Injustice and death, and the Supreme Otherness that is God

Today would be my little sister's 43 birthday, except that she is forever frozen in time at the age of 18 and a half. Do you think that people are ageless in Heaven? What would that look like, exactly? Do you think everyone looks about 25 in Heaven? Or are they eternally preserved as they appeared at the moment of death? That would seem inconvenient to an infant, or disappointing for someone in their 90's...or their 40's for that matter.
My sister died in a car wreck on November 9, 1991. She's now been in Heaven longer than she was on earth.

I'm feeling pensive this afternoon, though it's not so much due to the date of my sister's birth or the consequence of her death. I've been thinking of other unanswerable questions. Mostly, I'm feeling just a bit frustrated with the unfairness of life.
Why is there drug abuse? Why are violent predators allowed to draw breath? Why are beautiful infants given to profoundly negligent parents? Why are some people discarded while others are pampered? Why is it that God allows some people to endure such unimaginable circumstances?
I have a young friend whose life has been one instance of abuse followed fast by another. The neglect and evil foisted upon her has continued from the cradle unabated. I have been loved and treasured my whole life, while this lady has never known such security.
I feel so powerless in the face of these problems. It baffles me to consider that the God of Infinite Power has seemingly done so little to put all these wrongs to right. Has He no magic wand with which to transform the world?! 
Transformation is precisely what He offers, yet so few avail themselves of it. Transformation, Forgiveness, Healing, Abundant Life. The galling part, at least to me, is that He makes these wonders available to the Abuser as well as to the Victim. The Rapists, Murderers, and Drug dealers are offered the very same Love and Newness of life as are the children, the discarded, the forgotten. This seems every bit as unfair to me as is the sin committed by the monsters...Until I consider my own unbalanced sense of Justice.
I see the consequences of sin in the lives of those I love. I want to punish those who have made them to suffer so. I want to hate.
God extends the offer of Jesus to each and every one.  It is terribly unfair. The convoluted part is my belief that I deserve blessing while They deserve judgement. The truth is that I deserve Judgement and they deserve judgement. Jesus stepped up and took mine for me. That's the only reason I am not going to burn in Hell as I deserve.
See, God sees this wicked horror that mankind perpetrates upon one another. He hates it. But He loves these people like I love my own children (felons though they be!) He wants them all to be restored, even the really really bad ones.
I think I don't understand a God that can be so cruel as to allow abuse to continue. Then I realize that it isn't the cruelty I can't understand (that really comes very easily to me). What I can't understand is the Love. I can't understand a God who loves an abuser so much that He would make forgiveness so freely available.
I can't understand.
I guess I don't really have to understand it. It is so, whether I understand it or no. I, too, am the recipient of His Unfair, enormous Love. I'm really glad of that, after all.

My heart should still break for the mistreatment of people, I think. There is so much evil in this world.
And, I guess I should rejoice that God is God and I am not. I'd be blasting people willy-nilly with my magic wand.

I propose a new topic

Enough about addiction. Let's complain about a different one of my offspring this evening, shall we?

Before we do, though, I'd like to show you the bag of dark chocolate I've been eating this evening. It was much nearer to being full about 15 minutes ago. It's comfort food, really. Shall we discuss my lack of makeup? Or just save that for another day?

So, my eldest is in prison, you know. He has this seriously cute little girlfriend who comes by the house to visit with me quite often. The problem I'd like to complain about is that Michael invariably calls me when she is here. This always results in his asking "can I just say 'hi' to her?" Which means that they embark upon 30 minutes of giggly chit-chat. Not that I resent that, not exactly. Understand that phone conversations with the prison are not free. They are 10 cents for every minute. Not only have I been thrown over for a pretty young thing, but I'm paying for the privilege. 

This is my favorite stone face. I keep him in my hidey-hole of an office because he brings me a whimsical joy. Other stoned faces are not allowed in my hidey-hole of an office because any face that is stoned just irritates me. Thus, we have made it back, full-circle to the tired old topic of the past few years.

Today was a little rough around here. As opposed to yesterday, which was a walk in the sunshine. Have I mentioned that living with addiction in the house is erratic on a good day, and downright insane on a bad day.

I'll tell you what, though, I'm sure learning to be unruffled in the face of sizable provocation. A set of headphones and a vigorous workout session go a long way towards keeping me sane.

So does a good marriage. 

My husband is a balm for my soul. That man keeps me grounded and secure in the face of some kind of crazy. Days like today, when  my heart is shredded and I'm beyond exhausted from dealing with the unfathomable, he will walk in and wrap his arms around me. He offers me such love without judgement. I can rail and cry or complain or freak out....he just takes me as I am. I can't even imagine dealing with this insanity without his strength.

This picture was taken 9 years ago. Not a one among us was on drugs or in prison. Good times.

At death's very door

I may be slightly alive, but I am in no way happy about it.
I have been on my deathbed all week, or on the couch anyway. It's a glorified cold. The indignity of being sidelined by a sneeze is more than I can bear. It's been a long time since I found myself sick enough that I was willing to sit in a chair and whimper. Or complain voraciously to anyone fool enough to approach. Yet, here I am. My nose runs a great deal, considering it never leaves my face. My head aches, my body aches, I cough at the slightest provocation. I'm disgusting.

I've been sleeping and laying about for three days now, so the inactivity is extremely mind-numbing.
This afternoon I succumbed to onerous ennui by turning on that strange blue glow; the Television. Well, nothing so primitive as that! In truth, I dialed up the old Amazon Prime on my trusty Kindle. I sat for hours watching one episode after another, and blowing my nose. From time to time, I arose to wash my hands and spray Lysol.

Sick, I tell you.

 

The TV show I found to watch was quite diverting. Never mind the sex, drugs, and swearing. It's called Mozart in the Jungle. It's a whole classical music thing, so it feels quite erudite. If one is to suffer the various ignominies of common illness, one should at least be allowed the fancies of cerebral entertainment. Don't you agree?

 

If I survive until tomorrow, I'll drag my frail person right back to the computer to report on my health. Won't that be riveting?

A suitably dramatic end

Blood pressure monitoring becomes fascinating over 40. A jolt of caffeine can have an impact. Crackers can move the dial. Cardiovascular exercises.....perhaps it's anything that begins with a "c". Yes, that sounds about right. Children begins with a "c", and I know they effect my blood pressure.

I bought a blood pressure monitor that fits on my wrist. I press a little button, and it gives me a read-out of blood pressure and pulse. It's quite diverting.

The thing is, I don't have high blood pressure.

The thing is, I need it to be low blood pressure. Otherwise, my aneurysm could expand and rupture, and I could perish in a dramatic and sudden manner. You've no idea how such a death appeals to me. Not like I want to die, you understand. It's only that I accept the inevitability of death, and I'd like the event to have some aplomb.
Ironically, my life post-diagnosis has been structured to avoid such a death. I eschew salt and cholesterol. My caffeine intake is limited, as is any alcohol indulgence. I no longer run, and can't lift weights above 30 pounds. I own a blood pressure monitor and a Cardiologist, and one of those pill boxes like a Christmas Advent Calendar. (The pill box is silver plated, and engraved. It was a gag-gift from my sister on the 40th birthday. Who knew I'd employ it in all seriousness a year later?)
So, I'm rather an old lady. Give me a minute and I'll be doing water aerobics.

It's really irritating, to be honest.

My future holds the assurance of surgery, though the goal is to forstal that by a decade. Meanwhile, I eat salad and refrain from sudden movements. And I complain.

Vampire Needed

I've decided that the reason my liver is inadequate relates to an inefficient transportation system within my veins. I did not come to this alarming conclusion all on my own.
Rather, I did, but not entirely without provocation.
The provocation arrived in the person of a very kind nurse.
This nurse was presented with the daunting task of obtaining a blood sample from the arm of yours truly. Any time I must face a medical professional who has not yet drawn my blood, I feel compelled to open with a brief caveat. It goes like this, "Please be prepared for a challenge,as I have no discernible veins. You have three tries, and then you're done."
They always smile and nod in a patronizing way. It's very predictable.
This nice nurse lady first poked about at the center of my inner elbow with a finger. Apparently most people have a vein there. Oddly enough, I do not. She then ventured to the outer reaches of that area where she developed enough confidence to want to attempt to actually sink a needle there. It didn't work. She did not, however, remove the needle. Convinced that she was near, this fine lady began to twist and maneuver until hitting a rather sensitive nerve. I was nerved, she was un-nerved. I would rather have been her.
She decided that more caution may be in order, so we worked together at a tourniquet/flexing exercise designed to plump up my feeble lines. She dug in her bag for a tiny little baby-sized needle, which she called a butterfly. I think this was to make it sound harmless. Fortunately, this little poker had far less of a bite. It also was no more successful than the first go-round. I was thrilled with the lack of agonizing pain, and so was more inclined to feel optimistic.
Sweet nursing lady was having a bad day. She seemed to feel that this inability to drill sucessfully for blood, when blood ought to be so plentiful, was indicative of some shortcoming on her part. I was not overly worried about it, as this sort of thing has happened to me on more than one occasion. It's awfully fun.
So, the "third time is a charm," as they always say.
They are wrong. Why do they say things like that?
The third time involved another grown-up sized needle, and elusive veins. I called it quits, and the disappointed lady admitted defeat.
She told me that in 10 years of drawing blood, she had never failed. In fact, she had never ever come across veins that she couldn't...well...come across. I am a freak of nature.
You know what's funny? I cut myself shaving in the shower this morning, and bled like an amputee. I should have called the nurse.

Habits are funny things

Kara recently announced that life is too short to drink cheap wine. Now, while I am inclined to agree with the ideology of that statement, the particulars are less than what I can embrace.
If I open a good bottle of wine, I feel compelled to steadily work on it until it's gone. That doesn't necessarily mean that I drink it all in one evening, although that has been known to happen. If one paces oneself, one can begin while setting the dinner table, and finish after the late evening news without ever compromising one's sobriety.
One's liver, however, now that's a different story.
I always figured that as long as I was not drinking like a fraternity brother, I was good. If I was not drowning my faculties, I figured I was not drowning my liver either. Apparently my liver disagreed.
I told my doctor, when he asked, that I drink like a European. We have wine with dinner, of course; Red or White paired with our entrees. My doctor kindly explained that some raging alcoholics can down a fifth of vodka daily for 50 years with no liver damage, while some more sober types can't handle a daily glass of red. I fall into the latter category.
Who knew?
I needed to drink less.
Tea does not excite me, and I dislike soda.
Beer is nasty, and also a potential threat to my liver.
Diet coke is fine, but it keeps me up if I drink it in the evenings.
Perrier is gross.
Juices have too many calories.
Crystal Light is too sweet.
What do people drink in the evening when they don't have wine?

I allow myself to have something lovely just a couple times a week. But not too much at a time.

So I've taken to drinking cheap wine.

I can't justify opening a bottle, when all I want is a glass, so I buy those cute little tiny 4-packs. That way I can open one teeny tiny bottle, and nothing goes to waste. Now I drink once or twice a week, rather than once or twice per day.

And I need a good non-alcoholic beverage for the other evenings. Any suggestions?

A dignified piercing

I finally darkened the door of a tattoo parlor. Shocking at my age. Although, in my defense, I chose one in Eagle (an upscale neighborhood) rather than an establishment on the seedier side of town.

I've talked about getting a tattoo for years, but was never willing to commit. Ink under one's skin seems so permanent; and the artistic submission requires such absolute trust. I'm not really comfortable giving that kind of submission under the best of circumstances. Bestowing it upon some pierced and tattooed stranger is a bit of a reach.
But I went.
The purpose of this particular visit was to acquire a tastefully subtle piercing. Jewelry makes me happy.
Although,
I know a woman who voluntarily pierced twin peaks (shall we say?) of decidedly feminine and extraordinarily sensitive tissue. I confess to a certain fascinated horror at the contemplation of that particular procedure. I've seen the handiwork, though, and it does lend an exotic flair.
For myself, I was after something....else.
I chose a navel piercing. A delicate diamond gracing my waistline...just there...to draw the eye inward, and contribute to the illusion of a tiny waist.

My sister, Amanda, took me, and promised to hold my hand.

The proprietress greeted me with a look of disdain reminiscent of a teenager rolling her eyes. After hearing my intention, she explained that this kind of thing hurts, and often results in "some pretty gnarly infections" that may take up to a year to heal. Then she turned her back to me and went about her noble and valuable tasks. If she expected to throw me off with this kind of rude and appalling behavior, she nearly succeeded. My inner rebel took over, though, and I decided that a snot-nosed-brat was not going to keep me from my goal. She was, however, going to wield the piercing tool.
This sort of piercing is not to be undertaken lightly. Nor ought it to be undertaken without a round of antibiotics.
There is a clamping tool employed on the flesh prior to the actual impalement. This I was not prepared for. I averted my eyes, grimaced in agony, and squeezed the fragile bones in my little sister's hand.
"Kelly, she hasn't really started yet," Amanda whispered.
Which was strictly true. The clamp was uncomfortable in the way that childbirth is uncomfortable. They pull all this flesh way out from the body and snugly secure it with clamps for the purpose of aligning the piercing implement.
Then she drove the stake through my skin. It didn't break through without resistance. Indeed, my valiant flesh put up quite a fight, before the little nail was gained passage. That was unpleasant.
"You gonna faint?" the tattooed woman thoughtfully inquired.
I was actually closer to punching her in the nose, but that hardly seemed fair.

Amanda paid for my fun, as my 40th birthday present.
It was quite a little adventure. I'm glad I did it.
I have had repeated "gnarly" infections.
And I will never,
ever,
in a million years,
get a tattoo.

Gravity is a man

There was a middle aged woman in my mirror this morning. That was unsettling.
I attained my 40th birthday this Summer with a sense of accomplishment and optimism. Tim smuggly informed me that "the wheels come off at 40," which I took to be an amusing colloquialism, and not a resounding gong of certain forboding. Alas. Who knew the reality would begin immediately?

So, there I stood, confronting that middle aged reflection.
It needed makeup, badly. But not too much makeup, because makeup gets caked in the creases.
And, it needed support. 40 means that there is a redistribution of available self to puzzling, and sometimes alarming, areas. Take, for instance, back fat. This phenomeonon has nothing to do with over-weight, and everything to do with over-40. It is, in my opinion, unkind.
So far, my neck has stayed smooth, though I expect that will change. And my upper arms don't yet waggle. But there's a drooping atop the knees that brings to mind an elephant. There's other droopings, too. I honestly think that Gravity is a man because it's persistant, reckless, and its had its hands all over every woman I know.

I read somewhere, years ago, that older women are more sexy and confident. I think this is true. It may be self-delusional because our eyesight is going. Maybe it's the lack of a memory. Perhaps it's that everyone around is also aging, and I no longer compare myself to fasion models and celebreties.
I think it's got a lot to do with a better knowing of one's self. I'm a lot more comfortable in my own skin, and I'm much easier in my expectations of what I ought to be. Heck, if my jeans fit without a muffin-top, I'm having a good day.

If you look closely at the teenagers and the covers of your magazines, you see hungry girls who aren't ever sure if they're pretty enough. You see tiny waists, and smaller minds. You see a future that will take their bodies just where mine's a-goin.'
The defining factors, though, are those things you can't see. A pretty face certianly doesn't make a woman kind, and I suspect great legs won't make her sexy.

My momma's 60, and she's dang hot. It's mostly because she's a good woman, with a kind heart, and also great hair. Maybe great hair is the secret.

Whatever the secret, I think I'm middle aged now. I'll keep you abreast (if I can keep one at all) of the changes as they manifest. I know you're just dying to hear.

A brief complaint

It's stormy outside; windy, mostly. I think California has sent their weather our way.
The day has felt hectic, though that's not really the case. Every thing was more difficult than I wanted it to be.
It was one of those days when the kids repeatedly asked "why" when told to do something.
The ice maker in the fridge gave out.
I think the problem was me...well, not the ice maker. I am hearing annoyances louder than they are. Perhaps I am grumpy.
Every time I sat down to take a deep breath today, a child magically appeared with a need.
There's something that tells me I should go back to bed. I'm restless and irritable, and ice-less.

My marathon training program had me running 3 miles today, but the very suggestion pulled a sob from my throat. I decided to go easy on myself, and so I walked it instead. That counts, right? I walked fast.

I couldn't walk fast enought to escape that mood, though. It's still here.
Perhaps I'll be faster asleep, eh?

Children are a blessing

I was momentarily inspired to write, but it seems to have passed. Our computers are located in the same room as the TV. All of the children gather 'round the TV in the evenings and argue over who gets to play next. Arguing over gaming systems is the favorite pastime of the youth in the house. It's very irritating. This is why I lose any inkling of inspiration once I enter the room.

I used to really like silence, as I recall.

This morning, as Tim and I were working out, (We have this fantastic home gym out in a bay of the garage) Three of the 4 children came out and began to help themselves to the equiptment. I couldn't get to any of the things I was wanting to use because of the children. On the one hand, I want to encourage them to excercise. On the other hand, I want to pursue my own fitness in peace. And quiet. But, NO. I gave up and chose to do push-ups in the living room.

I'm growing very fond of public schooling. When will they take the kids back? Monday?

Just right now I need to take a minute and pray for Jenine, who has 8 children. I'll bet she hasn't had a moment to herself in 18 years.
To think, I have always wanted lots of children, too.

Oh, dear. I have to go put these little miracles in bed, so I can think.

A Smokey Ghost

In the wee, small hours of the morning, I pried one eye open to a shrieking alarm. Tim sprang from the bed, to the alarm clock, and back again, before my second eyelid was raised.
Only, it wasn't the alarm clock.
It was 1:30 am, and I was foggy and confused. If the alarm was going off, then the clock should say 6:30.
It took Tim some serious, and very patient, explaining before I realized that the alarm was the sound of the smoke detector....again....and that the fact that it had ceased when Tim turned the alarm clock off was pure coincidence. He grudgingly got up and went to turn the alarm clock back on.
After the smoke alarm thing the first night, Tim had changed all the batteries. They should be quietly protecting us from errant smoke, not interupting a perfectly good nights rest. I have no idea why these things are tormenting us.
Any suggestions?
If they scream at us again tonight, I am going to be very grumpy indeed.

Athletics and beauty...or lack thereof

The football game last night was vastly amusing. I've read about parents who become belligerent at their children's games, but I don't think I've ever had a chance to appreciate the phenomenon up close and personal. Fascinating! One mom was really the ringleader, and she was seated right in front of me. She started yelling at the coaches to put other kids in the game, since he seemed disinclined to play more than a handful of his 50 kids. In a flash, other folks had joined in the yelling. Some were yelling at the coach, some were yelling at the yellers. I was wide-eyed and fascinated. It didn't last long, and we got our attention back to the game. Fabulous side-show, though.
Mother was at the game to help cheer Michael on. She can be quite amusing, herself. The part where she was down on the grass, snuggled into the thin bit of shade, peering between the chairs in front of us, was pretty funny. So was the part where she was joking about hiding from the son of one's youth, and thought to clarify that she had said "son" and not "sin." I don't think you could hide from either in the slim shadow of a lawn chair.
The evening flew by, as I knew it would. Michael's team won 20 to 6. It was brutal. Faline then played her first Volleyball game, on the other side of town. I was dashing over hill and dale through evening traffic to get to her game in time. Dinner was Taco Bell at 8:00. I'm sure that's very good for my figure.
Speaking of my figure:
Is it possible that I am gaining weight? I think I might be. It's on account of how Tim eats so much. You wouldn't think his caloric consumption would affect me so, but it does. When he's eating, I feel compelled to eat, too. This is a very slender man, but he can eat massive quantities of food. It isn't fair. Plus, he keeps loads of high calorie snacks in the house. It's very cruel. I'm gonna need to get me some self control.
Oh, also, too, (this idea flows naturally from the last. Not.) I got my new driver's license with my new name on it. The picture was revealing. Did you know that I have stringy, limp, lifeless hair, with no discernible style? Why didn't you tell me? I came home and plugged in a curling iron fast as can be. So, later in the day when we joined Costco, and I got a new photo with my member's card, my hair looked decent. You people need to point these things out to me.

The Queen of Denial

Thank you for checking in to see how I am doing. The going-crazy is progressing nicely. I am moving in a day and a half, which seems rather soon to me. I can't, for the life of me, figure out why I am not packing.
Yesterday I decided that every single item of silky-smooth, and delicate, clothing I had needed to be laundered in preparation for matrimony. An arduous task involving hand washing, and hanging to dry. During this riveting undertaking, I realized that one can't justify packing and moving pantyhose with runs in them. Although one can apparently justify storing them since the early 90's, but I digress. So I have to inspect each pair of nylons, before washing and hanging to dry. Does anyone wear nylons anymore? Why do I own them?
There is something of my Mother in me which forces me to wash things before packing them. I did this the other day while Kara was trying to pack all my fragile tea things. I was scrubbing all the porcelain at the sink so it could be sparkly before being enshrouded in newspaper. Because I'm sure the newspaper won't leave ink on it, or anything.
So, every doorway in my home is crowded with hangers draped with drying undergarments. Because that's a sensible use of my time and space.

Tim and I have been running around, checking things off our list, madly. And The Big Day is nearly here. On Friday I shall be "Mrs".

I am wanting to bury my head in the sand, my nose in a good book, or run off to the movies. Anything but move. It's very overwhelming, this change thing.
On Saturday, I started in with tears before I even got out of bed. It's not that I'm sad, far from it! Life is a fairy tale right now, but it's a really drastic switch of everything. I'm moving across town, changing my name, giving up my privacy, doubling my number of children. I'll have a new car, house, identity, school system, and economic situation. I'm thrilled. I'm also spinning. Saturday, I started crying in the morning, and couldn't quite get a grip. Has that ever happened to you? I walked into Tim's house, and tears started to stream down my face. I ordered half a sandwich at lunch, was given a whole, and lost it again. That poor man must have thought I'd lost my mind. Everything's great, I'm just entirely overwhelmed.

And I still have to pack. The boys are all moved in already. It's just my stuff that's got to go.
I'm going to go do something about that. Any. Minute.

Danger: Don't rock the boat

I have news.

So, Tim and I had in mind a courthouse wedding. A quick speaking-of-the-vows for a local magistrate, with no hoopla.

But a friend thoughtfully suggested an equally quick ceremony at our very own church, by a pastor who would be more inclined to view the sacred ceremony of matrimony as a prayerful sacrament.

Good idea.

We called up our favorite pastor, and started to plan.

But, we had to meet with the Powers within the Church, who would offer us Holy Pre-Marital counseling, albeit at an accelerated pace. Usually, they like a good four months of counsel prior to a church wedding. They said that an exception would be made for us, allowing us to complete the process after our marriage. We went in yesterday to talk to a pastor about our romance, our riveting sex life, and our previous marriages.

And today we got a call.

Unfortunately, our church can't marry us, unless we're willing to postpone our marriage for four months.

After answering all those questions about sex, they realized that they've got to turn us away, because, after all, they've got to have standards.
We've known each other for two and a half years, we're both committed Christians, We've dated for a solid year, we've done loads of research and study regarding second marriages and blended families, and we've saved sex for our wedding night. It's not as if this is a shotgun marriage; we've been planning for a year.
If we had been sleeping together, un-biblically divorced, or simply co-habitating, why then the church could marry us. Especially if we were living together with kids, then they'd be in a hurry. But, boy, do things by the Book, and...

I'm not bitter.

Not really.

Just annoyed.

I am not a real enthusiast about modern church, you know. It sure messes with people who just want to live for Jesus.
Our favorite pastor was put in a terrible position because of bureaucracy.
That should not be.
Tim and I are back to plan A.
That should not be, either.
I miss house church.

The 'H' word

Tuesday has arrived with sunshine, and a messy house. I'm a-workin' on my coffee, and listening to the local Christian radio station.

Tim and I have been doing a daily devotion for couples. It's been a great source of discussion. We've been using this nearly a year already, which will have us done with the book the first week of September.
Todays discussion is on the evils of TV, which I suspect will be a robust conversation. In case you haven't heard, I have raised my boys without a TV, and my dearly beloved man owns six or eight of the things.
I hate TV.
HATE it.
Except for 24. That's now my show. See, this Summer, while it's not on, Tim and I have been getting the old seasons of the show for me to watch. I'm all sucked in like it's a soap opera. Now I've seen seasons 6 and 7, and I think we're going to get season 5 next.
But, as I was saying....I hate TV.
Well.
Perhaps you would like to be a fly on the wall for that discussion.

We have still not found our dog. Don is out hanging signs all over the place, in the hope that someone will return her to us. That poor kid. Years ago, when we moved into this house, our dog ran away and was killed by a car a week before we moved. Now my kids think we're jinxed.
We are moving in two weeks.
I should pack something. Which is a whole 'nother topic. Don't you hate it when people say "whole 'nother"? I hate that, too. Bad English should not be tolerated.

Do you know what else I hate?
Hay fever.
Teenagers who drink milk from the carton.
Photos in which I am fat.
Dark roots in my hair.
Car trouble.
Weeds.
A busy schedule.
Video games.
Complainers....Umm.

I'm going back to bed

Some days suck.
Like today, for instance.
The dog dug a hole under the fence and ran away. We can't find her.
I said something yesterday that I wish I could take back.
My parenting is sufficient for small children, but seems to be largely inadequate for taller kids.
I had to work today.
.....It doesn't seem so bad when I put it that way.

It felt rather unpleasant as I faced it moment by moment. Then, there were the downer phone calls. An acquaintance was hospitalized after a grand mall seizure.
My brother may not come for a visit after all. Work ran long, and so I missed out on spending time with my mother. Stuff like that.

On the bright side, I do have a nice ring.

I have nothing remotely funny to say. I find that to be disappointing. No doubt you'll agree.
Feel free to be comical in the comment section.

The fruit of my womb

My children are perfect.

They never slam doors, or over react by crying and throwing a two-year-old fit for no apparent reason at all.

They never, ever say bad words. Ever.

They are always good examples to the little children I babysit, even to the one who fell out of a tree in my front yard this morning and had to go off to the Emergency Doctor for Four stitches after I called his mother away from her job at the hospital in the middle of her workday.

They always pick up their trash, and joyfully help with the chores. Their rooms are a vision of personal excellence.

They bathe regularly, especially my eldest. "Mr Clean" we call him.

My children are perfect. It must be on account of how I am such a perfect mom.

Oh, and I've got beachfront property for sale, real cheap, in Arizona......

Whirling Dervish

I'm going to go lounge by the pool this afternoon. In truth, I have 87 gazillion emails in my inbox, and 72 million messages in my voice mail. If I owe you some manner of response, please know that it's very likely that I love and appreciate you and I am not going to get back to you until September.

Tim is having a procedure on his knee next week. Which is great, given how we are real bored this Summer, with absolutely nothing to do. I'm glad I've had so much practice sitting in waiting rooms, while people I love are sliced and diced.

Who is sarcastic?

Also, I think I have a wart. Warts are not very ladylike. How do you get them? Mine is on the palm of my hand, which I find both gruesome and fascinating. Wouldn't that be gross if I got lots of them on the palm of my hand? I'd be like a braille message. That gives a whole new meaning to the term "talking with my hands."

Oh dear.

I'm glad we've had this little talk.

What Stress?

Just for kicks, I looked online for the kind of stress test where they look at the major events in my life over the past year. Do you know the kind I mean?
I am so far off the charts, it's not even funny. And it's not the past year so much as just this Summer. Child's illness and hospitalization, move across town, marriage, change in job/ income, child going off to school for the first time. You know, stuff like I experience in spades.
Mostly, I feel validated.
The inner workings of my head feel like a pressure cooker. I'm kind of out of touch with my sense of humor as I go about my day. And I keep forgetting things that are important. Plus, I've been grinding my teeth and breaking out like a teenager.
You wouldn't think that anticipation of good stuff would be so stressful, would you? The whole marriage and move thing is very exciting, but it does represent a significant alteration to normalcy.
I think that the key to my sanity thru this time is likely to be found in good sleep, vigorous excercise, and large chunks of quiet time.

In other news, though, all of you faithful readers keep emailing me dresses to buy. That is very helpful! Maybe I should just post the rest of my to-do list, and see what you people can get done.

The whirlwind

Besides walking around with a big grin on my face, there's rather a lot going on.

All of the sudden, my mind is racing with thoughts of a new dress, packing my belongings, guest lists, and decorating.
We're working on the idea of a reception, which will be very fun, indeed. And a lot of work.
I wasn't going to do any of this!
I thought we'd jog down to the courthouse, say "I do," and get down to being married.
Now I need to continue thinking about the addition (which is coming along nicely. The sheet rock is in, and being taped today), shop for invitations, think of a proper menu, get hotel discounts for out-of-towners, and also carry on my usual life.
All with a gigantic rock on my hand, marking me as Loved. So, really, I am in no position to sound like I'm complaining.

Is it silly to remark at how Good God is? God has been so Good to me.
He's Good when things are bad, even. I've seen that. I'm totally familiar with trusting Him when things are bleak, and seemingly hopeless.
I must tell you, though that I don't believe I've ever had the opportunity to trust Him when things are so delightfully positive.
My life right now is like a fairy tale, and the knight in shining armor has arrived. Here I have the opportunity to learn how to rely on God when all seems blissfully well.
It's a common thing to lose dependance upon Him during times of prosperity; I've heard that. Do you think it's true? I sure hope I don't do that. I want to continue to grow and learn, even while rejoicing in such happy circumstances.

Things change fast, too. Just a couple weeks ago I was fearing for my son's health, and now I stand exaltant. Life is crazy that way.
God is Good All The Time.