November 27, 1992.

In honor of Thanksgiving - here's a look back at a journal entry from a Thanksgiving past.

11/27/92 - Friday (15 years old)

Been really busy this Thanksgiving weekend. Yesterday night we went to Grandma's and celebrated. I loved it. We always get around her player piano & sing together. That's something I'll always love. I wish - I'm going to become better friends with Grandma Summers. I always feel so far away - yet she is so interesting. Especially her growing up years. She's writing a book about it and I can't wait to read it. I love her.

Kelly & I went to the movie, A River Runs Through It. It had an ending that was the best I've ever seen. I love Kelly - she's a sister to me.

This Sunday I'll catch up my writing on all the things I've meant to write about, but keep forgetting.

*Reminder - John & Rags for curls.

giving thanks...

for late mornings in bed

with white sheets

and best friends

documented by Millie

pouncing by Ellis

up close

vicariously thankful.

elmo

pig and duck pajamas

shoes
mac&cheese

shoes

teddy

blanket

goodnight moon

shoes

milk
goldfish

goldfish

goldfish

--Ellis

sending thanks.

Dear Judy, Greg, and Chandler:

This is the cow shirt. It is my favorite shirt. I want to say thank you. I like the color.

Millie

_____________________

P.S. Details from the Mom:

She wants to wear it every day. Everywhere.

And the funny addition? I couldn't get her to try it on for weeks. Why? She thought the sleeves would be too long.

But once she felt the warm, orange, comfy Texas goodness she did not want to take it off.

sitting in.

Friday night. calm. Ready for the simple ease of sitting at home in quiet. Maybe watching a movie. Maybe eating Cafe Rio. Maybe not doing much of anything.

And then came the call.

I'm kidnapping you tonight. Clin called me last night and asked that I kidnap you.

How many of you have husbands that try to get rid of you, the wife?

How many of you have wives that then have anxiety attacks upon finding out that they are going to a nice dinner with 3 strangers and 2 friends? All of whom are the beautiful, happy, trendy, fun-loving, polar opposite of said wife.

And the emotions from the shock of realizing that this wife had not showered in how many days (we may never know), or worn much other than jeans in months, and has eyebrows that grow down and out and cannot be tamed. Even with glue.

And said wife tried to call the kidnapper in an attempt to get out of the forthcoming humiliation. And did not get anywhere with such arguments. Except for the release of more tears, a soggy puddle on the carpet, and the offense of a friendly kidnapper and the scheming mastermind husband.

The Weepies tried to calm the wife as three lanes of closed freeway traffic caused her to arrive late for the birthday dinner. A stranger's birthday dinner. Yes. Cause for more shock and awe.

Huddled in the corner was a group of intimidating, beautiful women. One wore an orange coat (of which the wife's dreams are made of), another had glasses that shined with trend and without dirt, a third sat spouting words full of dry humor and whimsy, and a fourth stood against a wall with a down to earth manner, fabulous haircut, and willingness to greet the woman with a handshake of welcome.

Eventually they ate. And they laughed and smiled, moving with life. A feeling of hope. A sense of future. Abounding in joy. Toying with the waiter, speaking with neighboring customers. The women squeezed into a booth - birthday stranger elevated halfway off the seat - all to allow the wife to be kidnapped.

They recommended food. They shared an appetizer. They discussed and laughed on topics familiar and strange.

And in the end the wife smiled. Enjoyed the slice of happiness shared. Found a diaper where a wallet should be. Echoed with a twinge of regret for sitting in on anothers' celebration. And marveled at the ease for which the women included the old soul that she has become.

Here's to friends willing to kidnap wives.

And here's to husbands who track down those friends.

learning.

Last weekend I learned something new about Carl's Jr.

Their new jalapeno burger?

It tastes great going down and absolutely awful coming up.

full of fruit.

I bought 4 grapefruits for $0.50. No joke.

I will eat anything for that price.

My new favorite store? Sunflower Farmers Market. And I also purchased some kiwi (4 for $1.00), onions, cabbage, granola in bulk (what???), almonds in bulk, and dried cranberries (Yeah - you heard me).

One week I got 5 kiwis for a dollar, 2 red bell peppers for $1.00, and a pineapple for $1.00.

Serious. And they give samples. Like blackberry applesauce. Happy girls = happy mom.

photo via Darwin Bell

hate.

So this is a post that I created one week ago. I was a bit raw and couldn't bring myself to actually post it. Now, after a week, I feel that we can all enjoy (chuckle? clear the air? find humor in?) my tantrum.




Hate, hate, hate. Anger, anger, anger. Swear, swear, swear.

Which is what I did a million times over last night. As Mr. Police ticketed me in the short maybe 5 minute drive from church to home - as I sped up in a 25 mph zone to 43. And he followed me the entire time. Didn't warn me, or try to get me to slow down.

He pulled me over before I even had time to look at the speedometer - that is how long I was driving. Because who looks at the speedometer when they first hop in the car? And on a dark, poorly lit road? I don't know about you but I prefer looking at THE ROAD.

And I cried during my entire conversation with him. And forgot that I'm supposed to give him registration and insurance. And I gave him my 2008 insurance, and then found the 2009. Why did I forget? Because I haven't gotten a ticket since 1997. Or was it 1996? And in Oregon. And that was just wrong. But another story.

He came back, and I thought my record might make him merciful - or my tears. But he gave me a ticket. And even admitted that he could find nothing on my record and asked if I had ever even gotten a ticket. To which I replied, "not since college" and I think that should have warrented a warning. Because I'm the type that doesn't break the law on purpose. I mean, I would skip classes in high school only if there was a substitute, and only if we were doing nothing, and only if I had homework that I could be completing in a different place. See? I just am not the type that the police should even waste their time on.

And, I'm married to a teacher. Policemen should understand our finances. But he didn't know that. But I blame that too.

So I came home and swore at Clin and told him he's a crap driver and now he hates me.

And I hate myself.

photo via Dystopos

on the trail. Part 2.

I spent the morning looking for a diaper filled with poop. One moment it was here. And then I turned around and it was gone. It wasn't under any of the beds. Not in the bathrooms. Not in the diaper pail. I know because the garbage bag had not yet been replaced, and the pail remained empty.

It wasn't on any bathroom counters, or in the bathtubs. Not under the crib, or in the closets. I couldn't find it on the bookshelf, or in the plastic tub overflowing with animals.

I was about to give up and allow the scent to eventually lead the way, when I passed the kitchen and found it resting on top of the garbage can.

Ah, Ellis. Keeper of secrets. The sneaky pick pocket has learned where things belong.

photo via tinggay

1..2..3..4.

I LOVE this:




And if my life were a music video, I would want it to look like this:

this sweater.

This is currently my favorite piece of clothing.

What is it you ask? It's only the best brown cardigan a girl could ever own. I stole it from my Dad's closet when I was in high school. I think it may have been my Grandpa's before that. But I'm not sure.

I also have a blue version. That I absolutely love.

Holes are beginning to spread in the cuffs. I want to attempt a fix. To expand the life. But fear altering. Fear ruin.

Here is a self-photo of me in the cardigan. The wimsy in my eyes? Reflections from the cardigan.

Comfy. Happiness.

full.

I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of the loss for words. I'm tired of loose ends, and directionless days. I'm full of fatigue for fatigue. And I'm giving up on tying things down.

I don't enjoy being yelled at for clothes that are snug, or coats that are bulky. For setting one down and picking another up. I'm giving up on trying to motivate anyone, especially me.

And I want to make the choice to just let them be themselves. Run naked, hot dogs and mac and cheese at each meal, followed by a complete ban on bathing.

Nap time is the equivalent to hell. For all involved. But only for the duration of audible tones.

I'm lost in the yelling. And I understand loud. More than the majority. But when the second stands louder than the first, I disappear. And I let the yelling continue. For car seats. For toilet paper. For tights. For shoes. For battles unnecessary and unsure.

hopeful.

You may not know this about me. I'm completely happy that Barack Obama was elected president.

Everyone's already blogged about this. This is old news now. But I can't stop thinking about it. I'm not one to chat about politics. I can wrap my mind around things but cannot always articulate. So I usually listen. To everyone. And keep quiet overall.

I am full of hope. I am ready for change. And I am actually excited about a president. In my 31 years of life I have never been excited about a president. Never been excited about an election. I was the one in high school who protested dance and school elections by withholding my vote. (What good did that do, you ask? I have no clue. But at the time I felt empowered by the choice.)

And Now? I'm ready to join in. I'm ready to work towards change. I'm ready to make things happen.

Watching Obama's speech on the 4th? I was moved. It takes a lot to move me. To get me excited. And the faces of the many people in the audience that night were on fire. And I knew how they felt.

History in the making. And I experienced it. And I am part of something that will influence cohort effects for years to come.

I could watch that speech a million times over.

"I will listen to you, especially when we disagree."

"So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other."

"This is our time -- to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth -- that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes We Can."

on the trail.

Either a rat is rampantly roaming our house, or my instincts suggest that the sinks full of underwear are responsible for the small specks that continue to magically appear.

I always knew that having 3 girls in the house would mean running out of toilet paper. Quickly. But an entire roll in one day? An entire roll in one sitting? Almost.

And I've stopped smelling what I find. It's never chocolate. It's never been chocolate.

It will never be chocolate.

growing up already.

Get over it and grow up. Cliques are so passe. Serious. It's okay to talk to people unlike you. Quit hanging out with only those you feel comfortable with.

A 15 passenger van holds 15 passengers. Fifteen. That is why we arranged to have it. So everyone could have their own seat belt.

The second car was only going because we had more than 15 passengers. It was secondary.

And then I found out that they took one extra. One more beyond the seat belt limit of the secondary vehicle. Why you ask? Me too! I'm asking why.

Why? When six seat belts went unused? Why the discomfort? Why the car sickness?

I have a theory. It's me. No. I realize it's not me. But sometimes I wonder.

See, every combined youth activity? My vehicle is the last to fill. Serious. It's a mad dash to every car. Except mine. And if I see a car overstuffed, I say- get over here. I've got room. And the response? Look away. Look away. Don't make eye contact, or risk getting caught; drawn into the periphery of my car. Another good coping mechanism is to just act like I don't exist. Look through me. This one works well with the high school kids.

Back to the story. No one left the car. No one. Why? Because they were in groups of three. The fear of separating for one car ride. The uncomfortable feeling was more overwhelming than the risk of car sickness, squished proximities, and, oh, a lovely little thing called breaking the law.

The twelve year old in me knows. Understands calculating the risks of inner turmoil vs. physical discomfort. Then again, that same twelve year old would probably just say it's me. Adult me, that is.

a theme.

Time to get on the blogging bandwagon. A lot of blogs incorporate recurring themes into the day of the week. Like Freebie Friday, or Thankful Thursday. Each week the reader knows what to expect. They return to the familiar. A sense of comfort. Like coming home.

In an effort to bring a bit of comfort to you, the reader, I'm jumping on the wagon. Bending to the weight from the pressure of my peers and incorporating themes. Not just one theme, but a week of themes. That's right.

This is what you have to look forward to this week:

--Moody Monday

--Toxic Tuesday

--What you See is What you Get Wednesday

--Therapy Thursday

--Favorite Friday

January 9, 1991.

This is an exerpt from a journal that I wrote between age 7 and 18. And I'm starting to realize it's extremely boring. A bit irritating. And mostly full of things that I don't have any desire to admit. To anyone. And I'm about to give up on this. Enjoy.

1/9/1991 (13 years old)

Today I was proud that when I came home I didn't fight with my mom or Bryan or Kyle. But I got to work on stopping teasing Nathan. This morning I got ready for school a half hour early! It was quite nice. I had time to eat breakfast and make a lunch, and just sit around!

Man on Wire

I can't wait to see this. Can not wait.

And checking out this book, by Mordicai Gerstein, from the library has only heightened that desire.

turning towards Christmas.

This is what Millie's getting for Christmas. It's in the top of the closet. Waiting. She pointed at it the other day and I acted like I didn't see the gesture. Or hear the words.

I'm finding it easy to find gift ideas for 3 year olds. They are so numerous that I keep tripping over them in my quest for Ellis. I have no clue as to what to get for the 18 monther. Any suggestions? Please?

voting.

I voted. One girl in arms, and one clinging to my leg, but I voted. It took all my strength to focus on 3 things: the touch screen, keeping Ellis from head diving to the floor, and keeping Millie away from the plugs.

Question: Do you vote in actual booths?

I did not. I think containing the children would have been easier in a booth. But I really want to know. I seem to remember my parentals always going into an actual booth to vote.

photo via Dean Terry

recapping the weekend.

Halloween in pictures.

Millie as Belle and Ellis as a beast (or cat, depending upon your preference).

From scratch. And it was good. Food processors rock!

Then the real terror occurred.

If you are squeamish, skip the following.

Ellis had a cranky spell on Saturday.

Just as we were heading out of the house for an evening date, the following happened.

It started at the bed. Clin reacted quickly. Ran to the bathroom, aimed for the sink, but it was projectile. And it was every where. The more I cleaned, the more I found. In the strangest places.

We stayed in.