Entries from December 2006 ↓

This looks like a fun project.

Project 365 I know there are some camera bugs who would like to play along.

Today is not a day for the gym. The thought of stepping up and stepping down, turning, kicking, and lunging makes my stomach roll.

Today is a day for loose clothes, fuzzy socks, and chamomile tea.

It is a day for soda crackers and moving slow.

Someone tell the boys.

We’re a sick, twisted family.

Last night it was misting as we left the Christmas Eve Service.

Aidan – Daddy, it’s raining!
Tim – No, the angels are spitting.
Aidan – The angel spit in my eye!

Today – Mama, can I play outside when the angels are done spitting?

There are times when a precious tidbit of information bubbles up, where you just want to blurt it out, but you wait until the person has finished digging their own hole.

We attended a progressive neighborhood party last night. It was fun to eat past full and I admit it was hard to pass up the cocktails and request water, but I did. A beautiful girl was in attendance, close to my height, with dark hair, Grecian features, and a shy smile. The party progressed and we meandered from house to house. I walked home a little early to relieve my mother.

An hour or so later, Tim came home flushed and happy. He had enjoyed the evening and a few cocktails. I’d had a good time, but to tell the truth I truly don’t care for the joys of early pregnancy. Exhaustion and nausea are only so fun and there are a few other symptoms that make PMS a picnic, if only due to its duration. I was a little grumpy, feeling a little frumpy, and Tim was telling me how flattered he was that the girl had been “checking him out.” I know it was just an ego stroke and we all need those on occasion, but I was aware of one little fact.

Oh, I tried to bite it back, but I just couldn’t help myself.

“Do you mean the one with dark hair?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“She’s fourteen.”

The wind left his sails and his ego deflated.

She’s a beautiful girl and I can’t envy her mother’s job.

Dave Moulton tagged me and I read the post ten minutes after my last big post. That would have been a perfect number five, such is the nature of life. Write five unknown facts about yourself.

1. I play the trumpet. I used to play decently with a good range, but now I only break it out around Christmas or to show my stepdaughter something.

2. Things that should be simple often scare me into inaction. I know it’s perfectionism and I’m slowly getting a handle on it, but there are still times where I catch myself avoiding projects solely because they won’t come out right.

3. I wrecked my motorcycle the day I received my learner’s permit. I hit some sand rounding a corner and lost control. My helmet saved my face, if not my life. I had road rash over a good portion of my body and a very kind nurse secured some liquid cocaine to numb the area before they scrubbed the dirt away. I haven’t ridden since.

4. I tended bar when I was nineteen, here in the great state of SC.

5. I never know how to answer the question, “How many children do you have?” I always want to say 2.5, since my stepdaughter isn’t here all the time, but I know that will often grant me a blank stare. The “two and my husband has a daughter from a previous marriage” is way too long. So I usually sound like a loon.

Margo
Ivy
Carye
Eugene
Chip (to help him come out of his shell)

I’ve debated this post for a couple of weeks. Not posting has somehow felt dishonest. I know there is very little accountability in the blogging world, yet I still feel held to certain standards. I’ve not made this post for fear of possible repercussions associated with my job application. (According to the latest e-mail the process is on hold until some time in the new year.) After much thought, I’ve decided to go ahead and let the chips fall where they may.

It seemed to take forever to settle into a routine after we finally returned from our trip. I blamed it on the boys being sick. Then came Mark with his molars. Then there was a stretch where nothing happened, but nothing felt right. Then there was this fateful dinner. You see, I gagged on that meal and a light went on.

Ten minutes later I was staring at two pink lines.

I was stunned. All I could think was how I would tell Tim. I handled it with my usual grace and aplomb, blurting it out at the first opportunity, leaving him as shocked as I was. You see, it took eighteen months for our oldest and a year for our second. A missed pill and an off kilter schedule gave us this surprse. (Yes, yes, I am aware there is more, but my family might read this.)

It’s still early, but now it’s out in the open. I won’t have to tell Geoff that I’m driving and that’s why I abstained, no one will think twice when I order a second entree, and I finally quit worrying about whether or not I should tell.

As far as the job, this is our third, I’m aware of the commitment involved and the workload I can handle.

At least the tree is done.

Do you ever have those days where the harder you try to catch up, the more things fall apart?

I don’t. Nope. Not me.

I usually don’t know where I stand in the feminist debate. I believe in equality, yet I really don’t mind if doors are held open. So, I’m probably a fence sitter.

However, comments like this raise my ire.

Mr. Moffitt, I know you assumed the apology included in the insult would make everything OK. It doesn’t.

You have a daughter, how can you possibly think it’s OK to insult someone using her gender? Janet Edens said it well in her post on XARK! the other day. We are different, but “devaluing the characteristics of one [gender] is bad for both.”

In the past I’ve jumped my husband’s case for slipping up and saying things of this nature to our boys. I will do it again. How can men grow to respect women if they are taught that feminine characteristics are an insult?