waking up.

I woke up this morning to a tantrum. Mine.

Entering the kitchen to make the oatmeal, I spotted the pots from dinner last night.

And the food was still in them. Which led to the spontaneous combustion of tears and a few choice words. I'm sure that my daughters will happily recite them for you.

You see, last night I made curry chicken. Really good, new recipe, curry chicken. And it made a lot.

And someone forgot to put it in the refrigerator. I won't name names. No, I won't go that low. But in your family, is it always the responsibility of the cook to do such things?

Well the cook left the food out for the overworked soul who returned home late. And that soul ate. AND had the time and effort to bake cookies. And eat those cookies. Around the pots full of food.

While I worked downstairs.

Normally this would not have caused such a reaction. But I'm on a tight budget. And expecting company. And the leftovers were penciled in for Thursday night dinner.

I boxed up the leftovers and put them in the fridge. Because I cannot bring myself to give them up.

So sorry Mom and Dad. Food poisoning awaits.


photo via BabyDinosaur

beating...

There's very little that gets my heart excited. Moving.

Yes.

I am that immobile.

But every once in awhile something will come up and make me beat. Constantly. So much so that I obsess. Just a bit. To the point that I can't think of much else.

Remember in high school? When escaping the boredom of one more hour and drifting into that place where you imagine the boy you like calling. Or telling your friend something about you. And just the fact that your name passed his lips can give you ecstatic, skipping happies to fill the rest of the class.

Or

in church, when your thoughts created a new reality. Like passing out as you were walking in front of the congregation. And a heart flutter inducing boy takes charge and comes to your rescue. Either involving CPR or lifting you with bulging arms, veins, and back to secure safety.

I just don' t have much need for such day dreams anymore. And I'm okay with that. Because now I have reality, which is better.

But every once in awhile my heart will jump, and I will look forward to something. Nothing to do with boys. But here I am embarrassed to admit what it is. Because my skips stalled last night. And that's okay. Because that is reality.

photo via Gabriela Camerotti

shaking it up a few more times.

I've been shaken. And am trying to leave you in a better state.

A few days of continuous screaming, hitting, hanging on, and pushing = a delicate soul on the precipice of being the final petal dangling until torn on the loves me not.

So onto happier thoughts: I still have 6 more moments of villainous revelry and plenty of angry inspiration.

You haven't seen this yet? You should. Tickets are going fast. I'll be there M, W, F, and the next 2 Saturday matinees.

Out of state? Don't have the money? Hate theater? Here's a sample of the crazy.

Thanks to Julia and Nina for the pics!

eating brownies at 11:30 pm.

Lowsy brownies. and yet I'm eating them.

And I wonder: if I admit it now, while they are 3 and 1, that I'm an awful specimen of a mother - will it make it easier on them in the long run?

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.

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

offensive.

I currently have no readers. This is a nice place to be. I am entering the wild world of blogging, hoping to find a way to escape the daily repetition of waking, eating, enforcing time out, and sleeping. The point? This blog is about me and for me. Selfish? I know!

If you are reading - Please don't be offended. I have post-poned this venture for two reasons:

1. I only write in my personal journal when I'm sad, menstruating, depressed, or all three. I've told spouse that upon my death he should burn all journals. If not - all happy memories will cease to exist upon their reading. And offense will occur. I fear that may happen here...although I hope to exercise a bit of tact and control.



2. I have lost friends; good, college roommate, forever friends type friends. One Christmas, as I helped plan a friends/roommate reunion, lost friend emailed the following to the entire group
   
   

   -Lost Friend: "My son has peanut allergy, and doesn't have enough impulse control yet to not eat peanut stuff if he sees it, so I hope you wouldn't mind not bringing things with nuts?"

   -Roommate #1: "Okay for me to bring [my sister]? She'll be coming down from Seattle that night, so she'll probably be late, but she really wants to see all the girls and babes."

   -Me: "Yeah! Of course [your sister] is invited. I don't think you even need to ask....that is, unless she is a peanut, or manufactured partially from, or in a plant that packages peanut products."

   -Lost Friend: "Just so you know, so you don't do this to someone else too...It's pretty insensitive and offensive to mom's of peanut allergic children to be made fun of for trying to protect their child from something that shows up at parties often, and yet kills them. Families of peanut allergic children need nothing except support and understanding from their friends and family in order to deal with their problem. If your inclination is to joke about this serious problem, it would be wise to first wait from a cue from the family that they're okay with it being a laughing matter."

So what happened? You're on edge, I've got you hooked. I cried, then I groveled, apologized, and said apology was accepted. I have not heard from Lost Friend since.

I have many, many other examples (future posts).

Grandparents - I know that you want to hear about the kids. Maybe. Sometimes. If I'm really depressed. Again, selfish. I know.

So do not be surprised when you are offended....or depressed after reading this blog. Just blame me, my selfishnes, and don't complain.