This has to be a first.

My daughter goes through an astounding number of tops. Its really unbelievable. She stains them! I put bibs on her.  I am careful.  Still somehow at the end of the week I end up with at least five shirts that even though they are spot treated, and washed with expensive “stain-fighting” detergent; end up with little impermeable spots. Grrr.
My solution for this has been to bleach them. Sure often some of the color of the shirt is lost during this process. But the pink shirt just becomes a lighter pink shirt, no biggie. Usually I have a few shirts sitting by the sink awaiting the bleaching process.
My mother in-law has been in and out of town for the past few weeks, and as evidenced by the mile-high pile of laundry I now I have to fold, I have been neglecting my laundry.  A slightly smaller pile of shirts had accumulated on the counter as well. The bespeckled shirts sat innocently waiting to be bleached. Little did they know what I had in store for them.
The pile had gotten so big that it was almost as tall as the toaster. A few days ago I remember popping my bread into the toaster and pushing it down. I also remember an odd smell. I paused and thought, “That smells like something is burning. Odd, but it seems out of place, as it is not the smell of bread burning… ” Then someone pooped or spit up, or peed, or stood on someone’s face, or pulled someone’s hair, who knows around here…and I was distracted. I got my toast and didn’t give it another thought. Until today.
I finally went to bleach the shirts. One of them had a huge brown spot on the bottom? “Oh gross is that poop that has been sitting here on my kitchen counter for two weeks?” I thought. Couldn’t be, because it was dry… it was almost like the very color of the garment had changed… the stitching on the bottom of shirt was … melted? Then it hit me. The toaster. I had inadvertently toasted my daughter’s shirt. Sigh. Only I could ruin my kid’s shirt with a toaster.

Elmo, my future son-in-law.

Novalie really never watched TV before we had Sam. No really, she didn’t. I was devoted to her developmental growth. Now… not so much. She watches almost the entire PBS morning lineup. On the upside she has learned most of her alphabet. I guess that is good. You know what’s not good? Elmo. Elmo is not good.When I was in the hospital having my second child something happened. You see before the hospital stay my daughter and I had not been apart from each other for more than and overnight stay at a friend’s house. Four long days we were apart that cold January, and I can only guess this was the traumatic experience that turned her to Elmo. Elmo was all we heard about, she is in love with him. I’d like to know why? What kind of subconscious neurological crack is Elmo infused with that every little kid exposed to his bulging, white, lidless (disturbing) eyes, becomes their willing minion?
Lets examine this. The staple of the Elmo empire is the Elmo’s World segment on Sesame Street. This is THE most inane 15 minutes of television ever created. They pick something to discuss, and its usually something simple, like a violin, or trees. Elmo always asks this complete dufus named Mr. Noodle about everything- only he never knows anything. Yet, Elmo keeps asking him! Then he asks a bunch of kids about the topic of the day, and -get this- he wraps up by ASKING A BABY. Whattheheckisthatabout!?
The assault was extended to our DVD collection. When I got back from the hospital we had acquired an Elmo in Grouchland DVD, as well as a Elmo goes potty DVD. First off, if you have seen the Elmo in Grouchland DVD you know there is a Queen of trash that likes raspberries a bit too much. As for Elmo goes potty; I’d rather not know about Elmo’s bodily functions. He’s red and hairy, I’m just glad I’m not wiping that butt. The madness does not end there. Elmo has parlayed his success into quite the empire. We have had Elmo pants, socks, shirts, stickers, toothbrushes, toothpaste, underwear, Jackets, Potties, and the dreaded Elmo barrettes. Oh those barrettes were the bane of my existence. I thought they were cute until she had to have them EVERYWHERE. EVERYWHERE. EVERYWHERE. The bathtub, the car, on the potty, in bed, at church. They disappeared. They had to. I was losing my mind because they were so tiny and they got lost every five minutes, which set off a tantrum that most people wouldn’t be able to throw without ballistic missiles.
There was a time when I thought Elmo was going to be an enduring blight on our daughter’s life, but lately there has been a light at the end of the tunnel. We were picking out a bike helmet, and she chose the princess helmet over the Elmo one. So I am diving headlong into the princess thing. I’ve bought her sippy cups, tiaras, sparkles, whatever the kid wants. “What’s that honey? You want a princess tattoo? Lets go get one now! It is just temporary pain for a lifetime of royal, pink and pretty art, why not?”

Anyway… WHY?! I ask you why is Elmo so intoxicating to our toddlers?

All for the love of Cham.

My very first crush was a serious one. It lasted for over four years. That is a lifetime in grade school crush years. I can remember the moment it started…

My family had just moved from Chicago.  I was new to the second grade. Most of the other kids had been going to school together for two years now. As a matter of fact I was one of only two new additions to the class roster. The other was Chamrong Nguyen. He was a quiet little Asian boy who was almost invisible. I say almost because as the only other new kid he was my ally. He was someone to sit next to at lunch (in silence). He was someone to walk next to in between classes. He was my saving grace when the teacher forced every new kid’s nightmare upon us… self-determining pairing for projects. None of this is what sealed the deal with the sweet little boy we later came to call Cham. It was during ‘Tell a story time’ that I fell in love with him.
He told the story of his family’s flight from Cambodia. He started out quietly. Speaking in his limping English, he detailed the reasons his family chose to leave. The persecution and atrocities they were facing were mostly beyond my understanding. I remember him talking about running in the night across fields some flooded with water so deep his head was barely above the water. He said it was so dark he could barely make out the outline of his Mother holding his brother above the water in the moonlight. He spoke about the relief his whole family felt when they reached Thailand; a place where they had family, a place to rest, food, and safety for the first time in a long time. He spoke about coming to America. I remember being confused hearing him saying the word asylum like it meant home, when to me it meant crazy house. Most of all I remember how he finished his story. He was so filled with gratefulness over being in America, and being in this school. It was place that seemed like heaven to him. He asked us to be patient with him, as he is still learning our language and this was his very first time being in a proper school.

I was riveted. It was done.  I was sold on Cham. He was like Indiana Jones, Harry Potter, and Hardy Boys all rolled into one.  He was my hero. He looked different than everyone else in our class too. He had black smooth hair, his skin was a light shade of caramel, and his eyes were black. What was more remarkable was he spoke in a polite, quiet, respectful manner. Something of a rarity in our class.  What was odd was I seemed to be the only one who saw Cham for how amazing he was. We all got to tell stories about ourselves. I think most people were more impressed with my story about how my grandfather invented Reese’s pieces (even though most of them didn’t believe me). There really is no explaining second graders.

So it started, and then grew; this infatuation with Cham.  My parent’s marriage started to really fall apart that summer between second and third grade I remember I found out the apartment complex he and his family lived in.  I used to ride my bike around there when my parents were fighting.  I did it to get out of the house, but I really wanted to bump into Cham.  The next two years were a difficult time for me, but dotted with the bright spots of my favorite refugee.  Cham’s cubby was next to mine in the third grade.  He would help me put my coat on.  What eight year old kid does that?  He was my gym partner in the fourth grade.  He was a hall monitor in fourth grade too.  I used to run really fast by him just so I could hear him say, “running is prohibited Julie.” He always spoke just like that. In a way that no other kid I knew ever did.  In many ways, his English was better then most of ours.

There were many bad things about my parent’s divorce.  One of them was that I ended up going to a different school for the fifth grade.  I was heartbroken.  I had made some friends by this point, but most of all I would miss Cham.  It was a long, rough, lonely year that would bring me a new stepmother, and eventually a new custody arrangement that would lead me back to my old school, Cham’s school.

I do not remember my sixth grade teacher’s name.  I do not remember what she looked like.  But I remember sitting down on the very first day of school that year and seeing the name written on a sheet of paper on the desk next to me.  I remember almost crying out of sheer delight.  Chamrong Nguyen was sitting next to me.  Sigh.  It was sure it was going to be a great year.   We both really liked 90210.  I think it was on Wednesdays then.  We would come in every day and talk about what had happened the night before.  Who had Brenda slept with?  Who had Donna not slept with etc. etc. (side note- what on Earth were my parent’s thinking letting me watch 90210 at 11 years old?!)  We were lab partners in science class.  I was amazed at how his accent had almost completely  disappeared in the one year we had been apart.  He had maintained just enough of it to still make me melt a little.  There was this kid who sat in front of us.  His name was Shane.  She compulsively licked his hands.  He was completely normal in every way accept he licked his hands every couple of minutes, and he seemed to be completely unaware of this tick.  Shane would always seem to need pencils.  He was always running out of them.  No one in class would loan them to him because they didn’t want his saliva laden hands all over their pencils.  Cham would always pony up a pencil for him.  When Shane would try to return it, Cham would just smile and tell him to keep it.  One time we were dissecting these huge earthworms.  We  had to puncture them with pins in this pan of wax to hold them still while we cut them open.  They were  supposed to be dead, but when I put a pin through its head it squirmed, and I screamed a little.  My teacher sent me to the principals office (which is a bit of an overreaction.  Wouldn’t you say?)  Cham stuck up for me and told her that it squirmed,  and that he had seen it.  She sent me anyway. but I still thought it was chivalrous of him.  He was so amazing, and still nobody but me really saw it.  He had acquired some friends by this point. He was downright friendly and outgoing.   He hung out with other bookish school-minded types that become just one of many cliques that start to form at this age.  He was diametrically opposite from another group lead by a girl named Rachel who was just another girl in the fourth grade, but in the year of my absence had become the queen bee.  She shaved her legs, and had two ear piercings in each ear.  She wore makeup, said damn, and my problems with her were about to begin.

I kept a journal then.  I wrote about my parent’s divorce, my developing stepfamilies, my friends, and a lot about Cham.  This is something I have been unable to maintain in my adult life; keeping a journal.  Perhaps this is due to what happened with that journal.  You see I often kept it in my desk in our homeroom.  This is where we started and ended each school day.  We would move around the sixth grade area for specialized classes like music, art, science, social studies etc.  My homeroom teacher taught social studies, so other students would sit in our desks when were we switched for different classes.  Rachel  sat in my desk.  See I’m no dummy.  I didn’t just leave my unlocked journal in my desk for everyone to see.  I was sneaky.  First of all I was a sloppy, disorganized, mess.  So finding anything in my desk was nearly impossible.  Second, my journal was a regular spiral-bound notebook that I cleverly disguised by writing “Math Notebook” on the cover.  This was an impenetrable layer of protection I was sure would keep my secrets safe from prying eyes.  So you can imagine my surprise when one Friday I was packing up my backpack to go home for the weekend when I discovered my journal was missing. I felt sick.  This sickness continued through the weekend, and only got worse when I came back to school the next week.

Rachel had in fact stolen and read my journal.  I could only imagine who had heard what, and how she had disseminated the information over the weekend.  I saw it spreading in full force the rest of the week.  Huddled groups of different people giggled loudly until suddenly all eyes would be on me in silence as I walked by.  Cham became suspiciously silent a couple days later.  That is when I knew that the news had reached him.  You see I do not think he was interested in girls yet.  At least he had not shown any interest in girls that I had seen.   In the coming weeks he reverted to the quiet, loner I knew from second grade.  He sat alone at lunch, and he stopped talking to me altogether.  Who knows why 12 year old boys react the way they do?  I can only assume he was embarrassed.  That year would go by in a fog for me.  I was recast in the familiar role of outsider as it is apparently very uncool to have an acknowledged crush when you are in the sixth grade.

In the end I had a hard time picking out what was the worst outcome of the whole situation.  Was it my astronomical embarrassment?  Or perhaps the loss of a friendship with Cham?  No, the worst part was that the next year, Rachel  actively pursued and successfully acquired Cham as her first boyfriend of the year.  Furthermore, this propelled him into junior high super stardom, and secured his place among the beautiful and popular kids for the rest of his scholastic years.  He became what they needed him to become to be a part of their world.  He wore the right shoes, and the right jeans.  He really should have thanked me.  It was all made possible by my glowing endorsement of his previously unnoticed coolness.   We moved away from New York in my freshman year.  I lost track of Cham.  I had lost interest.  He was no longer as unique,  interesting, and sweet as he had once been. But he was my first crush.  I’m only sorry it had to end in such a train wreck.

Who was your first crush?

Random things I love about my husband.

It is the little things that make him my favorite. Here are a few:

1.) How my daughter’s head seems to fit perfectly in the bend at the side of his neck.
2.) That little vein in his hand that pops up every time I try to push it down.
3.) When he tries to swiffer the floor he puts the swiffer pad on upside down. How cute is that? I haven’t told him. I guess my cover is blown now.
4.) The way most of his pants are just a little too short.
5.) He doesn’t wear white socks.
6.) He has 16 different coats.
7.) He once made kraft macaroni and cheese by boiling the noodles, and then dumping the butter, milk and cheese packet in with the six cups of water still in the pan. When I laughed at him, he said, “What?” He was serious. Adorable.
8.) He likes fly fishing.
9.) He didn’t get a motorcycle when he could have because he knew it wasn’t what was best for our family at the time.
10.) He once asked me what a guacamole looked like.
11.) He taught Novalie a modified version of basketball which basically consists of her running away from him while he tries to peg her with a ball. Like one-sided dodgeball.
12.) He loves my vegetable soup.
13.) He has in depth conversations with the cat.
14.) He is completely unaware of how attractive he is.
15.) He is a nerdy dancer.
16.) He bites his nails.
17.) He has one really long eyebrow hair in his right eyebrow that he refuses to let me cut.
18.) He served our country in Iraq for almost a year and a half, and was in the National Guard for 8 years, and would prefer that no one knows about it.
19.) He refuses to buy me things that I request for birthdays, anniversaries, etc. He MUST come up with something on his own.
20.) He is freakishly good at almost everything he tries. Seriously.

There are more. Maybe I’ll add them as I think about them. Some of these things seriously drive me nuts at times, but when I really think about them they still make me smile.

Towel Wars

Help me settle a marital dispute.  How many times do you use a bath towel before you wash it?  (Feel free to answer anonymously – I need honesty here.)

We fight funny.

Yes we have fights that aren’t funny.  I’m going to keep it real and admit to that.  Quite often though, we fight funny.  It’s good to keep your arguments light.  Sometimes when things are getting particularly heavy, I’ll throw in a cowboy to lighten the mood.  As in, “Hey cowboy it takes just as long to hang your coat up in the closet as it does to hang it on the back of the chair.”  He wants to react to my nagging, but instead he thinks, “did she just call me cowboy?” It works, try it.

One time we fought was particularly humorous, and will always be one of my favorite memories with my husband.  We were newlyweds.  At the time I was working, and Stephen was at home trying to build the photography business.  We only had one car so he’d drive me to and from work every day.  We would always get up as late as possible and rush to get ready, and out the door.  One morning we got in the car, and I noticed that Stephen had gotten a bottle of water, and a muffin.  I mentioned that it would be nice if I could have it, Since I was headed to work where there would be no other opportunity for me to get breakfast, and he’d be going back home where there was a refrigerator full of food to eat.  He sighed heavily and said, “Fine.”

I rolled my eyes and said, “Whatever, nevermind.”  You see I wanted him to be happy to give up his breakfast.  He was decidedly not so.  In my weird newlywed girl brain I thought if he really loved me he’d gladly give me his breakfast.  I was sure this reluctance at relinquishing breakfast goodies was a sure sign of his diminishing commitment to me.

“No you better take it, because I’m not going to eat it now.”  He said angrily.

“You think I want it with that attitude? You just eat it.” I shot back.

“I will NEVER eat that muffin.  You might as well eat it, because it will sit there FOREVER if you don’t.”

“Wow, you are crazy, now I definitely don’t want it.  I’m not going to eat it.  You got it because you wanted it, and you’re hungry, so just eat it.”  I’m thinking…oooo I’m so hungry.  For some reason this muffin is a line in the sand.  I will not eat that muffin now if I was starving to death.

“No!”

“Why are you being so weird?!”

“Why are you being so weird?!  You’re the one who said you wanted it, and then when I said you can have it, you didn’t want anymore.”  I could tell he was genuinely baffled.

“Whatever Stephen.” I sat in silence for a long time before I realized he was looking at me.”What?” I was being purposefully elusive.

“What do you mean, ‘What’?!” He said,  losing it.  I turned to look out the window.  It was like someone was twisting the silence until it got tighter, and tighter and tighter.  Until finally, He yelled, “WHATDOYOUWANT!?!?! JUSTTELLMEWHATYOUWANTAND I’LL DO IT!”

“EAT THE MUFFIN!  JUST EAT THE FREAKING MUFFIN!” I said as I grabbed hand fulls of my hair.

“FINE!.  I’ll eat the muffin!”  He grabbed the muffin and with one fell swoop unwrapped it and shoved the entire thing in his mouth.  Now this was a big muffin.  One of those unusually large muffins that is the reason we Americans have a skewed notion of what a proper portion sizes are.  Stephen’s mouth was so packed with lemon poppyseedness that he couldn’t even close his lips around it.  He can’t even chew.  He is just driving down the road with a mouth full of muffin, crumbs dropping out into his lap.  Seeing as we were fighting I felt the need to stifle my laughter.  I could tell he was trying not to look at me. I didn’t know what to do next.  I still wanted to stick it to him, but he looked so flippin’ funny with his face stuffed with muffin.  Then a stroke of genius hit.

“OK…. but I’m drinking the water.”  I grabbed the bottle, smiled to myself, and jumped out of the car to get to work.

Stephen reminded me of this argument the other day.  Sigh… I love him.

Sleepless in St. Louis

I have a secret.  I really don’t like sleeping with my husband sometimes.  I’m talking SLEEP here people.  Get your minds out of the gutter.  I had the grandest notions of what it would be like to sleep as a married person.  I imagined being held.  Maybe he’d rub my back or play with my hair.   With our soft breathing we would lull each other to sleep.

Ha.  Anybody who is married knows this is not the case.  Sometimes I honestly wonder why anybody sleeps together.  I like to say the two things that saved our marriage were a king size bed, and an ice maker.  Augh, first off, sleeping too close under covers get HOT.  Uncomfortably hot.  I don’t like being hot.  Then there is the air issue.  I realize what I’m about to say is very illogical so all you Vulcans out there feel free to call me on it.  I hate feeling someone’s breath on my face.  I feel like I am being suffocated.  That air is used.  I do not want second-hand air.  I want brand new fresh air.

There is another problem that requires it’s own paragraph and that is the snoring.  Now I’m not naive enough to think that I never snore.  I snore when I am pregnant, and when I am congested.  My darling husband snores every night approximately 4.5 minutes after he has fallen asleep.  I can hear it coming.  His breathing evens out and slows down.  Soon a guttural purr begins.  This is usually when I nudge him.  I want him to move into that mysterious and exact position that inexplicably keeps him from snoring as soon as possible.  I don’t want to wait for the construction site-esque snoring to begin.

Then there is the jolting.  As he is falling asleep, somewhere between when his breathing starts to slow down and he begins to snore, he will occasionally jolt.  The weird thing is he stays asleep.  Sometimes he’ll do it more than once.  Can you imagine sleeping with this?  I cannot.

So I have decided, as the Bible says, there is a season for everything  there is a time for cuddling, but sleep time is not that time.  I need my space and for that I have the Rhineland.  My pillow serves as a nice buffer zone that I put between my husband and I to give me the much needed space.  Don’t get me wrong, we cuddle, and it’s nice, but then I need to sleep, and sleep requires space.  My husband grumbles about this often, my buffer zone, but I just tell him I love him and then scoot over to my side of the bed. So now if I can just get around the snoring…

Mascara commercials think I’m stupid.

The problem is, I just might be.  Stupid that is.  You see before I had children a had a sort of obsession.  I loved Make-up.  I mean I really loved it.  I never stepped out my door without out a full face of makeup on.  A “no makeup” day for me (like say a sick day, or a cleaning day) still consisted of cover-up, blush, and lipstick.  Maybe even a touch of eyeshadow.  I could spend hours in Sephora, and I have a whole case of make-up.  I wouldn’t say I was vain (maybe I was, but I wouldn’t say it).  I just loved the art of it. I loved how I could transform a face with just some powders and paints.  One thing that captivated me was the search for the perfect mascara.  I have probably tried every mascara on the market.  Save a few department store brands because I rarely have the time and money to try them out.  My friend Megan made fun of me one day when we were roommates because she pointed out that I had four different tubes of mascara in my purse.  At the time I was using two different types at once to achieve what I felt was necessary.

Since having children my search for the perfect mascara has been stepped up a notch.  I don’t wear makeup very much at all anymore.  Maybe once a week I put on makeup, and twice a month I might get to the mascara-usage level of application.  So why is it so important now you ask?  Well I have a theory that children are made of eyelashes.  You see before I had children I had amazing eyelashes.  Strangers used to stop me and ask me if I had false eyelashes on.  Now?  I got nothing.  Seriously, stuby stubness prevails in the lash department.  What happened?!  So I search for mascara.

Every time I see a new commercial for this black goodness I am riveted.  I think, “Maybe this will be it, the new formula to solve all my lashular problems!”  This is why I am stupid.  It is just this child-like hopefulness that leads me astray.  I mean these commercials  prey on my insecurities.  They show pictures of lashes growing magically before my eyes.  Long black tubes extending out magically as if the owner told a big fat lie, and like Pinocchio’s nose her lashes give her away.  But c’mon!  Can a reasonably intelligent person believe that it will do that for them?  I mean it is obviously computer generated.  Some of the commercials show models with false lashes on so thick they can barely see through them.  They are obviously fake.  Why do they do this?  Do they expect me to believe that the mascara did that?  I mean they don’t even look partially real.  Sheesh.

But I buy, because I’m a sucker.  My dream is that I can coat my lashes in mascara and restore them to even a shadow of their former glory.  A girl can dream right?

Jon and Kate + Controversy

I’ve been watching Jon and Kate + 8 on TLC since its inception almost four years ago.  They started with a two hour special on how they came to have such an unusual family, and how they deal with it on a day to day basis.  The special was very popular and quickly became a weekly show.  I watched because I was having a hard time as a mother myself.  I wanted to see how another Mother was dealing with it.  It’s the same reason I read many mom blogs, and talk daily to other moms. The fact that she has so many children is only icing on the cake.

There have been many stories lately about trouble in the Gosselin household; stories of infidelity, and marital discord.  And because I have an interest in the family I can’t help but read them. US did a story. People did a story. Their local paper did a story too.  CNN even did a bit on it.  CNN PEOPLE!  What the heckity heck? I read a lot of the comments on the various stories and there is quite a dark side to the Jon and Kate  phenomenon.

Did you know there are blogs devoted entirely to tearing this family down?  I will not quote them here.  Because I do not want them to get any more hits.  Dissecting each and every aspect of their lives, they quote “inside sources”.  I’d like to address some of the things they say.  I’d like to give one outsider’s clueless perspective to vie with their supposed “insider’s”  clueless perspectives.

They point out Kate’s current travel schedule of daily meet and greets to promote her new book,  Eight Little Faces.  They remind us of her previous book tour, and her numerous speaking engagements.  But this is their work!  They need to support their family.  They do it through the sales of their books, and their speaking engagements.  Jon doesn’t work in his IT job any more so when Kate is out of town he is home with the kids.  I really don’t see what the big deal is here.  These people also pick on the Gosselins recent home purchase, and all the free things they get.  Jealous!  They have worked hard for this stuff.  Give them a break!  A free ski vacation and a few toys are less than they deserve for keeping those kids alive and healthy this long.  I don’t think my record would have been as good.  And along the same lines, the writers of these hateful blogs point out that Kate has a lot of off screen help to cook, clean, watch the kids.  If this is true SO WHAT?!  If I had those kids I’d need at least one other person to help me watch them.  By this I mean I’d need at least one more set of eyes to help me keep them alive, let alone cooking and cleaning, and entertaining.  They also pick on Kate’s strong personality.  Now I’m no disciple of Kate.  I think she can be rather shrill, and Jon can be a little apathetic.  But they are doing amazingly well.  If it were me I wouldn’t have left my house in four years, except to be in the street in sackloth and ashes tearing out my hair.   As for the abruptness with which Kate speaks to Jon, well I can’t say I’m innocent there either.  How many times have I snipped at my husband for leaving his towel on the floor, or forgetting to take his shoes off?  More than I can count.  Another favorite topic of these hate bloggers is Jon’s activities.  This is also the source of many of the tabloid rumors.  I have to think about my marriage and how our everyday activities could be observed by an uneducated outside observer.  My husband could have been photographed late at night leaving clubs with another woman in his car.  Scandalous right?  Not really.  He often has photography assistants in his car that help him with shooting his weddings.   A lot of the receptions for these weddings are held in bars.  I can’t imagine what these rumors and exaggerated stories would do to a marriage.  I trust my husband, but if People magazine had him on the front page with another woman, I might begin to wonder.

All this to say, hang in there Jon and Kate.  I think you are good Godly people who are doing their best.   Anybody with one shred of decency and common sense will see through this media-created frenzy.  I pray that this present storm does not inflict too much damage on your family.  Thank you for bringing some laughter, and encouragement into my life.  And if you want to quit, I completely understand.

Preposterous

I am about to define preposterous for you in a way you have never heard it defined before.  I am going to do this because sometimes things happen in my life that bring a whole deeper meaning to certain words.

I am about to sit down to sew (which I hate doing) a large rip in a laundry sorting bag so I can sort laundry I don’t want to do, into piles that generally grow too large to be sorted into the bags, and so I can take these bags full of laundry I don’t want to do up and down the stairs to the laundry machines.  I could buy new bags, but I’m broke.   So… I… am… sewing…  LAUNDRY BAGS!

Preposterous.