to this pogo stick bit than I thought. The show is scheduled for Nov 2nd. That gives me almost five weeks to learn how to transfer video footage to this blog, because you KNOW you're gonna want to see this!

Talent

Thanks so much to all of you who responded to my previous nervous breakdown post with kindness and understanding. I didn’t realize I came across as so pathetic about enjoying the comments, but I guess I did. Hey, no complaints, I like hearing from you, so much thanks to those of you for coming out of lurkdom, and thanks also to those of you who comment regularly. Yep, when you comment, it helps me to remember there are actual, real, live Peoples from the Internet out there reading, and it’s NOT that my site counter is only going up because my mom keeps hitting refresh in order to see the Flickr photo stream of my kids change each time. (Mom, I’m telling you, stop that! It inflates my hits!) {kidding, it's not my mom, it's me}

Several of you hit the nail right on the head with what I was thinking and feeling regarding this blog. It is sort of selfish that I do it because *I* enjoy it, then even more selfishly, I want others to enjoy it with me, but then I feel an obligation to update, and then annoyance that it takes so much time, and then guilt when I don’t have the time and can’t update. And how can something I like to do so much, and that is so much fun, make me feel guilty? (Wow, do I sound like a Catholic teenager or what?)

Taking a small step back this week alone, has allowed me to get two scrapbook layouts done, finish a gift album, my laundry is caught up, and I have all but one of my errands finished for the week (Note time: 12:50pm on Friday; perhaps new world errand record.) I’m thinking my new, relaxed blogging attitude might actually wind up being an oxymoron type of thing, and suddenly I’ll be inundated with ideas and inspiration and start blogging MORE, as opposed to less, until it reaches the point I’m blogging too much about nothing and all of you out there are all, “Damn, girl, we don’t need to hear about every single detail in your boring life --- we don’t care if you bought a new Swiffer or got highlights in your hair or finally found a pair of jeans that don’t accentuate your muffin top!”

We’ll see what happens.

In the meantime, please keep Kellen and Kendrie in your thoughts at precisely 4:10 pm this afternoon. That is their “call” time for their elementary school Talent Show try-outs. Despite my trying to explain to them that jumping on a pogo stick is not technically considered a “talent”, that is what they’re doing. To the song “I Want Candy”. They’ve worked up a little routine, where they alternate hands and feet, and bounce around one another in circles, then bounce in BIGBIGBIG bounces, and then Kellen spins in circles, bouncing with no hands. At which point during the preview Blaine turned to me and said, “Well, can YOU do that? No? So who says it’s not a talent?”

Once again, he has a point.

Birthday Letters to Myself -- Part 5

The Final Installment --- Year 2007

Dear 41 yr old self: Yeah. Um, you didn’t do it, did you? You made all those grand, sweeping statements last year about priority and goals and not wasting time, and then what did you do? Wasted a whole damn lot of it. Right here on this computer. You had plans, my friend, plans. What happened??? You bought a scrapbook kit to make an album marking your 40th year --- it’s still sitting over there in the box, unopened, along with all your Europe vacation photos you never got around to scrapbooking. You bought a DVD burner to make copies of all your old home movies --- you’re not even half finished yet. Your treadmill is still covered with clothes you intend to ebay, but haven’t gotten around to yet. Did you walk on it a single time this year? No, I didn’t think so.

Most pathetically, how many times did your kids ask you to do something or look at something or watch something … only for you to turn around in your computer chair and say, “Give me one second” …. Only to look up and ten or twenty minutes had gone by? Yeah, that’s what I thought. You switched from Caringbridge to Blogger, only instead of saving time, I think you’re spending MORE time online. In between typing the updates, and proof-reading them, and good heavens, trying to simply THINK of something to type about sometimes, and downloading and resizing and uploading photos, and updating Flickr …. I’m not sure this Blogger thing is working out. I think for this, our 41st year, we need to re-establish some guidelines. The end.

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


And that is where my birthday letters to myself ended earlier this month. And I have to tell you, in all honesty, that the gift I gave myself last week was permission to shut down this site. Because as much as I enjoy it, DANG, can it ever be time consuming! The composing, the updating, the work with the photos. It’s fun, but I felt like there were so many other things I *could* be, *should* be, doing with my time.

The flip side is, I still have things I’d like to share with you all. You know, if you’ll have me. Some travel this fall, our upcoming move, personal stuff --- it’s really a lot of fun to write, and definitely worthwhile and rewarding when people actually respond. And it’s a great, convenient way for people all over the country, especially those who have been kind and gracious enough to follow us since Kendrie’s CB days, to keep up with us if they still want to. But I was starting to think, “Is it worth it? Am I enjoying it enough to justify continuing?”

Blaine, actually, is the one who swung the pendulum in favor of me pressing on. I was bemoaning the fact that since I started online a few years ago, my all-time favorite hobby, scrapbooking, has really taken a back seat; how I felt like I was failing to document my kids’ lives like I wanted. Blaine looked at me and said, “Isn’t that what you’re doing with your blog? Just in a different way?” and I realized he was right. So what if my little blog isn’t setting the world on fire? So what if I can’t think of something to write every single day? So what if I don’t get a hundred comments on every entry? (Although seriously, people, I see my site counter going up, so quit lurking and say hello every now and then.)

I blog because it’s (mostly) fun. Because I get (mostly) positive feedback. Because it provides me with an actual, physical copy of the activities and happenings of our lives, both good and bad. Because *I* enjoy it. And people enjoying it with me are an added bonus.

So my birthday gift to myself is now revised. Instead of gifting myself with permission to shut down this blog, I now gift myself with no more stressing if I can’t think of anything witty or wise to say. Gifting myself permission to skip a day or two here and there -- especially weekends -- if I want. Gifting myself permission to save time and type a one-liner every now and then --- not every post has to be ten thousand words or anything, even though they usually are, just because I'm so chatty and once I get started I can't seem to stop and then, ooh, I always think of something else I want to tell you and something else and I'm so guilty of abusing the run-on sentence and then ... wait, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, gifting myself to feel OK about moving “Update blog” farther down on the priority list each day. Allowing myself to do other things I also enjoy, and do them first if I want. In fact, do them first because I *should*.

I’ll admit -- I’m leaving my original gift (of shutting down the site) to myself in the cabinet. I’m not going to pull on the shiny bow and un-wrap it just yet. I’ll go a couple more months and see how this new, relaxed attitude works out. Maybe some of you will still be interested in what I have to say and be willing to stick around. Maybe I’ll come to a perfect happy medium with my other hobbies and not feel sucked into this computer all the time. Maybe I’ll decide I’m too OCD and make it a New Years Resolution to quit, instead of a birthday gift. But I’ll stick it out at least until the first of the year. So if you’re willing to join me for a while longer, well, thanks.

And at long last, almost two weeks after the actual birthday, the letters are finished.

Birthday Letters to Myself -- Part 4

"The Big Four-O"

Dear 40 yr old self: OK, self, you’re 40 now – statistically, your life is half over, half gone, fading into the sunset like the geriatric you are .... so let’s set some priorities for this last half. Everyone, EVERYONE, gets 24 hours in a day. People who complain (hello, mirror? And I'm sick of hearing it from you. I mean, from me. Whatever, shut up about it already) about “I’m too busy” or “I don’t have time” are simply spouting synonymous for “I’m not managing my time properly” or “Quite frankly, although I talk the talk, it’s just not a main concern." At least that's how I feel about it. So, first of all, quit spending so much time on the computer. Get outside and play more with your kids. One of these days they won’t WANT to be with you so you should enjoy it while you can. Instead of talking about exercising, get up and do it. Don’t chat about eating healthy with a box of Milk Duds in front of you. Rather than talking about scrapbooking, get up and do it. Instead of complaining about laundry, get up and ….. well, ok, you’re always going to complain about laundry. But my point is, I know you’re thinking about shutting down Kendrie’s Caringbridge page and moving to Blogger because you think you’ll spend less time on the computer. Your daily/weekly calendar is no longer determined by doctor’s appointments, chemo schedules, blood counts, and constant driving to and from Atlanta. Utilize this gift of time --- spend it wisely. Otherwise, this milestone year will go by and you’ll be left wondering, “What the heck did I DO, anyway???” Also, one last piece of advice: Remember at your 40th birthday party, when you finally, finally work up the amount of alcohol courage necessary to karaoke, that volume does not necessarily equal talent. And that if you serenade scream the entire drunken rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” -- the long version -- to your best friend in Oklahoma, on a cell phone, there is the possibility it will be saved as a .wav file and endure, to your embarrassment, forever.

Birthday Letters to Myself -- Part 3

The Thirty-Something Years

Dear 31 year old self: Yes, I know your days and {sleepless} nights are filled with diaper changes and breast pumps and soiled baby clothes and strained peas and formula. You have bags under your eyes, your hair is in desperate need of a cut and color, and some days you never even make it out of your pajamas, let alone into the shower. But secretly? You will look at these two kids, and the mountain of laundry, and all the baby paraphernalia that has overtaken your living room, and think you are the luckiest girl on the planet. Guess what --- you’re right.

Dear 32 year old self: Congrats, you’re about to get pregnant again! For the first time ever, in your eight years of trying, on purpose! You have a beautiful one year old daughter, a handsome (if, albeit, a little chubby) baby boy, a great husband, and you’ve made some dear friends in Ohio. This will be one of the happiest years of your life. But do not, I repeat, do NOT spend an entire week painting and sponging and bordering your kids' bedrooms in your base house. Because as soon as you find out you are pregnant, you will be moved to a bigger house (yeah!) and have to un-do all that hard work decorating you just did, back to “basic housing white walls”. (boo!) Well, ok, technically, *Blaine* will have to un-do it because hey, you’re pregnant, and you can’t be around all those paint fumes, right? But he won’t be happy about it.

Dear 33 year old self: Holy cow, if possible, your life just got even better with the arrival of your third child. Your family is truly complete. You are blessed. Take a deep breath and look around you because really, it doesn’t get much better than this. But for God’s sake, woman, STEP AWAY FROM THE TATTOO PARLORS!!!!

Dear 35 yr old self: Good for you for listening to your instincts about being a surrogate. Look at that beautiful family over there you helped to create and feel happy about that. But, there is a dark wind blowing. Batten down the hatches and get ready.

Dear 36 yr old self: Your husband will be diagnosed with cancer this year. Pretty much, it will suck. For all of you, but mainly for him. But, those wonderful twins you will deliver will remind all of you that there is much more joy in life than hardship. Much, much, more. Try to remember that, because although you don’t see it coming, and will be completely blind-sided, things are about to get worse.

Dear 37 yr old self: You know what’s funny? For some bizarre reason, “37” has always been your favorite number. I have no idea why, it just has. And so you’ve always sort of thought, in the back of your head, that this would be a banner year for you. Instead, your 4-yr old daughter is about to be diagnosed with cancer. This will be the single, hardest thing you’ve ever gone through. Thank goodness for the Internet and online support groups and a little thing called Caringbridge, because the hours and hours you spend on the computer will make things easier, but it will still be the hardest year you’ve ever endured. This year, when you awake each morning, and the first, stomach-clenching thought that goes through your head is “Is my daughter going to die?”, allow yourself two minutes to give in to the fear. Let the anxiety wash over you, feel nauseous, terrified, pray, bargain, plead, cry if you need ---- but then suck it up. She needs you. She needs you to be strong for her, because she is only four years old and doesn’t understand what is happening. And, you better be up to the challenge or I will personally kick your sorry ass all the way to the curb.

Dear 38 yr old self: You made it. It’s not over yet, but you made it through the first horrible, dreadful year. I can see you starting to relax, and life is getting back to a new sort of normal. That’s good; keep it up. Also, you need to somehow acknowledge the unbelievable, amazing, wonderful, incredible shows (plural!) of support you have received from friends, family, and even complete strangers. Their prayers and meals and cards and kind thoughts and packages and good wishes and comments have certainly lifted you up more times than you can count and made this journey easier to bear. Remember to always, always appreciate that. The kindness and caring from strangers make it worth every hour you sit on that computer updating her Caringbridge site. Plus, hey, it’s good therapy. Maybe someday you’ll get your shit together and write a book about it.

Dear 39 yr old self: Your nightly prayers are longer than usual because you have so much thankfulness to give. After twenty-six long, hard months, your daughter will finish her chemotherapy treatment later this year. Although the worry won’t go away completely, you will be so proud of her and all she has accomplished. You are going to give birth to a sweet (although unusually big-headed) baby boy and will get to help make another wonderful couple parents for the first time. You are blessed, blessed, blessed. But don’t get too comfortable, because your husband’s cancer is about to come back and you need to load up for bear again. Also, during your visit home this summer, try to spend as much time as you can with your dad. I know it will be difficult because he will be on a respirator in the hospital, but it will be your last opportunity to tell him you love him, and when those are the last words you ever say to him, and him to you, it will be a gift you treasure always. And losing your Dad will remind you how family is the most important thing in the world and wow, you’re sure spending a lot of **your** precious family time on the computer.

Birthday Letters to Myself -- Part 2

"The Young Adult Years"


Dear 19-yr old self: Fine. You win. Happy? Now you’re saddled with a new car and an even bigger car payment, rent for your apartment, a full-time job, a part-time job, and you’re trying to go to college at night. Does the phrase “burning the candle at both ends” mean anything to you? By the way, that new guy you’re dating is a keeper. But cut him some slack for the dorky haircut, he said he’s going in the military. Also, there will be a very unfortunate St. Patrick’s Day episode this year. Put away the green food coloring NOW, or you will never be able to drink beer again. Not that it's a huge loss, but ugh. You don't want to have to re-live the Night of the Green Ugly every March for the rest of your life.

Dear 20-yr old self: Deep breaths. I know it’s scary, but he’s a wonderful person and will make the best husband ever. And I know you’re worried about moving away from home, but you’ll just have to trust me that except for a few dark years in Los Angeles, it will be an adventure and you’ll really, actually like it, plus, make some of the best friends of your life. Also, be kinder to your parents. They are having a rough go of it and it would be nice if you weren’t so self-absorbed.

Dear 21-yr old self: Although I know you think you have to work to help make ends meet, you need to understand that this is the first and only time your husband will be knowingly stationed somewhere for four years. There is a four year university in that town. You do the math. Go back to school. I don’t CARE that you don’t know what you want to be when you grow up --- just pick something and stick with it!

Dear 24-yr old self: Pat yourself on the back for getting up and going to the gym on a regular basis -- don’t stop! As “big” as you think you are, what you weigh now will one day be your “goal” weight. Keep working out! But lose the Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. And lose the naiveté that the first time you have sex without birth control you will get pregnant – you’re just setting yourself up for a lot of disappointment and heartache.

Dear 26 yr old self: Slacker. What is that, like *another* fifteen pounds you’ve put on in the last year? What happened to going to the gym? And no, two, two-year degrees do NOT equal a four-year degree. Good grief, what am I going to do with you?

Dear 27 yr old self: I know you’ve been trying for almost three years to have a baby, and you’re beginning to despair that it will never happen. I’m not going to ply you with platitudes about “just relax” or “all in God’s plan” because goodness knows you’ll hear that enough from others. What I would like to remind you is bitter + resentment = ugly.

Dear 28 year old self: Traveling to a foreign country and getting a tattoo from someone who doesn’t speak English is not really a good idea. I’m just saying.

Dear 29 year old self: You are scaring away your friends and family with your baby obsession. Take a deep breath and trust that there is a plan. Otherwise you will wind up alone, in a rocking chair, with nineteen cats, complaining to yourself, because no-one else can stand to be around you. And getting another tattoo to correct the first bad tattoo? Equally bad idea.

Dear 30 year old self: Later this year, God and an angel-on-earth named M. are going to place your daughter in your arms. The circumstances will not be ideal, and if you’re not careful, you will have such a chip on your shoulder that you will not cherish those first few months like you should. When you look at her beautiful, perfect face, focus on the “how amazings” instead of worrying about the “what ifs”. Also, much to your shock and surprise, you will get pregnant later this year. Although your OB won’t step up to the plate and tell you to your face, I will: Gaining sixty pounds is NOT the best thing you can do. You will never, ever, ever, EVER lose all of it again, so just don’t gain it in the first place, ok? Also, celebrating your 30th birthday with another tattoo? What the hell is wrong with you???

Belated Birthday Letters to Myself

(Idea blatantly stolen from The Cheeky Lotus, Aug 8, 2007)

"The School Years Edition"

Dear Kindergarten Self: Just accept the nap and quit fighting it. Believe it or not, when you grow up, you would like nothing more than for some nice lady to give you milk, a cookie, and then a soft mat to sleep on for a few hours every afternoon.

Dear Second Grade Self: I realize you call it a “game”, but stop chasing the boys at recess. And especially, stop kicking them in the shins when you catch them. Because one of these days a boy named Brian Archer is going to turn around and kick you back and guess what? That shit hurts. So just stop it already. And remember, the retainer is your friend.

Dear Fifth Grade Self: You are going to take part in a spelling bee this year, and you are going to mess up the word “lace”. Not only will you be annoyed with yourself, and embarrassed, but this will be the starting point for a life-long fear of public speaking, which will put a rather large crimp in your karaoke fantasies. Learn how to spell lace. Get over your paranoid, resulting phobia of microphones.

Dear Seventh Grade Self: Dear Lord you are embarrassing. And extremely pathetic. Is there any boy within a hundred-mile radius that you do NOT have a crush on? Get a grip, and put your nose back in a book. Also, you’re single-handedly destroying the ozone with all the hairspray you’re using to maintain your perfect feathered hairdo.

Dear Eighth Grade Self: This is the year you start putting on weight, after that disastrous church camp experience when you came home certain you had been starved all week. Get a handle on it NOW otherwise you will fight this, and despise it, for the next forty years. Also, your parents paid a lot of money for that French horn; take better care of it.

Dear Ninth Grade Self: Stop chasing boys. Seriously, the way you act makes me cringe. Dork.

Dear Tenth Grade Self: Well, what do you know, you actually caught one. Appreciate him, because he is a good guy and will set the bar very, very high for every relationship that follows. But lose the poodle perm.

Dear Twelfth Grade Self: Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. That full-time after-school job you JUST HAVE TO HAVE will cut into a lot of your senior activities. The minimum wage you are earning now will not be worth the sacrifice. Slow down. Enjoy it. All those obnoxious people who keep telling you this is the best time of your life? Well, they might not be **exactly** right, but they have a point. You are running as fast as you can toward adulthood and you will regret it later.

Dear College Freshman Self: Hello, weren’t you listening? You are going down in academic flames in school because you’re so busy driving back and forth to your job, and working full-time, because you need the money, to make your car payment, because you have to have a car, to get to and from work. This is what adults mean by “vicious circle” and if you don’t snap out of it, you’ll wind up quitting after your freshman year. And believe me, it will be one of the biggest regrets of your life. Your parents paid a lot of money for you to live in that dorm, so make some friends and enjoy it.

Lucky Charms

As you know, we’ve been gearing up for Blaine’s possible retirement from the military and our subsequent move back to OK. Although we didn’t have any of the teeny tiny specifics ironed out, like whether or not he would have a J.O.B., and whether or not we would have any M.O.N.E.Y., we were hopeful things would work out. We had a wonderful house basically fall into our laps last summer, and call it what you will … fate, destiny, providence, God (I prefer to call it God) but we trusted that the employment/retirement situation would pan out as well.

For the past few months, we had pretty much accepted that the kids and I were going to move without Blaine, and he would stay behind to get our Georgia house ready to sell, and to continue looking for a job as best he could. He loves the military and had hoped to stay active duty, but when the spring jobs list for Tinker AFB became available a few weeks ago, the only job opening they had listed was for a veterinarian. And while he had a cat when he was younger, and we actually have a dog now, and he and I dressed up like Holstein cows one year for Halloween, I don’t think any of that makes him qualified to take physical CARE of animals. So, we were resigned to just waiting, and hoping.

Blaine got a call on Thursday. The Air Force has given him a job. At Tinker. In a career field much, MUCH closer to his training than veterinary school. And he begins the end of this year.**

Which means, our family will leave Georgia together. We will move into our new house, together. Blaine will get to remain active duty, which will not only count towards his eventual retirement, but also means he and Kendrie will get to keep their health care with Tricare, which is beyond huge. And by working at the base for a few years now, he will hopefully have himself in a good position to find a civil service job when he *does* retire.

We are so blessed and lucky and fortunate, that I keep looking around for that leprechaun guy from the Lucky Charms box and expect him to be sitting right next to me, grinning. And while I try not to sit around in my “poor, poor me” pants too often, I have to say that after the last few years we have had, I am greatly enjoying things going our way for a change.

Yep, Lucky Charms. Milk for your cereal, anyone?

**Bearing in mind that this *is* the military we’re talking about, until they get the last box loaded on the moving truck (and occasionally even after that point) there is always the minuscule chance plans will change. But we’re about 99 percent sure this is going to happen, and 100 percent thrilled about it. OK, well, maybe 99 percent thrilled because a small part of us will really miss Georgia (especially part of Kendrie … a Nicholas-shaped part, to be specific).

I’ll give you Two Dollars for that

Our Father, who art at the community yard sale, help me not to feel offended if someone says my crap isn’t worth the price I have on it. If they’re shopping at yard sales, chances are good they’re reselling it on ebay or at consignment stores and it’s nothing personal. Forgive me the grime I stirred up going through my old things in the garage, for thine is the kingdom of dust motes and sneezing. Give me the patience to remember some people simply love the thrill of bargaining, and it’s not necessarily because they are cheap bastards. So forgive me my trespasses for thinking they are. Lead me not into the temptation of my neighbor’s sale, but deliver me straight to the bank if I actually make any money. Thine is also the kingdom where the kids cooperate running their donut stand, the power if they do it without fighting over who gets to pour the juice, and the glory if they in fact make a profit at it.

Most of all, deliver me from the hell of the garage sale, forever and ever, or at least until this time next year.
Amen.

Gifts

Best gift I got for my birthday yesterday:

Tickets for the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's 2007 Winter Concert Tour, woohoo baby! (even if those online ticket vendors do totally take forever and I am fairly confident that despite checking "best available" we actually are seated five rows behind the janitor's bathroom at the back of the arena, near the place where they store the rat traps, cleaning supplies, and hot dog buns.)

Worst gift I got for my birthday yesterday:

An invitation in the mail to join Weight Watchers. I'm going to hope that was part of a national promotion or something, and not a personal response to one of these Internet pictures of myself on this blog that a WW representative might have seen and thought, "Wow, that chubby girl could use our help!"

Cheese or Pepperoni?

Today is my birthday. I decided to treat myself to an extra hours sleep this morning, but only fifteen minutes into it, Blaine woke me up, certain I was oversleeping and that by waking me, he was doing me a favor. Instead of being annoyed, however, I was grateful, because he interrupted a dream in which he had asked me for a divorce, and in order to support myself and the children, I had to get a job working at the local pizza parlor.

Um, that sucked.

And was “not quite” how I planned to start my birthday. I sure hope I don’t open my present from him later today and find annulment papers inside.

The Faces of Eight

Apparently, none of the faces of eight believe in smiling with their teeth showing.















And if you want to see more beautiful faces, go here and watch this. Then spread the word and pass it on.

Worst Job Ever

All this talk about winning and losing reminds me of a story about Blaine, shortly after he graduated college. Like I’ve mentioned previously, he attended college through his university’s ROTC program so the Air Force would help pay some of his school expenses. Since he is one of those annoying people who has always known what he wanted to be when he grew up (an Air Force officer) the four year commitment to the military in exchange was no problem, but was just what he wanted.

The problem, actually, was that the military was “full” at the time of Blaine’s graduation. There are only “x” number of slots in the Air Force at any given time, and there weren’t enough empty 2nd Lt. slots to make way for all the new, incoming graduates. We had gotten married the week after he graduated, fully expecting we would get orders and take off for the wild blue yonder immediately. Instead, the Air Force was experiencing a glut, and put all the graduates, from all over the country, into a sort of hold status. People still had to go active duty and serve their commitments, of course, they just had to wait until the guys ahead of them either got promoted or discharged, so there would be room in the Air Force for them. (On a side note, a few years later they couldn’t get them in fast enough, and then a few years after that they had too MANY officers and held an involuntary RIF {Reduction in Force} meaning they kicked perfectly qualified people out. My goodness, you’d think running around in circles chasing tail like that would exhaust whoever it is that is supposed to plan for this sort of thing. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that a job in the military is for all time secure, because that is not always the case. Just ask a large number of our 1992 friends and acquaintances.)

Back to our story -- that wait time before Blaine could go active-duty wound up being eight months. He graduated in May, but wouldn’t begin training until the next February. So there we were, newly married, with bills for rent and utilities and car payments like every other newly married couple on the planet, but Blaine only had a part-time job, stocking groceries, which he had worked while he was in college. Living with his parents during school, and getting money from the Air Force, had kept his expenses manageable, but now that he was married and living with me, well, part-time minimum wage wasn’t going to cut it. I had bills to pay and shoes to buy, and Lord knows I didn’t make much more than minimum wage, either. This was that time in every married couple’s life where dinner consists of heating up a can of Dinty Moore beef stew --- partly because I couldn’t cook, and partly because that was all we could afford. Didn’t go through that phase yourself? Then be very, very grateful. Blaine can’t look at a can of Dinty Moore to this day without feeling nauseous. He needed a full time job, preferably one with benefits, and one that would free him from the reign of Dinty Moore.

But here was the kicker, for Blaine, and every other officer-on-hold. Yes, they were college graduates, and would have loved to work in their respective career fields. But, they all knew they would be leaving for the military in eight months. Blaine’s undergraduate degree was in aerospace engineering; what kind of engineering firm would hire him, train him, invest in him, and than happily bid him adieu eight months later?

So, long story short, he wound up working on an assembly line making beer can lids. The hours sucked (6 pm until 6 am) and he said it was the most mind-numbingly boring work he’d ever done, and that includes the stint as a bus boy at Del Rancho when he was thirteen. But, the pay was decent, and it was full time, so we were grateful. And in eight months, when it was time to leave, he and the beer company representatives parted on good terms because they were accustomed to a more transient work force.

Now, Blaine was certainly not alone in his situation of needing full-time employment for a temporary time. A few guys here and there continued to live with their parents after graduation, waiting …. A few were able to keep their college jobs and make ends meet. But lots of guys, especially guys who were married or living on their own, had to find "in the meantime" jobs to make enough money to support themselves during that time.

He finally went active, and once we got settled at our base and started socializing, inevitably, at every get together or function, the talk would turn to the wait after graduation, and what people did to support themselves. Because of course, the ROTC scholarship money dried up the day after graduation. And almost always, the conversation devolved into a “who had the worst job” competition.

Some guys had worked sales; some guys did manual labor; some guys worked retail. One guy we met had worked in a fish hatchery, but he actually liked it. Most, however, were convinced that whatever job they had was the worst job ever.

It always cracked me up to hear Blaine respond with, “No, I’m pretty sure *I* had the worst job ever.”

“Oh, yeah? What did you do? It can’t be worse than selling microwaves/mowing lawns/filing papers in my dad’s insurance agency/etc.”

And Blaine would say, with a totally straight face, “I worked on an assembly line. Standing on my feet in twelve-hour shifts. Overnight. In an un-air-conditioned warehouse. Making beer can lids.”

And yep, every time, everyone agreed, he was the winner of the worst job ever.

Then, the next May, the same thing happened to the next group of graduates. Eventually they also went active duty and many young, new officers arrived at our base. Once again, at parties and social functions, the “worst job” competition would flare up. And even against this new group, Blaine was still the winner.

Until the night we met our new neighbors Dave and his wife Amy, who went on to become very good friends of ours. Everyone was talking, yadda yadda, and Dave mentioned that while waiting after graduation, he had held “the worst job ever.”

Blaine went on to tell his tale, blah blah ….. “making beer can lids.”

Dave looked him in the eye, and said, “I was a ticket taker.”

And Blaine scoffed, “Ticker taker? How bad can that be?”

Dave paused,

And then replied: “In a porn theater.”

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a NEW WINNER!!!

Please come to the podium to collect your prize: a jumbo can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew.

Eight

"Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birthday, dear Kendrie,

Happy Birthday, to you."

(pictures to follow; she's waaaaaay too sweaty and stinky from her new po-go stick for me to take any now)

We are Obviously Clueless

Scene: Dinner at a restaurant



Kendrie: I need to go use the bathroom.

Kristie: You just went to the bathroom.

Kendrie: I know. I need to go again.

Kristie: Can’t you hold it?

Kendrie: No, I need to go now.

Blaine: Now? Right now? I just took you five minutes ago.

Kendrie: Dad. I have a platter problem!

Winning. And Losing.

A lot has been mentioned, especially by the people here in this town that are so proud of them, of the exemplary show of good sportsmanship put on by the Warner Robins Little League team after they won the World Series championship game. You can go here to see it, if you haven’t.

This team could have easily lined up and done the traditional hand-slap down the line, but instead chose to show their respect and compassion for their opponent in what appears to be a kind, sincere, good-hearted gesture.

On the other end of the spectrum is the display by a few of the boys on the Minnesota team, who lost to Arizona and then spit in their hands before walking through the line. Of course, if you’ve been reading this blog very long at all, you’ll know I’m not ABOUT to point any fingers at that one, although I would NEVER name any names (Kellen Escoe). The only difference is those Minnesota boys were caught on camera.

But I was so impressed with how the boys from Georgia handled themselves, and the empathy and maturity they displayed. Also, so sad for the boys on the Japan team. Every time I watch the video on YouTube (and yes, I keep watching it because I’m a glutton for punishment) I tear up when I see those Japanese boys cry at the end. They played just as hard, worked just as diligently, and wanted to win just as badly. By the end of the video, I don’t know if I’m crying due to the thrill of the home run, because I feel so bad for the other team, or out of pride for what our hometown boys did. Maybe I’m just a big fat loser who needs hormone therapy or something, whatever.

I get that not everyone can win. I get that *somebody* has to lose, so that somebody else can win. I just hate that it has to happen to children.

I certainly remember instances in my life when I didn’t win something --- who doesn’t? When I wasn’t elected cheerleader, or wasn’t invited to a birthday party, or didn’t get a part in a school play, or a particular job, or a particular BOY (ahem). Inevitably, bigger and better things happened instead, and it usually wound up being a good thing. But I still remember the sting of losing. It stinks, no matter your age.

This week are the Student Council elections at my children’s elementary school. Any interested 4th or 5th grader can run for class representative. Brayden and Kellen both brought home forms last week asking for permission to run, and I had to tell them both no. Although we are not exactly sure when we’re moving, we do know it will be sometime this school year. I explained to them that Student Council was a serious responsibility, and if they knew in advance they wouldn’t be able to follow through the entire year, then it wasn’t right to run. They were understanding about it, if a bit disappointed. Or, as Kellen put it, “Bummer! Because they get to have a pool party at the end of the year!” (Good to see his sense of civic duty is finely honed.)

Last week all the classes held an open election for any kid who was interested. The top three in each class have spent this week “campaigning”, which pretty much consists of putting up pictures and signs in the hallways. Big, colorful posters in the school with “Vote for Taylor/Kelly/Ashley!” in markers and glitter, and yearbook headshot photos atop Uncle Sam’s body, with an “I need YOU to vote for me!” type slogans. You can clearly see which kids had grown ups to help with the posters, and which kids did it themselves. All of them seen earnest, and sincere, and hopeful.

And that breaks my heart a little bit, because I know later today when they hold elections, some of these kids will lose. Elementary school seems so YOUNG for any kid to discover his classmates voted for someone else. It feels harsh. Just, just .... disappointing …. and harsh. What is wrong with me, that I can’t simply be happy for the winners, but instead feel so guilty and sad for the ones who won’t win? At least they’re TRYING -- they’ve got the courage to put themselves out there and they should be proud of that. But deep down, I cringe a little that they can’t all win.

Kellen told me this morning he didn’t know who to vote for in his class. All three kids running are his friends, and he wants them *all* to win. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?

And although I know losing is a part of life, and perhaps it toughens them up a bit, and that it’s going to happen eventually no matter how much I try and protect them, I must confess that I’m grateful for now my children have been spared. There will be plenty of time for trying, and sometimes failing, and sometimes succeeding, later.

I just hope when the time comes for my kids to try something and fail --- lose --- that their opponent is as classy as those little league boys were last weekend.

Proud

Why, yes, that *is* our hometown!

We don't know any of the boys on the team -- we don't even know anyone who knows any of the boys on the team. One of the boys went to the same elementary school as my kids several years ago, but he was older. I doubt we could manage six degrees of separation even if we tried, but that doesn't stop us from being obnoxiously, territorially PROUD of these kids.

Don't know what I'm talking about? Go to YouTube and do a search for 2007 Little League World Champions.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a parade to go watch.

Pathetically Dull

Grandma Betty flew back home today. For the first time, in almost five years, she arrived and left in one piece, with no calamities or ER visits during her stay. She didn’t catch the flu, pull a muscle in her back and lay in bed for a week, slice off part of her thumb, pass any kidney stones, or have surgery. ALL of which have happened the last few times she has visited. We didn’t have to change her flight plans because she was vomiting, or laid up on muscle relaxants, or because I had an epidural headache, or because Blaine got a staph infection. Her dog didn’t die while she was here, my grandpa didn’t die while she was here, none of my kids went in the hospital while she was here. (Yes. All of those things have happened before, too.) She came, she stayed just as long as we planned, and she went home right on schedule.

I have a feeling this trip might go down in history as the most boring visit ever.

The end at last, the end at last. Thank God Almighty, the end at last!

Yes, I readily confess that the recapping of the vacation has taken four times as long as the vacation itself. I think subconsciously I didn’t want to reach the end, because then I would have to admit it was over, and give up on the fantasy I still have that someone will show up at my house, as if I were still on the cruise, and bring me food and put my napkin in my lap and make my bed and leave little chocolate mints on my pillow. Alas, it’s not to be. It appears that I don’t have Blaine trained well enough, and sadly, I can’t afford a valet of my own.

So, I concede defeat, and am sharing the pictures of our last day of vacation. Well, technically, not the last-last day, but I doubt you want to see pictures of us driving to Anchorage and stopping for pizza and sitting in the airport waiting for our flight, going to the airport gift shop when we remembered one person for whom we forgot to buy a souvenir. Or, pictures of the mess the stewardess made when she dropped the tray of ice cream toppings on the floor of our first class cabin and suddenly, our first class “ice cream sundaes” were downgraded to “a bowl of vanilla ice cream”. I mean seriously, when am I EVER going to fly first class again? And she DROPPED the chocolate sauce???? Geez. The injustice of it all.

Our last day in Seward, we took what was supposed to be a nine-hour boat tour of the Kenai Northwestern Fjords. This was the trip I affectionately refer to as PukeFest 2007, and because of the bad weather and rough waters, they had to re-route our tour and cut it short a bit. We weren’t complaining, however, because everything we saw was beautiful, AND they reimbursed enough of our money (totally unnecessary, in my opinion, but appreciated nonetheless) for Blaine, Keith, Renee and I to treat ourselves to a lovely dinner out that night.

We drove ourselves to the harbor and parked the car, then waited at the tour offices until time to board the boat. It was a pretty good sized boat and I’m sure could have held around 100 people (?) In the inside cabin, there were benches along both sides near the windows, and movie-theater like seats in the middle. Up front there were more seats, and I think on the top as well, although I never ventured up there. I’m all about the view, but I’m also all about staying warm and dry. Although once the people around us started in with the retching and gagging and heaving into little bags, my sympathetic-gag-reflex and I were out on the open back area of the boat, in the fresh air, for most of the remainder of the trip.

We did see some great scenery and wildlife, though:



Had the sun been shining I’m sure it would have been even more beautiful, but even overcast, the views were gorgeous.



Alice Glacier. I think …. Is that right? Alice?



Well, whatever it was called, it was pretty. No calving like we saw at Glacier Bay, though, so a bit of a disappointment. Funny how quickly you become immune to it all ….. like, “Oh, *only* a glacier? No active calving? Don’t waste my time…. Hey, are those complimentary cookies I smell baking?”


We saw lots of wildlife this day, as well:


A porpoise



Sea lions.



A mama otter with her baby on her back. I know the image is pretty crappy, but you’ll just have to believe me, it was neat to see.



Sea lions swimming.



Ooh, look! A whale flipper!



Ah, yes. Yet another of the 800 shots I took of whale humps.



This was my beautiful-moment-view. The moment on the back of the boat when the sun peeked out for just a brief minute, and the sky was blue and the white birds were all over this rock, and Trans-Siberian Orchestra was playing on my ipod, and all was right with the world.



Lastly, the money shot. The one I was hoping for the entire cruise, which I didn’t get until the very last day --- a whale breaching the water. I did crop and zoom a little for this picture, but I would estimate the whale was no more than 100 feet from our boat when he put on this show.

It was amazing. The entire trip was amazing. And now, with this entry, it's officially over. I guess I need to buck up and remind myself of one of my favorite phrases, which sums up this vacation that we saved and planned and waited so long for:

Don’t be sad that it’s over, be glad that it happened at all.

Or something like that. You know when I plagiarize people I never get it exactly right.

Odds and Ends

First of all, thanks to all of you for your kind thoughts and well wishes for Blaine (my gosh, I should macro that phrase, since I seem to need it every few weeks on this site and could save myself the trouble of typing it over and over.) We got home yesterday afternoon and for the most part, things went smoothly. It wouldn’t be “Blaine”, of course, without at least a little bit of excitement --- he already had the teeth yanked because they were rubbing on the skin graft and the surgeons don’t want anything touching the graft for four weeks, to allow it to heal properly. Anything. As in, at all. He is on a total liquid diet for four weeks; Boost and smoothies. The nutritionist did say anything I cook for dinner can be put in a blender, but gag. Can you imagine drinking chicken pot pie through a straw? Blaine said no, thanks, he’ll stick with the nutritional supplements and hope for the best. And in the meantime, we had a quick moment of thankfulness that he got the flu last summer and we didn’t have this surgery when the doctors wanted to, right before the cruise. Can you imagine going on a 7-day cruise and not being able to eat an entire thing???

He also blew out an IV and got a forearm full of Demerol --- imagine that, him with his butterfly fairy princess veins and all. It did provide a little levity to the moment when they decided to put the next IV in his foot and tape it to his leg. Blaine is not exactly a hairy, hairy man, but that tape hurts when they rip it off, so he asked for a minute to have time to shave away some of the leg hair first, before they attached the tape. He proceeded to shave several bald patches into various spots on his leg, and looked a bit like a dog with mange …. Hair here, hair not there. When I asked, “Why don’t you just shave the whole leg?” he replied, “Because it would look funny.”

Um, yeah. Because walking around with bald patches on one leg looks sooooo normal otherwise. Add to that the bright red, raw patch of flesh where they *took* the skin for the graft, and you’d think one leg had been caught in a house-fire.

He’s out of the Mick Jagger phase, and now looks like he lost a bar fight, or perhaps had a car accident and hit his mouth on the steering wheel. The doctor talked to us about the *next* surgery they can offer, a very high-tech event where they get 3-D images of his head, getting a sci-fi mold impression of the side of his face that is healthy. They would then build an internal mask, a mirror image of the side of his face that is normal, and then peel back his face and insert it under the skin, like an implant. The goal, of course, is to have the right side of his face look just like the left. Blaine admits he is self-conscious about the dent (for lack of a better word) where his cheekbone and gums used to be, and where all the radiation atrophied and contractured (is that even a word?) the muscles and tissues of his face. I told him he’s just as handsome to me now as he was when he first got cancer, and if people are so rude as to stare that’s *their* problem, not his, and geez, aren’t you ready to be DONE with all this stuff???? He agrees that yes, there reaches a point where you just have to say enough, and he thinks he is there. So I think we’ll take a wait and see approach to further reconstruction. Maybe in a few years, when he has recovered better physically and mentally, he’ll be up for another go at it.

In the meantime, I wanted to address a few things in the comments section:

Marie, you’re exactly right, I hadn’t even thought to include that four and half years of Blaine having cancer is long enough for his daughter to be diagnosed with leukemia, go through her treatment, and be off treatment for almost two years, kicking butt and taking names in the meantime. That is perhaps the best marker of all, that she is preparing to be a participant in the Survivor’s Clinic at Scottish Rite, something we can do when she hits the two-year mark. Go, Kendrie!

Rita, I’ve actually done three surrogacies, and the second one I carried twins. Hence the six kids. I’m probably going to share more about this soon, since several people have been kind enough to ask. I’m still mulling it over in my head, since I don’t want to do anything to violate anyone else’s privacy, and surrogacy stories are pretty intimate things.

I can’t remember who asked, but that butt-ugly orange fish in Alaska was called a Yellow-Eyed Rock Fish. Hideous, wasn’t it?

And last but not least, to Anonymous in the comment section --- Blow me. First of all, yes, this site is all about me. Guess what? It’s my blog, I can do that. It’s why I play the song “All About Me” so often; I don't care that you think music on a site is obnoxious. It’s why when I sign off here I think I’ll check to see if I can buy the domain all about me dot com, and why I erect billboards and shrines in my honor up and down the eastern seaboard. If you don’t like it, don’t read here.

Secondly, if you choose to not only read here but leave rude comments, for God’s sake, have the courage to sign your name. And for the love of pete, purchase a dictionary or thesaurus or perhaps even better, a Hooked on Phonics course you could complete. Because your mis-spelling and improper use of ALLCAPS and excessive application of exclamation points are annoying. So blow me.

Third, this is *my* personal site. I do not have advertising on this site because my intent was never to make money here, or try to lure readers in from anywhere. It is a personal forum which began with my daughter’s Caringbridge site, a wonderful service that allowed me to share and vent and purge during one of the most difficult times of my life. It then segued into this blog, just for fun. I write for my own personal enjoyment, and if a few people enjoy reading it, then all the better. But I do not put my personal life out there for your criticisms and critique. I didn’t ask you to come here and read, nor do I need to know that you think “IAM FUL OF MYSELFF!!!”

Lastly, I am tired of deleting you. So, here. I’ve mentioned you, and you’ve gotten the attention you so obviously want. But, in fact, you are quickly taking the fun out of this blog for me. So blow me. Buy yourself Hooked on Phonics. And then go away.

More than a job ...

When Blaine and I first met, he was attending the University of Oklahoma and was a cadet in their ROTC program. My dad served four years in the service, but that was before I was born and he never really talked about it, so I was unfamiliar with the military or anything that went along with it. I asked Blaine what made him want to join the Air Force, and he said it's just what he'd always wanted to do. He was one of those obnoxious people who always knew what they wanted to be when they grew up and how to make it happen -- in his case, an Air Force officer. I asked, "If you weren't joining the Air Force, what would you do?" And he replied, "Join the Navy; they'd be my second choice." So I asked the obvious, "The Navy? What for? You hate to get water up your nose. Why not the Army? Or the Marines?"

To which Blaine gave the respectful and considerate reply: "Are you out of your fucking mind? Have you seen how much those guys have to work out, and what kind of physical shape they have to be in? No thanks!!"

Now, that's not to say the Air Force and Navy guys are slackers -- they're not. They have physical fitness requirements and timed runs and weight restrictions, just like all the branches of service. And prior to getting cancer, Blaine was in great shape, working out at least three or four times a week. It's just that, well, he's got a point. Those dudes in the Army and Marines? While I'm sure it's not 100 percent true (surely they have some members on the Fat Boy Plan, as well?) for the most part, those guys are in some serious shape. It's like Blaine explained to me, all military servicemen and women have important jobs, it's just that their jobs (meaning Army and Marines) are often more physically demanding in nature, and they HAVE to be in good shape.

Nowhere has it ever been more obvious to me that there is a difference in the way the Air Force and the Army approach their physical fitness regimes than the many times we have been here at Ft. Gordon. Normally we are entrenched in the Air Force lifestyle but here, we are in a hospital on an Army base, and I can drive nowhere on the base, at any time of the day or night, without witnessing group physical training and exercises of some kind, some place. First thing in the morning, squadrons of men and women are running in formation, shouting along in cadence. Entire platoons jogging around the base with heavy rucksacks on their backs. Today, the base emergency departments were out on a soccer field, doing calisthenics together, the fire trucks and police cars parked around the perimeter of the field. Everywhere I turn I see active duty Army people in work out uniforms .... black shorts and gray t-shirts with ARMY emblazoned across the chest. It's a young, healthy, virile community --- and they make me feel fat and old.

This morning, I had gone into the PX (Post Exchange, which sounds funny to me because we call it a BX for Base Exchange .... whatever) to pick up a few things before heading over to the hospital. I was standing in line, and these two girls walked past. Two young, pretty, active-duty Army girls. Both in their work out gear, with their fresh faces, hair in ponytails, All-American beauty just oozing out of their pores.

I watched them walk past, and felt discouraged. Look at them, with their great figures and youthful energy ... and then look at .... me. Ugh.

I looked at their flat stomachs and thought, "I can't compete with that. I've birthed six babies, for heaven's sake, six LITTLE PEOPLE have taken up temporary residence in my mid-section at one time or another. My stomach will never be that flat again, short of surgical intervention."

Then I looked at their perky breasts and thought, "I'll never have that again. I've nursed babies and had breasts pumps hooked up to me and in between the babies and machines, all the perkiness has been plum taken out of mine. I've got East-West Breasts now --- meaning when I lie on my back, they go east and west."

Then I looked at their legs, tanned and strong and muscular, extending down from their exercise shorts and thought, "My legs will never look like that again. Hell, they didn't look like that when I was young, let alone now, with this cellulite and saddlebags and varicose veins running all down the back."

And I stood there for a minute and thought, "Damn. Damn, getting old sucks. How can I compete against age and gravity and metabolism and pregnancy and childbirth? I have the body of a 40-yr old woman, and its depressing."

But the longer I stood there, the more I got to thinking --- "OK, yeah, so I have the body of a 40-yr old woman ... it's a body that has done some amazing things, like having babies and nurturing them, and I'm still getting around pretty darn good, if I just stop and think about it. I mean, it's not like I need a cane, or have to buy two airplane seats. You know, why am I giving myself grief? Those girls, with their narrow waists and tight butts and flat stomachs ... why should I feel bad that I'm not in as good a shape? I'm probably 20 years older than they are ---- I am NOT going to feel bad about the effects that Mother Nature has had on my body, especially when age and genetics catches up to everyone at some point -- it's totally not my fault!"

Then, had to be honest with myself, and acknowledge I was having this mental conversation while standing in line for Cinnabon. And that the last time I attended an aerobics class, Kendrie was still in diapers.

Hmmmm, maybe age and genetics aren't the only factor.

Wonder if it's too late to join the Army? I hear they've got a kick-ass physical fitness program.

Jumpin' Jack Flash

This will be short and sweet, considering we were up at 4am this morning to get to the hospital on time, and it's now after 10pm and I am still here, and for one thing, I'm too old for this crap and for another thing, what is it about sitting in a hospital waiting room that is so exhausting? Must have been all that strenous walking back and forth from the vending machines while Blaine was in surgery --- I'm a nervous eater, you know.

It went well, though ---- lasted about four hours and they were able to accomplish exactly what they hoped. The area on his leg where they took the skin graft is sore, and of course his face hurts. And let's be honest, looks funny because they had to hyper-stretch the repair area to account for potential tissue shrinkage (NOT the same kind of shrinkage they discussed on Seinfeld...)

He looks like Mick Jagger. Mick Jagger with four cans of Skoal tucked in his upper lip. Mick Jagger with four cans of Skoal tucked in his upper lip, which just received collagen injections. But hey! He's got teeth attached to this temporary prosthetic device, which is sort of cool. I totally wasn't expecting that, and would have been pleasantly surprise were I not so shocked by his Mick Jagger on steroids lips.

I'm going back to the hotel now to get some sleep. I'm a little scared to kiss him goodbye, though, for fear his face might explode.

Jinxes

Thanks to those of you who’ve inquired about Blaine and wished him luck during this week’s surgery. We’re leaving tomorrow to drive to Augusta, which is three hours away --- not far enough to really be considered “far”, but too far for me to drive back and forth every day, hence the reason Grandma Betty and her magical wad of bribing dollar bills were summoned.

Now, if you know me at all by now, and I think that you do, you know that I am the Queen of Jinxing Things, and through the years I’ve learned it’s just best, with regards to Blaine and the ongoing Saga That Is His Medical Fiasco, to keep my trap shut. Because if a situation can be jinxed, I am the one who will inadvertently jinx it with my big fat mouth. I’ve learned in the past that things rarely go as planned and it’s probably better if I don’t set goals or broadcast timelines, especially out loud, since Blaine has single-handedly redefined the concept of “one step forward, two steps back” through the years. Yes, that’s right. I said YEARS. Did you know it’s been FOUR AND A HALF YEARS since his original cancer diagnosis?

Let’s see …. What can happen in the span of four and a half years? Let’s think of a few, just for comparison’s sake, shall we? A person could purchase, and pay off, a car. Begin, and graduate from, college. Meet a guy, date, get engaged, get married, get divorced. Or, assuming you stay married, get pregnant, give birth, and celebrate both the first, second, and third birthdays. When Blaine was in the hospital, having the very first, very, very first-est ever surgery, to remove the original tumor ---- we were sitting in his hospital room watching television when they announced we had gone to war with Iraq. So as long as our country has been at war, Blaine has had cancer, or been struggling with the after-effects of the reconstruction complications caused by his cancer and radiation.

Wow. That pretty much sucks.

But! OK, here goes. {tossing salt over my shoulder, crossing my fingers, holding my four-leaf clover, rubbing my genie lamp and my rabbit’s foot, nailing a horseshoe over my door, stepping over the cracks on the sidewalk, finding a heads up penny, breaking the long half of the wishbone, seeing a shooting star, crossing my fingers, and last, but not least, knocking on this piece of shit computer desk …. }

This should be Blaine’s very last major surgery.

I know!

Who ever though we would see the day where that goal was reached???? Where we could say those words aloud??? Ok, yeah, I know, we’ve actually said it several times in the past already and there’s always a complication or two. He always winds up catching the flu or getting an infection or needing a trach or having a tissue failure or, oh, I don’t know, getting his freaking cancer back ---- but we really think this might be IT this time!

This surgery is to separate the part of his cheek that adhered too tightly to his gums after the last graft surgery. The graft surgery that happened unexpectedly when his second free flap surgery wasn’t completely successful. The second free-flap surgery that happened unexpectedly when his first free-flap surgery wasn’t completely successful ---- you see how this is going, right?

But assuming he doesn’t have any complications, assuming he doesn’t adversely react to the anesthesia, or get food poisoning from the hospital food, or pick up another staph infection, or slip in the hotel parking lot and fall and break his freaking ankle (!! Crap, I just jinxed it, now he’s going to break his ankle!!) then this should be the last surgery.

He’ll still have quite a bit of prosthodontic work to be done before he has teeth permanently attached to his posts/implants. But at long last, he’ll be able to begin resting and recuperating from the fifteen surgeries and five weeks of radiation he’s undergone since this thing started. It’s been six months since his last surgery (Remember, he had surgery scheduled for last April but it was postponed when he got the flu like a weenie) and I don’t think he has felt this good physically since the whole ordeal began. This break has been a good thing.

So, if you could wish us luck, and keep him in your prayers just one more time, it would mean a lot to us. I feel like maybe, hopefully, possibly, for the first time, we can see an inkly, twinkly, sparkly, smidgen of light at the end of his tunnel. It would be fabulous to think we are nearing the end.

Or, you know, the nurse taking care of him this week will walk down the hall towards his room to take his vitals, slip on a banana peel, fall to the ground, accidentally pushing an empty wheelchair as she goes down, which will roll into Blaine’s room, crashing into the wall holding the Sharps container, which will fall on Blaine’s head, causing all the used needles contaminated with infectious diseases to rain down upon him, and the one filled with flesh eating bacteria will accidentally puncture his skin, causing his outer layers of soft tissue to become infected and fall off, which will require an extensive stay in the hospital while he receives life-sustaining, supportive care for organ and respiratory failure.

And I will kill the nurse. And go to jail for the rest of my life. In which case all my future blogger updates will be written from solitary confinement at the state penitentiary.

Oh, crap. Did I just jinx myself???

Po-

Go!!!!!

Two Things

Awhile back, someone asked me in the comment section if I would mind sharing some of my scrapbook work sometime. I am no where near the caliber of scrapbooker whose work you can find in books and magazines and all over the web, but it’s a hobby I enjoy and am always complaining that I can’t seem to make the time to do it often enough. Perhaps if I took the time I spend *complaining* and used it actually *scrapping* the problem would solve itself.

I finished this layout a few days ago and liked it, so I thought I would share it with you. It accomplishes two things:

1. Lets me give you yet another peek into our private lives (oh, joy for you, I know, try not to strain yourself with happiness) and,
2. Saves me from having to think of anything else to blog about

Two things from the comment section recently:

1. Yes, my computer is working fine now. It was just that one program that got messed up and after I marched my happy self back to the store, they fixed it for me. Fixed, in the sense that they agreed the program was fried and gave me a pirated bootlegged stolen gently borrowed copy of another one, and,
2. Ah, yes, the great High School Musical Sequel last night. Of COURSE we were all glued to the TV at “8/7 Central, Mom. We’ve got to record it!!!” It was hokey, and predictable, and despite the fact she’s the oh-so-cute-and-perky-heroine, that Gabriella is so sickeningly sweet I have the urge to give myself an insulin shot every time she’s on the screen. I have no doubt that thanks to the DVR, I’ll be treated to several encores this weekend. Yippy. Skippy.

And my mom is here now, which can only mean two things:

1. Surgery this week for Blaine, and
2. Egads, the return of the dreaded one dollar bills.

But for now, I include the following scrapbook layout for your viewing pleasure, because, yet another perk, it keeps me from having to type up the very last Alaska update. Hey, if I haven’t TYPED that it’s over, then it’s really not over, right???







Journaling as follows:

“Growing up, I was part of a stereo-typical nuclear family -- two parents, two kids, one dog, one house. Although I had obviously heard of divorce, I hadn’t experienced it up close and personal. Perhaps that’s why when I first met Blaine, I was a little confused (ie, stupid) about the inner-workings of a step-family. Blaine explained to me that his mom, Shirley, had divorced his biological father when he was very young. The man she married, Rodney, moved the family from Texas to Oklahoma, adopted Blaine, and raised him as his own. Blaine’s four older siblings all eventually migrated back to Texas to live with their father, but not Blaine. He never had a relationship with his father, who died before I met Blaine.

“When Blaine and I first started dating, anytime he said anything about his “dad”, I would interrupt him to ask, “Rodney? Or your real dad?” until finally one day Blaine said to me, “Look. Rodney IS my real dad. He raised me, he took care of me, he loves me. HE is my dad.” I didn’t realize how prophetic and wise those words would be until years later, when Blaine and I were in the process of adopting Brayden.

“My favorite story about the relationship between Blaine and Rodney took place when we were expecting Kellen. Knowing that the type of muscular dystrophy my father had was genetic, we were sent to visit a genetic counselor during the pregnancy. Worried, nervous, we sat across the desk from her, ready to answer her questions and listen to what she had to say to us. She started out by taking our initial information, and the conversation went a little something like this:

Counselor: “So, besides the myotonic muscular dystrophy, and his heart problems, does your father have any other major health concerns? No? OK, what about your mother?”

Kristie: “Oh, my mom’s in excellent health.”

Counselor: “OK, Blaine, what about *your* mom?”

And Blaine went on to tell the counselor about his mother’s brain aneurysm years before, and how she had been on kidney dialysis for years -- in essence, poor health like my dad.

Then the counselor asked, “What about your dad? How is his health?”

And Blaine replied, “Excellent, my dad’s very healthy and active.”

At which point I turned to him and said, “Uh, Yeah. --- Except he’s DEAD!”

For just a second, Blaine had a very blank look on his face. Then he turned to the counselor and said, “Oh, that’s right. My dad is dead.”

And I burst out laughing.

I’m not sure if the counselor thought we were too ignorant to be parents (who forgets that their father has died???) or perhaps too cold-hearted, considering it *appeared* I was laughing at the fact Blaine’s dad was dead. But I was really laughing at the fact that after all these years, Blaine was still letting me know, even in his own way, that Rodney really WAS his dad, no matter what the birth certificate or blood line might say.”

Clone. Because really, there should be two of me, so I'll have two mouths to stick my feet in.

As per Websters: Clone -- “a thing that duplicates another in purpose” meaning when I paid for the computer guy to clone my old hard drive to my new hard drive, I just assumed it would *be* the same, and work the same. How silly of me.

Somewhat embarrassing: Having to return to the computer store and ask for a replacement power cord since I left mine lying there on a table when I dropped the hard drive off. In an attempt to cover my moron-ness as they handed me a new cord, smiling cheerfully and saying, “The clone is working great! I mean, ummm, I’m sure it will once I can plug the thing in! Thanks!” and then slinking out the door because hmmm, should I have offered to pay for this cord?

Somewhat more embarrassing: Trying to use my disc-burning software for the first time today since getting the machine back and discovering it doesn’t work ---- and having to call the store and confess that I have no earthly idea why it’s not working and that I thought “cloning” meant exactly the same and if the software worked last week shouldn’t it work now? If it is, indeed, exactly the same? Still, smiling cheerfully over the phone.

Somewhat even more embarrassing: Having to call back -- again -- and tell the tech support guy that his first suggestion didn’t take care of the problem, can he recommend anything else? Anything at all? Because seriously, this cloned version does not appear to be the same. Maybe I do not understand the meaning of the word “clone”. Smiling weakly through the phone line, wonder if it’s not perhaps time for some kind of adult ed computer class.

More embarrassing, still: OK, you know what? This phone crap isn’t cutting it. So getting in your car to drive to the store to talk to these people in person, and explaining to them that YES, you downloaded the most recent update of the software, exactly like they suggested, but you still don’t understand why that matters because the old version worked last week, and this is supposed to be a clone, why do you people not understand that??? Clone means the same!! At which point the tech support guy asks you if you’re positive you actually installed the update after you downloaded it. Hmmmm. Is that step important? This time, as you walk out the store, there is no cheerful waving or smiling, although you are pretty sure you heard smirking behind your back, at your expense. Consider stealing another power cord just to get even.

Most embarrassing of all: Loading up the computer and dragging it back to the store, flouncing in a bit of a huff, because you have done everything, EVERYTHING, you can think of to do, and if those people are so damn smart they can just fix it themselves. Only to have the tech support lady hook up the hard drive and start messing around with the software herself, and discover that yes, it really is dinked up and doesn’t work for her, either, no matter what she does. Feel somewhat vindicated, then begin to worry and wonder what ELSE about this clone is not exactly clone-ish. I mean, you paid a lot of money for the cloning and it should be EXACTLY THE SAME and it obviously is not, so what else is wrong?

That’s about when you notice her scrolling through your C drive, and there are all kinds of folders you have never seen before on there ….. folders with the names of musical artists on them, some artists you know and some you don’t, and you are hit with the realization that somehow, someone, some way, loaded a bunch of stuff to your computer and obviously -- duh! -- that is why it is not working in a clone-like manner. So in an attempt to point out that NONE of this is your fault, you launch the following comment: “See? What’s all that there? All those folders on my hard drive? Those aren’t mine -- I don’t listen to that crap --- I don’t even LIKE 50 Cent! You sure as heck didn’t clone THAT off my hard drive! I mean, that is NOT mine and I’m not taking the blame for this!” At which point the tech turns to you and says out loud …. “That music is mine. I have my thumb drive hooked up to your computer and those are my files.”

Oh, yes. Well, of course it is.

Sooooo, extra power cord, anyone?

Back again, with nothing of interest to say

Thanks so much to all of you for your kind notes and stories of your own pets that you’ve been willing to share. I’ve read them all, and I’ve smiled, and I’ve even welled up a time or two, and since I rarely cry, I don’t know whether to say “Well done!” or “Shame on you!”

Blaine and I have been watching Lager the Wonder Mutt a lot more closely, and I do think the time is coming. He’s had an accident in the house every day since Friday, and he’s having a hard time getting up off the floor and maneuvering the step outside the back door. When an energetic puppy goes skidding around the corner on a hard wood floor and his back legs go out from underneath him, it’s cute and funny. When it happens to a 16-yr old dog, it’s a little bit heartbreaking.

But, he’s also still eating well and interacting with us, so, I’m just not sure. I don’t think it will be in the next week, and maybe not even in the next month, but I appreciate sincerely those of you telling me that when it’s time, I’ll know. The simple fact that I don’t *think* it’s time yet lets me know it’s not, and gives me a little more confidence in my own decision-making.

In the meantime, I’m responding to the requests for more pictures of him. You’d think it would be easy to get good shots of a dog that rarely gets up off the floor, but surprisingly, it’s not. Yes, he just lies there ….. but it’s not exactly gripping and compelling photography, either.


Kristie: “Kendrie, give him a kiss so I can take a picture of how much you love him.”
Kendrie: “OK {pause, gives kiss} WHEW! His breath stinks!!!”



Lager: “Get off my head. Please.”



Lager: “For Pete’s sake, woman, aren’t you don’t yet? No more --- NO MORE!”




And this sort of thing is what happens when my children find him sleeping in the living room when they return home from school (pretty much a daily occurrence.) So he won’t feel “lonely” when he wakes up, they put all their stuffed dogs in the living room to keep him company. I’m a little worried he’ll wake up in his confused state, look around, think he’s being attacked by a roving band of fluff and have a heart attack.

In other news, I took my computer in on Monday to have the bigger hard drive installed. The tech told me he thought it would be done by Tuesday, but if not, definitely by Wednesday. Instead, they called three hours later to tell me it was finished. Now that’s pretty good customer service! So I drove back to the store before they closed to pick it up, doing a happy dance inside because I wasn’t going to be without a computer even a single night …. Only to discover a few hours later, when I tried to hook it back up, that I had left the power cord at the store, which naturally, was now closed for the night.

Deep down, I suspect that I am too big a moron to own a computer.

And in case you need proof of my moron-ness, let me tell you what else happened. When I dropped off the computer and was discussing my space needs with the tech, he told me the original hard drive came with 20 gig. They sell hard drives from 80 to 250 gig and would clone the old drive to the new drive, which, I don't really have any clue how that works, but once I heard "you'll never notice anything different ... as far as you're concerned, it will be like the exact same computer only with more space, and only $50 labor fee" I was all, "Sign me up for that!" {{snapz!}} During the conversation, trying to predict how much space I might need in the next few years, until such time as the computer most likely dies anyway, he sort of, gently, indicated that 20 gig was, well, pathetic. Not in a mean way, he was very polite, but he wasn’t surprised that once I discovered the beauty that is iTunes, I had filled up my measly 20 gig.

Fast forward to that afternoon when I picked up the computer. I walked in the store, and both him and another tech looked up at me and smiled when I sidled up to the counter. “Lady!” the first tech said, “No wonder you kept getting those space warnings on your screen --- you were down to 12 mg on the entire hard drive!!!” and they both kind of laughed, like how on earth could I have come that close, without going over the edge.

I said, slightly confused, “Well, I don’t understand. If I started with 20, and still had 12 left, that’s over half. {Yes, my math skills are outstanding, aren’t they?} So if I had over half left, why the warnings?”

And he looked at me like truly, I might be the stupidest person he’s ever encountered, and proceeded to explain the difference between gigs and megs. Or gegs and migs. Or whatever they are, I wasn’t really listening. All I know is I now have room for over 12,000 music downloads, so I’m happy. I’ll be spending the kids’ college education money at iTunes, but by golly, I’ll never run out of room for soundtracks or Meatloaf again.

And pictures of Lager, too, of course.

I'm Still Here. And a Wee Bit Cranky.

Well, I’m still here, with computer access. I unplugged the computer yesterday morning to take it to the store for the memory upgrade, and a few minutes later Kellen and Kendrie came running to me, panicking about the computer being “broken”, and the Disney channel online, OHMYGOSH how would they survive without the Disney channel online??? What’s funny is they rarely even play online, but when I told them we would be without a computer for the next three days, you would have thought I had suggested giving away all their toys and moving in with monks, or that I had just sucked all the oxygen out of the house, so great was their distress. So, fine. I said I would take it in Monday while they were at school, and they could play on it this weekend.

But that’s not why I’m cranky.

Last night, after the kids and I watched Ella Enchanted for the third time (Seriously, have you seen it? It was just on Disney the other night and it’s a really cute, sweet movie. Thanks to the power of the DVR, I have no doubt I’ll have every line memorized by Tuesday…. But that’s not why I’m cranky) I went in the bedroom and read another chapter of Ramona Quimby, age 8 with Kendrie. We finished up around 10pm, sort of late for us, and I said to her, “Mommy’s tired. Go tell Daddy I’m just going to go to bed now” and I rolled over and went to sleep, listening to Kellen protest that wasn’t fair, he still wanted to read a chapter of Harry Potter (Yes! I know! Finally, one of my kids has expressed interest in HP!) and how it wasn’t right I read with Kendrie but not him. Great, nothing like a little parental guilt to soothe you right off to sleep. But that’s not why I’m cranky.

For whatever reason, at 2:45 am I woke up, bright eyed and alert. I rarely, and I mean rarely, suffer from insomnia, so the few times it happens, I have very strict rules. I will attempt to go back to sleep for exactly thirty minutes and if I can’t, then I get up and do something. I am NOT wasting precious time lying in bed, staring at the clock, when there are e-mails to be answered and blogs to be read. So I got up at 3:15 and messed around online (What’s up with you Canada ebay people, anyway? Can you not get Nike tennis shoes up there? Is that why so many of you are wondering about shipping?) I give myself exactly one hour, then attempt to go back to sleep.

So at 4:15, back to bed I went, accidentally tripping over the dog on the way. I was very cautious and careful and quiet (well, except for when I tripped over the dog) as I got back in bed, because Blaine DOES have a severe problem with insomnia and I feel terrible if I do something drastic and noisy which wakes him up. Drastic and noisy like putting my head on the pillow, or BREATHING.

I tip-toed back into bed, covered myself up, reapplied lip balm because hello, who can sleep with dry, chapped lips?? I laid there for about four and a half seconds, before realizing Blaine was not in fact suffering from insomnia this evening, but was instead snoring so loud I’m surprised the neighbors twelve miles away hadn’t filed a noise complaint with the local police.

Normally, Blaine sleeps (when he DOES sleep, that is) the sleep of the perfectly still, perfectly silent. I will sometimes put my hand on his chest to make sure he’s still breathing. But occasionally, when he lies on his back, thanks to all the surgeries and reconstruction of his sinus cavity, he’ll get going with a cacophony of snores and grunts and wheezes and moans that make it literally impossible to sleep in the same bed. The same room. The same small country.

BC (before cancer) I would have just punched him in the shoulder and told him to roll over, but now, I’m loathe to wake him because once he’s up, no matter the time, he’s up. Sleeping is such a problem for him that I NEVER wake him if I can help it. So, I did what I’ve done more times than any human should in a happy marriage --- grabbed a pillow and a blanket and headed for the living room, resigned to sleeping the rest of the night on the sofa.

But that’s not why I’m cranky.

I walked into the living room …. And my senses were immediately assaulted -- WTF??? Is that SHIT I smell????

Yep, sure enough, Lager had pooped in the dining room. Good grief, this is NOT what I wanted to clean up at 4:18 in the morning, but I went into the kitchen to get paper towels and rags, and turned on the light ….

My senses were assaulted again, this time my vision. Remember I had gone to bed early and Blaine, the man who always cleans the kitchen at night, the man who would make a better housewife than me, had done NOTHING the night before. The roast was still in the crockpot on the counter. The cookies I had baked were still sitting on the cookie sheet on top of the stove, not covered. Unwashed dishes were on the counter, in the sink, book bags on the table, shoes and socks on the floor --- My god, Jerry Springer would have a field day with this sort of white trash living.
I admit, because he normally does such a fantastic job cleaning up after dinner, I am a spoiled princess who is accustomed to awaking to a clean kitchen. To have to consider cleaning the kitchen, AFTER cleaning the dog poop??? At 4:20 in the morning??? Uugh.

But that’s not why I’m cranky. Although down on your hands and knees, scrubbing dog poop off the hardwood floor in the middle of the night, doing everything you can to hold back your hair-trigger gag reflex, is certainly enough to make anyone cranky.

No, if I’m being honest, I’m cranky (and extremely sad) because I know its coming.

Blaine and I always said if we ever had a dog that went blind, or couldn’t control his bowels or bladder, we would put him down. Lager *does* have a big nasty tumor on one eye, but he’s not blind. Deaf, yes. And arthritic. But not blind.

And it’s not that he’s **lost control** of his bowels or bladder, as much as he’s either getting too old, or too confused, or too lazy to wake us. He never has accidents during the day when we’re home, but this was the second time this week he’s had problems while we’ve been sleeping. A few night’s ago, I woke to the sound of water running, only to realize he was urinating in the middle of my bathroom rug.

Bless his old heart, I can’t be mad at him. He’s sixteen and a half years old -- how can I be *mad* at him? But by the same token, I am really bothered by these accidents, which, let's be honest, have been happening more and more the past six months or so. Not a LOT .... but still. I mean, it’s gross, and nasty to clean, and stinks to high heaven, and not hygienic. The kicker is, he’s not in any pain, or suffering in any way. Sure, he’s old and tired and sleeps a lot and not as energetic as he used to be. But he still interacts with us every single day, and begs for table scraps, and wags his tail and bounces around the living room and bumps us with his nose to let us know he wants to be petted and loved on.

And loving him? Oh my gosh, I can’t even imagine the reaction of my children when something finally happens to the old boy. They will be crushed, devastated, decimated. And so will Blaine and I, even if we’re grown ups and don’t want to admit it.

So how can I even consider putting down a dog that is old, but otherwise healthy and happy, just because I don’t want to clean up after him? I mean, it sounds so selfish when I say it like that.

Which is worse? To consider putting him to sleep, just because I’m lazy, knowing the emotional trauma that will inflict upon the children who love him, or to hope that I come home one afternoon and find him dead in the living room, passed away peacefully? I don’t wish him dead, for pete’s sake, he’s been a part of our family since 1992!

I’ve always looked at people whose dogs were bumping into the walls because they couldn't see, or having to drag their back legs behind them in little carts, or taking thirty pills or insulin shots or whatever a day, and wondered why didn’t they just put those poor animals out of their misery? Now I get it. When an animal’s NOT miserable --- just old --- the miserable thing is even contemplating it. We don’t put any of our other family members to sleep, just because taking care of them gets to be a hassle, and I consider a pet we've had for fifteen years to be a family member.

Ewww, but poop? In the dining room?

This conundrum, people --- THIS is why I’m cranky.

It's now almost 6am. I've been up since 2:45. Maybe the answer will come to me in a dream, during the NAP I'm so desperately going to need later today.