Playing dress-up in mom’s clothes & high heels & make-up, playing with dolls, playing with Barbies, pretending to be a princess, or fair maiden in distress in need of a rescuer, playing “house” … things girls do …
Somehow, when we get “all grown up,” we feel like we have to shove our childish dreams aside. Those dreams that were in our hearts as little girls because now we’re adults. Now we have to clean the house and pay the bills (which of course we DO have to do). But is there something to those big dreams in the little child’s heart?
A woman’s heart is the most important thing about her. Every girl in her heart of hearts longs for 3 things: to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and to unveil beauty. That’s what makes a woman come alive. (From Captivating by John & Stasi Eldredge)
I just started reading Captivating last night and after 2 chapters, had to force myself to put it down so I could get some sleep. But after I put it down, I just laid there with my eyes closed and smiled. I went back to my childhood & thought of all the things I used to dream about as a little girl. Then I slept. And dreamt. And it was lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a nice dream like that.
So, maybe that’s where my other notes came from about physically hard-working men and other thoughts. Jon, remember how you asked me if I thought there was anything wrong with the girl making the “first move”? I don’t know about “wrong,” but I do know for me, I want to be pursued and I don’t want to be the pursuer. I want to be romanced. I love flowers and little notes. Hugs. A random phone call just to say hi. Nothing expensive, just all those little thoughts that make one feel loved and that I’m special. In past relationships, I’ve been the pursuer and the one writing the little notes and random calls to say hi. Well, if there’s a guy out there for me, he’s going to have to prove his love for me. When people love each other, they want to be with one another. I’m too old to play games like, “Does he like me or not?” And I have a son to consider. No more games for me.
I am unashamedly a woman that God created me to be & am embracing whole-heartedly the fact that we as women are the crescendo of Creation! We are God’s finale!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman's Heart
Playing dress-up in mom’s clothes & high heels & make-up, playing with dolls, playing with Barbies, pretending to be a princess, or fair maiden in distress in need of a rescuer, playing “house” … things girls do …
Somehow, when we get “all grown up,” we feel like we have to shove our childish dreams aside. Those dreams that were in our hearts as little girls because now we’re adults. Now we have to clean the house and pay the bills (which of course we DO have to do). But is there something to those big dreams in the little child’s heart?
A woman’s heart is the most important thing about her. Every girl in her heart of hearts longs for 3 things: to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and to unveil beauty. That’s what makes a woman come alive. (From Captivating by John & Stasi Eldredge)
I just started reading Captivating last night and after 2 chapters, had to force myself to put it down so I could get some sleep. But after I put it down, I just laid there with my eyes closed and smiled. I went back to my childhood & thought of all the things I used to dream about as a little girl. Then I slept. And dreamt. And it was lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a nice dream like that.
So, maybe that’s where my other notes came from about physically hard-working men and other thoughts. Jon, remember how you asked me if I thought there was anything wrong with the girl making the “first move”? I don’t know about “wrong,” but I do know for me, I want to be pursued and I don’t want to be the pursuer. I want to be romanced. I love flowers and little notes. Hugs. A random phone call just to say hi. Nothing expensive, just all those little thoughts that make one feel loved and that I’m special. In past relationships, I’ve been the pursuer and the one writing the little notes and random calls to say hi. Well, if there’s a guy out there for me, he’s going to have to prove his love for me. When people love each other, they want to be with one another. I’m too old to play games like, “Does he like me or not?” And I have a son to consider. No more games for me.
I am unashamedly a woman that God created me to be & am embracing whole-heartedly the fact that we as women are the crescendo of Creation! We are God’s finale!
Somehow, when we get “all grown up,” we feel like we have to shove our childish dreams aside. Those dreams that were in our hearts as little girls because now we’re adults. Now we have to clean the house and pay the bills (which of course we DO have to do). But is there something to those big dreams in the little child’s heart?
A woman’s heart is the most important thing about her. Every girl in her heart of hearts longs for 3 things: to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and to unveil beauty. That’s what makes a woman come alive. (From Captivating by John & Stasi Eldredge)
I just started reading Captivating last night and after 2 chapters, had to force myself to put it down so I could get some sleep. But after I put it down, I just laid there with my eyes closed and smiled. I went back to my childhood & thought of all the things I used to dream about as a little girl. Then I slept. And dreamt. And it was lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a nice dream like that.
So, maybe that’s where my other notes came from about physically hard-working men and other thoughts. Jon, remember how you asked me if I thought there was anything wrong with the girl making the “first move”? I don’t know about “wrong,” but I do know for me, I want to be pursued and I don’t want to be the pursuer. I want to be romanced. I love flowers and little notes. Hugs. A random phone call just to say hi. Nothing expensive, just all those little thoughts that make one feel loved and that I’m special. In past relationships, I’ve been the pursuer and the one writing the little notes and random calls to say hi. Well, if there’s a guy out there for me, he’s going to have to prove his love for me. When people love each other, they want to be with one another. I’m too old to play games like, “Does he like me or not?” And I have a son to consider. No more games for me.
I am unashamedly a woman that God created me to be & am embracing whole-heartedly the fact that we as women are the crescendo of Creation! We are God’s finale!
Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman's Heart
Playing dress-up in mom’s clothes & high heels & make-up, playing with dolls, playing with Barbies, pretending to be a princess, or fair maiden in distress in need of a rescuer, playing “house” … things girls do …
Somehow, when we get “all grown up,” we feel like we have to shove our childish dreams aside. Those dreams that were in our hearts as little girls because now we’re adults. Now we have to clean the house and pay the bills (which of course we DO have to do). But is there something to those big dreams in the little child’s heart?
A woman’s heart is the most important thing about her. Every girl in her heart of hearts longs for 3 things: to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and to unveil beauty. That’s what makes a woman come alive. (From Captivating by John & Stasi Eldredge)
I just started reading Captivating last night and after 2 chapters, had to force myself to put it down so I could get some sleep. But after I put it down, I just laid there with my eyes closed and smiled. I went back to my childhood & thought of all the things I used to dream about as a little girl. Then I slept. And dreamt. And it was lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a nice dream like that.
So, maybe that’s where my other notes came from about physically hard-working men and other thoughts. Jon, remember how you asked me if I thought there was anything wrong with the girl making the “first move”? I don’t know about “wrong,” but I do know for me, I want to be pursued and I don’t want to be the pursuer. I want to be romanced. I love flowers and little notes. Hugs. A random phone call just to say hi. Nothing expensive, just all those little thoughts that make one feel loved and that I’m special. In past relationships, I’ve been the pursuer and the one writing the little notes and random calls to say hi. Well, if there’s a guy out there for me, he’s going to have to prove his love for me. When people love each other, they want to be with one another. I’m too old to play games like, “Does he like me or not?” And I have a son to consider. No more games for me.
I am unashamedly a woman that God created me to be & am embracing whole-heartedly the fact that we as women are the crescendo of Creation! We are God’s finale!
Somehow, when we get “all grown up,” we feel like we have to shove our childish dreams aside. Those dreams that were in our hearts as little girls because now we’re adults. Now we have to clean the house and pay the bills (which of course we DO have to do). But is there something to those big dreams in the little child’s heart?
A woman’s heart is the most important thing about her. Every girl in her heart of hearts longs for 3 things: to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and to unveil beauty. That’s what makes a woman come alive. (From Captivating by John & Stasi Eldredge)
I just started reading Captivating last night and after 2 chapters, had to force myself to put it down so I could get some sleep. But after I put it down, I just laid there with my eyes closed and smiled. I went back to my childhood & thought of all the things I used to dream about as a little girl. Then I slept. And dreamt. And it was lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a nice dream like that.
So, maybe that’s where my other notes came from about physically hard-working men and other thoughts. Jon, remember how you asked me if I thought there was anything wrong with the girl making the “first move”? I don’t know about “wrong,” but I do know for me, I want to be pursued and I don’t want to be the pursuer. I want to be romanced. I love flowers and little notes. Hugs. A random phone call just to say hi. Nothing expensive, just all those little thoughts that make one feel loved and that I’m special. In past relationships, I’ve been the pursuer and the one writing the little notes and random calls to say hi. Well, if there’s a guy out there for me, he’s going to have to prove his love for me. When people love each other, they want to be with one another. I’m too old to play games like, “Does he like me or not?” And I have a son to consider. No more games for me.
I am unashamedly a woman that God created me to be & am embracing whole-heartedly the fact that we as women are the crescendo of Creation! We are God’s finale!
Men - Are they extinct?
* If you're a married man, this doesn't apply to you
just wondering if there are any left out there. One that is single, over 26, under 37, doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, loves the Lord, loves children, can be romantic, hard-working (willing to work w/ his hands), and doesn't play video games all day long. Does this man exist anywhere?
Monday, March 19, 2007
Confessions of a Mother
"Hi," I hear. I don't answer because I'm trying to sleep.
"Hi," said more emphatically. I scoot deeper under the covers. Maybe he'll give up.
"HI!" Nope.
"Good night, Kevin. It's time to go to sleep. Lie down." I brought him to bed with me (again) because it was easier then fighting with him. Well, at least I thought it would be easier. But after getting kicked in the stomach several times and head banged, I decide this little boy MUST sleep in his own bed tonight! I'm not up to WWF after midnight.
I pick him up w/ his "banky" and "pacy" (of which I'm trying to break him – the pacy not the blanky) and head for the rocking chair. Now, normal people can walk a few feet from point A to point B without incident. However, I had several. #1, legos don't mold to the bottom of feet the way they should be made to do. #2, Kevin started crying (in my ear, mind you) because he didn't like my I-just-stepped-on-your-lego-and-it-really-hurts-and-why-was-it-in-my-room-anyway dance. #3, just being a mother is qualification enough for middle of the night accidents & is a perfectly acceptable answer for ALL seemingly dumb questions.
After recovering from my mishaps, I ask an intelligent question: "Where's the rocking chair?" (If you think this is a dumb question, see #3 above.) If I could just open my eyes a little more, it would make my hunt much easier. Oh! There it is! My little toe finds it. More screaming in the ear. For not being a dancer, I sure do it a lot. Only this time it was the I-just-stubbed-my-toe-and-I'm-trying-not-to-be-a-wimp dance. After plopping myself in the rocking chair & getting Kevin all situated, I hear a little voice say, "Juice?" Sounds easy enough to you, doesn't it? Let me tell you why it's not. #1, it's past midnight. My brain shuts off at midnight. #2, the "juice," which is really milk – Kevin calls everything drinkable "juice," is upstairs. #3, see #3 above. #4, I either have to carry him up the stairs with me with a brain that is not capable of figuring out that there are 13 stairs and not just 12. (You'd think after missing the last stair more than 3x in one week, I'd remember how many stairs there are. See #3.) Or I have to put him down somewhere while I try to brainlessly find the juice. If I put him in his bed, he'll cry and think I'm not getting his juice. So, I opt for the rocking chair. "You sit here and wait for mom. I'll be right back."
I walk toward the stairs with my hands in front of me to protect me from the wall, or whatever else is in my way. Who put that book case there? This time it's my other toe. I walk gingerly up the stairs. At the top of my climb there is a sight that no one needs to see at 1am. The dog got creative with the trash and has strategically placed the contents in the path from the top of the stairs to the sippy cups to the fridge. *sigh* I will think of a way to kill the dog later; now I have a thirsty child waiting for me patiently in the rocking chair. I was on my hands and knees picking up the garbage when I backed into something. Thud. More cries. "Kevin? What are you doing up here? I thought mommy asked you to wait in the rocking chair?"
"Juice," he says through his tears. I pick him up and set him on the counter. Believe it or not, it's probably the safest place for him. If I leave him on ground level, he escapes too quickly. I find the milk in the fridge. I make a mental note to self: almost out of milk, pick some up tomorrow, which I promptly forget.
We head back downstairs. I count out loud. (I always count the stairs with Kevin, not because I'm trying to teach him numbers, although he can count to 7 and he's not even 2, but because if I don't, I end up in a pile on the floor. 12, 13. Phew! We make it to the bottom of the stairs safely. Squish. What the …? What is that?
"OSCAR!!!!!!" (Oscar is our grouchy little wiener dog who apparently had to go outside [probably because he was digging in the trash] but didn't bother to bark or scratch at the door to inform me.) I dance my way over to the rocking chair doing the I-just-stepped-in-something-gross dance, put Kevin in the chair and dance myself to the bathroom. Hanger on the floor bites my non-grossed foot. I hike my leg up into the sink & turn on the water. The freezing cold wakes me up quite quickly! Where's the soap? Oh, yeh. It's in the shower because it's my last bar so it's been making trips back and forth between the shower and sink. Another mental note for store list: buy soap. What else did I need to get? I know there was something else.
I drag my now cold, dripping wet grossed foot from the sink and hop my way to the shower to grab the soap which slips from my hand and makes me find it in the bottom of the tub in the dark. Back to the sink. Hmmm … I thought I just shaved my legs? I think to myself. Check other leg. I did. I just did ½ off special – just finished one leg. (See # 3 above.) Mental note: shave right leg in the morning. (Oh, and I should have been wearing my pedometer! I probably got in a good ½ mile!)
With 2 clean feet now on the ground, I head back towards the rocking chair. Thud. Not again! That's the second time I knocked this poor child over. Back to the rocking chair. Where's the milk? I must have left it on the sink in the bathroom. Nope. Back upstairs, being sure to avoid the gift my soon-to-die-dog left for me. Not on the counter. Not in the fridge. Where on earth. Back downstairs. No!!! Not again! I dance my way back to the sink, then back to the rocking chair where Kevin is surprisingly still sitting & drinking his milk. Hmmm … I'm confused. But that's fine. He has his milk. As I pick him up and put him on my lap, he chucks his milk on the floor. I scold him and tell him to pick it up. "Juice!!!!" He wails. "Kevin, I just got you some milk. Pick it up and drink it!" He gets the sippy cup, but won't drink it. "Fine. Then you can go lie down now." I walk to the crib and place him in it. We pray for the 3rd time, and I kiss him good night. He keeps crying for "juice."
Back to the rocking chair I go to get the milk he wouldn't finish after I had some purple-heart worthy experiences in getting! Back to the bathroom to dump it down the sink. But wait! There's another sippy cup on the sink. Oh. And it's cold. (Now why didn't I notice that the one thrown wasn't cold? Oh, yeh, see #3.) I open the "thrown" sippy cup. Gross! I don't know where Mr. Sippy Cup Thrower found it, but it was nasty! Now I'm feeling guilty. Kevin is crying for juice and I was trying to make him drink the nasty one he found who knows where. *Being a mother is a humbling experience, by the way.
I go get sobbing-Kevin from his crib and head back to the rocking chair with his new cup of milk. When I offer it to him, he pushes it away. "Great," I think. "My son will probably never drink milk again!"
Finally I get him calmed down & put back into his bed. After prayer #4, I head back upstairs to put the milk in the fridge. Honey, golden retriever/chow mix wants to go outside. It was probably about 1:30am by this time. I let her out and wait. She's barking like crazy out there. What on earth? I'm alone, with windows all around me in my not-so-flattering pj's & the only thing I can think of is someone is outside! Honey doesn't usually bark for no reason; that's Oscar's job. I open the window to yell at her, but my breath is taken from my by a distinct smell! I quickly shut the window. If she tangled with a skunk, she is NOT coming in this house. Now what do I do? I wait about 5 minutes then open the door ½way and call her. She comes bounding to the door & proudly looks at me as if to say, Guess what I found?!?! Surprisingly, she doesn't smell like the little black & white striped creature so I let her in the house. Downstairs I go to clean up the mess at the bottom of the stairs.
At 2:07am, I drag myself back to bed. Kevin is quiet, the dogs are quiet … I'm going to sleep and don't care if I ever wake up again!
3:23am – "Juice!" Like a good mother, I ignore his cries for "juice" and go back to sleep.
4:15am – A cold, wet pink nose nudges me. Yuck! I hate that! "Honey, lie down!" 4:16am – a sharp, needs-to-be-clipped paw runs down my arm onto my side! At this point I decide I'd rather take the cold, wet pink nose. "What, Honey??? You can't possibly want to go back out again. You've made enough friends for one night. Now lie down!"
5:36am – See 4:15am & 4:16am again.
6:02am – "Momma! Momma! Poo poo!" Ahhh! The joyous sound of morning! I hear the pitter-patter of roughly 8 feet upstairs. Oscar & Honey are fighting already. I moan, but drag my feet out of bed anyway, only to find that I should have just stayed in bed (probably for the rest of my life – it would be safer). Honey must have really needed to out at 4:15, 4:16, & 5:36am. Man! At least it was just the wet stuff.
The phone rings. I am NOT running up the stairs to get it. That's what answering machines are for, right? To answer the phone when you're so tired that if you were driving you'd probably get pulled over for driving under the influence! Whatever it is, it can wait, I think.
6:20am. Kevin is changed, he has his cereal and milk, and the dogs are outside barking at the world. Things are starting to look up. No incidents in the past 18 minutes. Time to check the answering machine. It's the neighbor. The neighbor never calls. Uh-oh. "Natalie, could you move your car? The snow plow wants to clear the road." Rats. I forgot about leaving my car parked at the end of the driveway in the road yesterday. So, in my lovely pj's, I rush out to my car and move it in the driveway, only to find that the snow plow is done w/ our road and won't be coming back. *sigh*
Oh, gotta go. Someone is saying "Juice." Here we go again!
"Hi," said more emphatically. I scoot deeper under the covers. Maybe he'll give up.
"HI!" Nope.
"Good night, Kevin. It's time to go to sleep. Lie down." I brought him to bed with me (again) because it was easier then fighting with him. Well, at least I thought it would be easier. But after getting kicked in the stomach several times and head banged, I decide this little boy MUST sleep in his own bed tonight! I'm not up to WWF after midnight.
I pick him up w/ his "banky" and "pacy" (of which I'm trying to break him – the pacy not the blanky) and head for the rocking chair. Now, normal people can walk a few feet from point A to point B without incident. However, I had several. #1, legos don't mold to the bottom of feet the way they should be made to do. #2, Kevin started crying (in my ear, mind you) because he didn't like my I-just-stepped-on-your-lego-and-it-really-hurts-and-why-was-it-in-my-room-anyway dance. #3, just being a mother is qualification enough for middle of the night accidents & is a perfectly acceptable answer for ALL seemingly dumb questions.
After recovering from my mishaps, I ask an intelligent question: "Where's the rocking chair?" (If you think this is a dumb question, see #3 above.) If I could just open my eyes a little more, it would make my hunt much easier. Oh! There it is! My little toe finds it. More screaming in the ear. For not being a dancer, I sure do it a lot. Only this time it was the I-just-stubbed-my-toe-and-I'm-trying-not-to-be-a-wimp dance. After plopping myself in the rocking chair & getting Kevin all situated, I hear a little voice say, "Juice?" Sounds easy enough to you, doesn't it? Let me tell you why it's not. #1, it's past midnight. My brain shuts off at midnight. #2, the "juice," which is really milk – Kevin calls everything drinkable "juice," is upstairs. #3, see #3 above. #4, I either have to carry him up the stairs with me with a brain that is not capable of figuring out that there are 13 stairs and not just 12. (You'd think after missing the last stair more than 3x in one week, I'd remember how many stairs there are. See #3.) Or I have to put him down somewhere while I try to brainlessly find the juice. If I put him in his bed, he'll cry and think I'm not getting his juice. So, I opt for the rocking chair. "You sit here and wait for mom. I'll be right back."
I walk toward the stairs with my hands in front of me to protect me from the wall, or whatever else is in my way. Who put that book case there? This time it's my other toe. I walk gingerly up the stairs. At the top of my climb there is a sight that no one needs to see at 1am. The dog got creative with the trash and has strategically placed the contents in the path from the top of the stairs to the sippy cups to the fridge. *sigh* I will think of a way to kill the dog later; now I have a thirsty child waiting for me patiently in the rocking chair. I was on my hands and knees picking up the garbage when I backed into something. Thud. More cries. "Kevin? What are you doing up here? I thought mommy asked you to wait in the rocking chair?"
"Juice," he says through his tears. I pick him up and set him on the counter. Believe it or not, it's probably the safest place for him. If I leave him on ground level, he escapes too quickly. I find the milk in the fridge. I make a mental note to self: almost out of milk, pick some up tomorrow, which I promptly forget.
We head back downstairs. I count out loud. (I always count the stairs with Kevin, not because I'm trying to teach him numbers, although he can count to 7 and he's not even 2, but because if I don't, I end up in a pile on the floor. 12, 13. Phew! We make it to the bottom of the stairs safely. Squish. What the …? What is that?
"OSCAR!!!!!!" (Oscar is our grouchy little wiener dog who apparently had to go outside [probably because he was digging in the trash] but didn't bother to bark or scratch at the door to inform me.) I dance my way over to the rocking chair doing the I-just-stepped-in-something-gross dance, put Kevin in the chair and dance myself to the bathroom. Hanger on the floor bites my non-grossed foot. I hike my leg up into the sink & turn on the water. The freezing cold wakes me up quite quickly! Where's the soap? Oh, yeh. It's in the shower because it's my last bar so it's been making trips back and forth between the shower and sink. Another mental note for store list: buy soap. What else did I need to get? I know there was something else.
I drag my now cold, dripping wet grossed foot from the sink and hop my way to the shower to grab the soap which slips from my hand and makes me find it in the bottom of the tub in the dark. Back to the sink. Hmmm … I thought I just shaved my legs? I think to myself. Check other leg. I did. I just did ½ off special – just finished one leg. (See # 3 above.) Mental note: shave right leg in the morning. (Oh, and I should have been wearing my pedometer! I probably got in a good ½ mile!)
With 2 clean feet now on the ground, I head back towards the rocking chair. Thud. Not again! That's the second time I knocked this poor child over. Back to the rocking chair. Where's the milk? I must have left it on the sink in the bathroom. Nope. Back upstairs, being sure to avoid the gift my soon-to-die-dog left for me. Not on the counter. Not in the fridge. Where on earth. Back downstairs. No!!! Not again! I dance my way back to the sink, then back to the rocking chair where Kevin is surprisingly still sitting & drinking his milk. Hmmm … I'm confused. But that's fine. He has his milk. As I pick him up and put him on my lap, he chucks his milk on the floor. I scold him and tell him to pick it up. "Juice!!!!" He wails. "Kevin, I just got you some milk. Pick it up and drink it!" He gets the sippy cup, but won't drink it. "Fine. Then you can go lie down now." I walk to the crib and place him in it. We pray for the 3rd time, and I kiss him good night. He keeps crying for "juice."
Back to the rocking chair I go to get the milk he wouldn't finish after I had some purple-heart worthy experiences in getting! Back to the bathroom to dump it down the sink. But wait! There's another sippy cup on the sink. Oh. And it's cold. (Now why didn't I notice that the one thrown wasn't cold? Oh, yeh, see #3.) I open the "thrown" sippy cup. Gross! I don't know where Mr. Sippy Cup Thrower found it, but it was nasty! Now I'm feeling guilty. Kevin is crying for juice and I was trying to make him drink the nasty one he found who knows where. *Being a mother is a humbling experience, by the way.
I go get sobbing-Kevin from his crib and head back to the rocking chair with his new cup of milk. When I offer it to him, he pushes it away. "Great," I think. "My son will probably never drink milk again!"
Finally I get him calmed down & put back into his bed. After prayer #4, I head back upstairs to put the milk in the fridge. Honey, golden retriever/chow mix wants to go outside. It was probably about 1:30am by this time. I let her out and wait. She's barking like crazy out there. What on earth? I'm alone, with windows all around me in my not-so-flattering pj's & the only thing I can think of is someone is outside! Honey doesn't usually bark for no reason; that's Oscar's job. I open the window to yell at her, but my breath is taken from my by a distinct smell! I quickly shut the window. If she tangled with a skunk, she is NOT coming in this house. Now what do I do? I wait about 5 minutes then open the door ½way and call her. She comes bounding to the door & proudly looks at me as if to say, Guess what I found?!?! Surprisingly, she doesn't smell like the little black & white striped creature so I let her in the house. Downstairs I go to clean up the mess at the bottom of the stairs.
At 2:07am, I drag myself back to bed. Kevin is quiet, the dogs are quiet … I'm going to sleep and don't care if I ever wake up again!
3:23am – "Juice!" Like a good mother, I ignore his cries for "juice" and go back to sleep.
4:15am – A cold, wet pink nose nudges me. Yuck! I hate that! "Honey, lie down!" 4:16am – a sharp, needs-to-be-clipped paw runs down my arm onto my side! At this point I decide I'd rather take the cold, wet pink nose. "What, Honey??? You can't possibly want to go back out again. You've made enough friends for one night. Now lie down!"
5:36am – See 4:15am & 4:16am again.
6:02am – "Momma! Momma! Poo poo!" Ahhh! The joyous sound of morning! I hear the pitter-patter of roughly 8 feet upstairs. Oscar & Honey are fighting already. I moan, but drag my feet out of bed anyway, only to find that I should have just stayed in bed (probably for the rest of my life – it would be safer). Honey must have really needed to out at 4:15, 4:16, & 5:36am. Man! At least it was just the wet stuff.
The phone rings. I am NOT running up the stairs to get it. That's what answering machines are for, right? To answer the phone when you're so tired that if you were driving you'd probably get pulled over for driving under the influence! Whatever it is, it can wait, I think.
6:20am. Kevin is changed, he has his cereal and milk, and the dogs are outside barking at the world. Things are starting to look up. No incidents in the past 18 minutes. Time to check the answering machine. It's the neighbor. The neighbor never calls. Uh-oh. "Natalie, could you move your car? The snow plow wants to clear the road." Rats. I forgot about leaving my car parked at the end of the driveway in the road yesterday. So, in my lovely pj's, I rush out to my car and move it in the driveway, only to find that the snow plow is done w/ our road and won't be coming back. *sigh*
Oh, gotta go. Someone is saying "Juice." Here we go again!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Mail Order Bride - Everyone Should Read This!!!
In the 1800’s people married for survival. If you were on a wagon train and your husband was killed, if you didn’t marry the first chap that came along who asked for your pretty little hand, you may not survive! What are you going to do when everyone else in the wagon train gets to where they’re going? Now what? The other families can’t afford to house you too. So you find a nice piece of land by a stream. How are you going to build the house alone? A little shack isn’t going to hold up when the first blizzard comes along. Oh, and food and clothes? Where are you going to get the supplies? No one is going to hire a woman. The nearest Wal-mart is down the road a piece … about 150 years. So, yes, your husband dies, and a scruffy looking, but strong man asks you to marry him not even 3 days after your husband’s funeral, you say yes. He has children that need a mother because his wife died while giving birth to her last of 4 children. You marry him on the condition that he takes care of you, and you’re a mother to his children. You cook, clean, take care of the children when they’re sick in the night, do the mending, milk the cows, teach the children … all because you want to survive. He farms or raises cattle and works hard to provide for his family. You sleep in different beds.
But at some point, you start falling in love with that dirty, scruffy, hard-working man with calloused hands. Your motivation changes from duty/survival to love. You start cooking his meals not out of duty, but because you love that man & his children. The children that are his somehow become yours as well. You treat them as your own.
So why don’t we see this anymore? I’ll tell you why: Because our good friend Barbie Doll tells us it’s Survival of the Skinniest. (So good luck getting hitched if you weigh more than 90 pounds, don’t have naturally blonde hair, and wear clothes from Goodwill.) Yes, I know that’s not the only reason. I know our society has changed quite a bit. Now people just live together to “see if it will work out.”
I won’t mention how men have changed. Well, maybe I will. Men USED to WORK for a living. Now what do they do? Sit behind a desk all day. Men used to build their own homes, plant their own food, teach their own children and love their own wife. They used to take care of their families needs before their own. Now, it’s all about what they want. There are grown men that will play video/computer games &/or watch television for hours upon end. Oh, and they call in sick if they have the slightest cold. Try that on the farm someday. “I can’t go out there and plow the field today, Sally. My head hurts!” We women have a tough case on our hands!
What am I going to do about it? What can I do? Unless there’s a kindred spirit MALE out there somewhere, I’m stuck. Are there any survivors out there anymore? Maybe I’ll put out an ad for a mail order bride in every newspaper from here to civilization!Saturday, March 03, 2007
No One Told Me How Dangerous Scalding Hot Oil Is!!!!
* Disclaimer: this all happened while I was NOT on Valium.
For those of you that know me, you will be extremely impressed & proud of me. :)
I thought for once I would cook a meal for Kevin & I & the rest of my family instead of just throwing a pizza in the oven. I put 2 tablespoons of oil into a pan & turned the burner on high. While the oil was heating, I cut the potatoes into 1/4" slices (only cutting my finger twice) just like the recipe said. Then rinsed them in cold water & started tossing them into the boiling oil. NOTE TO SELF: don't "toss" just rinsed potatoes into boiling oil w/o taking 2 "Mother May I" giant steps backward. Come to find out, boiling hot oil on the hand creates blisters. (If I had a digital camera, I would take a picture & show you.) I plunged my hand into the sink & turned on the cold water. (It's still burning as I type, just for you sympathetic ones out there.)
Meanwhile, my son had escaped to the basement. I wouldn't dream of asking my dear brother, who's identity will not be revealed, but whose initials are jde, for any help w/ my son b/c he was extremely busy playing FIFA soccer. I wouldn't want to disrupt him w/ such a little thing as checking on my son.
So here I am, 1 hand out of commission & still plodding on w/ my cooking venture. What's next on the recipe? Pre-cooked chicken strips. Open the package and throw in pan. (Okay, so it didn't say "throw;" it didn't even tell me to the open the package.) Anyway ... I open the package. I've never bought precooked chicken strips before, but for some reason, I didn't think they were supposed to have little greenish blue fuzzy things on them. *sigh* "JOE! I need some help!" [whoops! guess I just uncovered his identity!] I send him in my car w/ my receipt to the store. "Oh, and on your way, could you drop this movie off? [Somewhere In Time - which I still haven't seen] It's due at 6pm." (I think it was about 5:30pm at the time.)
6:15 rolls around. Still no Joe. The store I sent him to was only 2 minutes away. Hmmm ... so I called the video store. "Hey, Tony. Have you seen Joe?" (I live in a so called city of 2,000 people. So when nameless person [me] calls Tony and says, "have you seen Joe?" she doesn't have to ask who is this? what Joe? when? etc. Everyone in this crazy little town knows everything about everyone else. Tony said he left quite a while ago. *sigh*
Okay. Let's try the store. No sign of Joe.
I finished the recipe w/o the chicken. I tried it & it was actually pretty good. When I was done eating, guess who walks in the door? That's right!!! Joseph Everson w/ my moldless chicken. So I throw the chicken in the pan, mix it all in, and try a bite. My dish tasted better w/o the stupid chicken, moldy or not! *sigh*
Here's the funny part that has nothing to do w/ cooking. My mom & dad walked in the house a few minutes later. In my mother's hand is a movie she just rented. Guess what movie? Joe comes walking in a couple minutes later and sees the movie on the table. He picks it up. Turns it over. A very confused Joe then looks at me, "Didn't I just ...?" I just laughed at him. By this time, I was far too tired to explain.
The moral of this short story: Natalie is dangerous when she cooks & she should not try it at home or anywhere else in the universe.
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