tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10812578602933578112024-03-19T02:51:31.320-07:00Stealing French Friesalexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-55630088308230370012011-06-01T10:09:00.000-07:002011-06-01T10:28:27.002-07:00worth itSpotted a bumper sticker yesterday on the back of some SUV that read, "Got Kings of Leon?" Wow. I enjoy Kings of Leon just as much as everyone else.... but putting a bumper sticker on the back of my car and announcing it to everyone just seems so <i>permanent</i>. <div><br /></div><div>When I was 14 my dad borrowed my grandparents' van and took f0ur kids (cousins and sister) cruising around the country for four weeks. Brave, obviously. Three of us were fourteen and my sister was 12, almost 13. We left Mississippi on July 14, 1986 and headed through Louisiana bound for San Antonio first. Got to the Texas state line and found a bumper sticker in the welcome center: "Don't Mess With Texas." It had to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now this van was not any ordinary van. It was tricked out beyond belief. Tan on the outside with one of those extending roofs on top so you could walk around inside. Brown shag carpet, leather brown captains seats up front, a flushing commode in this cabinet thing, a sink, and a table complete with brown velour bench seats in the back that converted into a bed. We bought a musical horn in San Antonio which we blared "Dixie" every single time we went through a Mc Donalds drive thru. (At least 3-4 times a day- remember, 2 fourteen year old boys were aboard).</div><div><br /></div><div>That special bumper sticker needed a home. My dad bravely affixed it to the back of the extended roof part of the van. And it started a collection.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we went around the country with our musical vehicle we collected bumper stickers of every make and kind: "Wall Drug, South Dakota," "Virginia is for Lovers," "Four Corners." Probably 40-50 in total. All around the roof of the van- the borrowed van. </div><div><br /></div><div>Four weeks later we pulled into the shelled circle drive in front of my grandparents' farm. My poor Memama. I'm sure she was pissed. What a hideously permanent thing we had done to her glorious traveling machine. No amount of Goo-Gone would take that crap off. And she had to drive it around.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know why I've always felt like a bumper sticker on my car would be almost an affront to my privacy. Am I really that much of a secret squirrel? Nah.... that's the Boss Man. But I feel like it's too OBVIOUS.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tattoos are the same way. I just can't think of anything that I like enough that I'm sure I'll love forever. Except my family, OBVOIOUS:) But I'm not going to tattoo my family's names on my bicep. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mainly because as I get increasing arm flab I'm afraid the results would be atrocious. </div><div><br /></div><div>Is there anything that's "worth it" enough to you to tattoo or bumper sticker?????</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-27163026480858990692011-03-09T23:54:00.000-08:002011-03-09T23:56:47.585-08:00Talent and Skill<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;">Consistency isn't my forte.</span></span></span>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-75349032081235230072011-02-09T08:54:00.001-08:002011-02-09T08:58:16.704-08:00Don't Go CheapMy mom and dad never bought nice razors. So when I went off to college I had this underlying opinion that my roomates were being self-indulgent when they bought nice razors. <div><br /></div><div>Of course their legs were smooth and glorious. Mine looked like they had been through a war.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eventually I got over my tin foil collecting habits (did your grandmothers collect used tinfoil into a little ball? Depression era stuff, I suppose) and broke down and got the luxury drug store brand razors. It was especially cool in the mid nineties when the women's razors got all cool shaped and especially fantastic looking. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know why last week I bought cheap razors at Target. Bad move.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have just about taken off all of the skin on my shins and ankles. There are Dora bandaids on my heels. </div><div><br /></div><div>Time to go back to the store. </div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-64827873493805219302011-02-01T15:37:00.000-08:002011-02-01T15:43:11.911-08:00Too True<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4ZvGuEf23WEdFdYRaDLSQZrbidoE32VYSFscWOEZtel07tJ0kq7revLMnvxQiYDWefjZhRDdPDvr_5dKqBApay9nddAGX_3-yF_RG739g8nlZ2Nesg_xNh90_8cDafdOjoNXaEVXiiJp/s1600/IMG_4560.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4ZvGuEf23WEdFdYRaDLSQZrbidoE32VYSFscWOEZtel07tJ0kq7revLMnvxQiYDWefjZhRDdPDvr_5dKqBApay9nddAGX_3-yF_RG739g8nlZ2Nesg_xNh90_8cDafdOjoNXaEVXiiJp/s400/IMG_4560.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568870778940207346" /></a><br />We were driving home in the trusty van this afternoon. The children had bored of my flashcard drills..... so bored that they were finally telling me about their days at school. <div><br /></div><div>Quirky has been somewhat interested in this one little girl at school, Ella. He told me at the beginning of the year that he likes "how she has freckles on her face."</div><div><br /></div><div>Today apparently they had VERY important discussion. It was reported to me like this:</div><div><br /></div><div>Quirky: "Mom, do you know all of the phone numbers of the moms of my school friends?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: "I have a directory."</div><div><br /></div><div>Quirky: "I need you to call Ella's mom. She doesn't believe that there are real life pirates anymore. I told her that I don't believe in Justin Bieber. I told her that he's a fairy... I mean fairy tale." </div><div><br /></div><div>How are kids so danged smart????</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-49131335811431757702011-01-28T09:04:00.000-08:002011-01-28T09:23:27.464-08:00ToMAYto/ToMAHto- whatever<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7IPYeZtiuFNP2oG4jw2RrtBKi9a3MN5HqKT8QHLZCkImlDChAlXUFWdYPZnru-CNBzqbEDRNAk9XoqerqzmwDlhFH0qbkqLdc7uGp9GqhSGxo3_ESviYYCOw776gYgMgzohOMmq1dBwf/s1600/Doan2010_43.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazzmED8eMFG9yEC1uMcNCqLrWfC5B5t-qVt3OSrtOdASbREA9WHat3r0CSlmL2X_aHyLW3TzSGZpNVhObRI0eSK5D_fuj-jeoTjaIqRxAt0AfEFUeiCiHniIUgtfTnzVKuvR8M8hIYv2V/s1600/IMG_0669.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazzmED8eMFG9yEC1uMcNCqLrWfC5B5t-qVt3OSrtOdASbREA9WHat3r0CSlmL2X_aHyLW3TzSGZpNVhObRI0eSK5D_fuj-jeoTjaIqRxAt0AfEFUeiCiHniIUgtfTnzVKuvR8M8hIYv2V/s400/IMG_0669.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567284524526915922" /></a>See this? It's where I live. And I'm changing it.<div><br /></div><div>I've been saying that it is my house. It's now my home. </div><div><br /></div><div>Silly semantics. But they are so very very important, I've decided.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've found myself in a slow and steady slide- and I'm stopping it now. Most ridiculously, I have begun to view all of the things I GET to do as things that I HAVE to do. Crazy! </div><div><br /></div><div>I GET to help build and maintain my family's home.</div><div><br /></div><div>I GET to make my children's lunches. </div><div><br /></div><div>I GET to remove the trash and unwanted from our home.</div><div><br /></div><div>I GET to fight with Quirky about how his letters should be written during homework.</div><div><br /></div><div>I GET to preserve memories that are important to me.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">I SHOULD savor this. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7IPYeZtiuFNP2oG4jw2RrtBKi9a3MN5HqKT8QHLZCkImlDChAlXUFWdYPZnru-CNBzqbEDRNAk9XoqerqzmwDlhFH0qbkqLdc7uGp9GqhSGxo3_ESviYYCOw776gYgMgzohOMmq1dBwf/s400/Doan2010_43.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567288531808309426" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-5574033641046654222010-11-19T04:17:00.000-08:002010-11-19T04:27:35.424-08:00FecklessThe Boss Man told me I'd hit the <b>trifecta</b> the other night. (Does one say "hit the perfect trifecta?" Or is that redundant?) <div><br /></div><div>He came in from out of town all bedraggled and worn out. Poor guy had driven to Louisiana the night prior and got stuck in traffic until 3:30 am and then went to meetings all day and drove back to TX the next night. Pulled in to our house around 11. Ouch. </div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile I'd taken nyquil and gone to bed with the kids around 8:30. Also ouch, if you count that I've been hacking and sneezing all week. But nonetheless, I had gone to bed at 8 pm. Drugged on cold meds. With both kids snuggled into our bed with me. Delicious.</div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently I had also:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Left the car unlocked.</div><div>2. Left the front door unlocked.</div><div>3. Left the back door unlocked.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>TRIFECTA! I WON!!! </b></div><div><br /></div><div>oops. I was also in trouble. </div><div><br /></div><div>My parents used to call me feckless. You don't have to go look it up. It means "inattentive to detail." Pretty much sums me up. Apparently I spent most of my childhood with my head in the clouds. At least it explains Quirky. I could give a rats ass about the details. Appreciate them, but pretty much only can't focus. </div><div><br /></div><div>which brings me to my new favorite website:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>www.shitmywiferuined.com</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I like to send golden little nuggets to The Boss Man so he can see the humor in his wife's flaws. It seems to help. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-86750591322904308712010-11-16T21:54:00.000-08:002010-11-16T22:02:20.673-08:00Heart Ablaze<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF THIS!!!!</span></b></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I keep playing it over and over and over and over. I've always had a huge crush on Super Grover (sigh...) and now I must admit that Quirky and I spent most of the evening practicing the little dance moves that the muppets do at the bottom of the screen.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Rare that one little 1:52 snippet can sum things up so well... </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>FORG<object style="background-image:url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/cyVzjoj96vs/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cyVzjoj96vs?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cyVzjoj96vs?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="480" height="295" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-29678603961423299232010-11-11T16:37:00.000-08:002010-11-11T16:39:58.645-08:00So Very Very BusyWorrying about stupid shit like this:<div><br /></div><div>If I go one way home after dropping Quirky off at school then I can stop at the convenient store that has <i>caffeine free</i> Diet Coke. Then I get my daily vat. </div><div><br /></div><div>But the straws there suck.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other way home I can stop at the convenient store with excellent straws. </div><div><br /></div><div>But they have NO <i>caffeine free</i> Diet Coke. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-60430117383380840002010-10-21T14:40:00.001-07:002010-10-21T14:51:58.255-07:00Pushing Up Daisies<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBCsBslDqfWlkw-evQTXrA2sB7lmdFiGztsuUIRi2wmk-pGkbo_-wJPGsLyy1VEZNCHZCDwXAy8hTavWPC862eft0-AhW-t61vFAYBSZxc8BnWfQs4y6FPac7LPRJIAk_3eE3GysFG3ZI/s1600/IMG_3779.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Literally.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I'm engaged in full fledged warfare. With my irrigation system. Look what I come downstairs to find each morning outside of my kitchen window.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH70HkfPv6YHk5RUQ_xv0W-E0_w4aeDvWeZUSBK0m5FAe001YCGH9tA56wrV0XRYPHzhaR85GfoU9ZpTsPF1lReGBIv4ywS_ZV9Vs6pJ9kt8D77lnNxlZP1PU3ZgpgU1LjiR4-TSd_hs78/s400/IMG_3775.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530617919574106786" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></div><div><br /></div>It's so defeating and disappointing. Look where they're coming from.<div><br /></div><div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBCsBslDqfWlkw-evQTXrA2sB7lmdFiGztsuUIRi2wmk-pGkbo_-wJPGsLyy1VEZNCHZCDwXAy8hTavWPC862eft0-AhW-t61vFAYBSZxc8BnWfQs4y6FPac7LPRJIAk_3eE3GysFG3ZI/s400/IMG_3779.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530618618145117666" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div></div><div>Aren't the little window boxes outside of my guest room cute? It's my attempt to break up the monotony of the brick and concrete. (note- it's an ATTEMPT) But the flowers just don't want to stay there. </div><div><br /></div><div>My sprinkler system has decided to push these little geraniums or daisies (or whatever they are) up out of their cozy dirt home each day. I guess the water pressure is just too much. I keep trying to replant and move the flowers farther away from the nozzle heads, but I keep losing the battle. </div><div><br /></div><div>Losing. </div><div><br /></div><div>How long do you think these will last? Another two weeks- tops. I'm not trained for the fight.</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-85605038553913234322010-10-08T04:56:00.000-07:002010-10-08T04:58:46.700-07:00Why Can't??Just for today-<div><br /></div><div>I wish people would just LISTEN to my question,</div><div>ANSWER me,</div><div>and GIVE THE ANSWER THAT I WANT, goddamnit.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to paint the living room, got it???? Not purple, just eggshell. </div><div><br /></div><div>But Boss Man, if you don't give me the answer that I want I'll slip you an ambien and paint it rainbow. So there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone else, give me the answer that I WANT today. Be forewarned.</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-1891390950743258042010-10-04T10:26:00.000-07:002010-10-04T10:29:43.790-07:00(Cue Theme Music)<div><br /></div><div>Hell yeah. I've picked my theme song. It came to me as I was walking out to the patio tables yesterday at Mission Burrito, carrying a tray of salads, soups, and kids quesadillas. This bad ass Michael Jackson classic started playing on the sound system. I had to groove. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am going to be a "bad mama jama." And I intend to be "poetry in motion." </div><div><br /></div><div>And I am definitely going to blast it out of the windows of my mini van. While in the church school parking lot.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object style="background-image:url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/7RCTF33wKfQ/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7RCTF33wKfQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7RCTF33wKfQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-67245388502839817902010-09-28T07:30:00.000-07:002010-09-28T07:47:38.238-07:00Just In Case....You may not have thought that I was telling the truth about Scrappy wanting to be a superhero. The girl lives in fantasy land 24/7. Sometimes she's Luther the newborn puppy, sometimes a pro-soccer player. The trick is figuring out how the story goes....<div><br /></div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwrdQ7lVej_mMDEnmHghBD4KGjYLE27SuQav0FBFopvDVsD8S9RHl3KOOr6p3gz1MK_K4P5-PhFb9DRSLaX' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-50292459986611036542010-09-24T04:34:00.000-07:002010-09-24T04:38:09.694-07:00TGIF!!!!<div>It is so Friday. And in honor of Little Miss Scrappy, who is just itching for her situation as little sister to be something that she can change with her superpowers, I'm feauturing her favorite song. We play it over and over. I'm betting this weekend she'll probably wear her cape from sunup to sundown.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object style="background-image:url(http://i2.ytimg.com/vi/udP5PkVPfKU/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/udP5PkVPfKU?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/udP5PkVPfKU?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="480" height="295" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-49354703331899827012010-09-22T08:10:00.000-07:002010-09-22T08:17:27.511-07:00Hello??My neuroses are getting worse. Or is that they are getting better? If something inherently negative is becoming more intense is that automatically an indication that they are worse? I would think that a neurosis were getting better that would mean that it were becoming more acute- ganing what it wants. I mean I'm sure that the neurosis itself doesn't want to become weaker, right? <div><br /></div><div>I have that "invisible audience" thing going on right now. I feel like people are watching and caring about stuff that they don't care about. I was at the store yesterday and was sure that people were looking in my cart and judging me for what I was going to feed my family. I actually even picked up a box of Hamburger Helper because it has a "box top for education" symbol on it. And I'm all about Box Tops for Education. But then I sort of hid it behind the big container of organic strawberries. Like anybody would look in my cart? Jeez.... You'd think I were still 13.</div><div><br /></div><div>But anyway, I feel like people are thinking things. And I put thought bubbles over their heads. I could be sitting in a circle of parents volunteering in Quirky's classroom and automatically think, "That lady thinks I'm a slob because I show up in my workout clothes every day. I bet she is sure that my kitchen counter is covered with crumbs and that I leave my clothes on the floor because if you look in my purse there are hundreds of receipts and half opened boxes of raisins and goldfish." </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyone else have thought bubbles over people's heads? </div><div><br /></div><div>I need reassurance here, people. The neuroses need to improve so they can gain strength like a hurricane and wipe out something.</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-15985319574135901652010-09-21T11:45:00.000-07:002010-09-21T11:48:27.769-07:00I don't even know what to call this.We were at a birthday party last weekend. There was a pinata. <div><br /></div><div>It was cute and all and mostly the kids stayed in a line backed up against the wall. But you know, lines creep up when there is candy involved. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then my mind imagined the worst. What if a kid actually really did crack some other kid's head open with the pinata stick? And you were either the parent of the kid who did it or the parent of the birthday kid? </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know which would be worse. </div><div><br /></div><div>Someone turn off my brain. </div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-104686507869593022010-09-17T04:45:00.001-07:002010-09-20T05:23:15.067-07:00IntenseFinished procrastinating for now.... So now I'll procrastinate about doing other stuff by blogging. <div><br /></div><div>Let's talk about intensity. Someone once told me that we are as humans "driven to experiences of extreme emotion." Agreed. I could buy stock in that. People ride roller coasters. People agree to fall in love. People sit in movie theaters to have their emotions yanked to both poles several times in 90 minutes, have children, go to haunted houses, hang out with exciting or funny people, watch Hallmark commercials, and climb Mt. Everest. Heck, some people even live along earthquake fault lines. (Not that doing that's any stupider than living in a hurricane prone area, mind you.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I was out running yesterday in the heat and just loving it. I LOVE to sweat. Gross. You've seen the pic of me after running- surely it's haunting you as badly as the pic of my feet. (sorry.... go barf now) It's ugly. Heat while moving doesn't bug me at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>But just standing in the driveway chatting with a neighbor in the summer in Houston is atrocious. Watching the kids play at the park is unbearable. I can't stand to sit still in the heat and humidity. AWFUL.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's the same with walking. I can walk fast for hours- even stroll leisurely. Like the energizer bunny. Keep on going. But as for standing in line? Ugh. Or standing while some docent drones on and on during a tour? shudder. Keep it moving, people. </div><div><br /></div><div>One would think that the solution would be to get off my feet. Well, sort of. I don't like sitting in chairs. If you peeked under the tablecloth at a fancy restaurant you'd see my feet curled up criss-cross-applesauce on the chair or booth. My feet have to be up off the floor. Horizontal is even better. Why don't they make more bars with loungers? I would be so much more amenable to sitting around chatting and having a cocktail if there were a place to stick my big old feet up. Bar stools suck. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I wonder about these quirks. It would seem that I do perhaps live that intensity quote. No standing in the heat- only running. No standing- let's walk. No sitting- let's lounge. No matter what it is, let's do it with gusto. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-46355303800921611452010-09-17T04:19:00.001-07:002010-09-17T04:21:25.458-07:00procrastinationIs it procrastination if everytime I sit down to write all of this awesomeness that I'm thinking (heh heh heh) I can't do it because I realize that there's something more <i>pressing</i> that I <i>really</i> should be doing. For real. Like making a lunch for a kid's school day or something.... <div><br /></div><div>I should go do that. Right now. Because I have to go wake them in 10 minutes. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I'll just have to procrastinate and blow this off for now.</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-35829721514502279062010-09-11T04:16:00.000-07:002010-09-11T04:22:34.548-07:00ObviouslyLike an episode of Seinfeld there has been a repeating little theme to my week. The other day I was at an appointment and there was a copy of that "O" magazine on the waiting room coffee table. The big question on the front cover promising some insightful article was "What do you really believe?" <div><br /></div><div>Then I was perusing blogs last night during a bout of insomnia and I read the first line of another mommy blog: "I don't believe in strict discipline." </div><div><br /></div><div>And of course the other day I was embroiled in my inner beliefs about the "elements" in public schools. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I started thinking about it. What do I <i>really</i> believe in? </div><div><br /></div><div>That my loved ones will always be safe and healthy? no.</div><div><br /></div><div>That my faith will never change or I will never have periods of doubt or uncertainty in my faith? no.</div><div><br /></div><div>That I should always eat an apple a day? no. </div><div><br /></div><div>In aliens? no. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure that I <i>really and truly</i> believe in anything. </div><div><br /></div><div>oh yeah- <b>I do!!</b></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." </span></span> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-15974123092989089002010-09-10T06:46:00.000-07:002010-09-10T07:09:20.013-07:00Muzzle MeI live in Texas.... I do realize that I live in Texas. And I love it here. If you're not sitting here on the back porch with me right now you may imagine that there are tumbleweeds blowing around on the road out front. You might also imagine that I have big Texas hair, live in a suburb with houses that look all the same, live to paint my nails, drive a gigantic vehicle, hang out at the mall or other nice chain restaurants, and attend a mega-church. Maybe that's me, maybe that's not. <div><br /></div><div>There are lots of people like that here in Texas. I have a very intelligent and unbelievably trained and talented pediatric immunologist friend (he's also Burmese-American) who wouldn't consider a job offer from Baylor Medical Center because he felt like he'd be spit on. Clearly, he's never been to the Texas Medical Center here in Houston. There's no ethnic majority there. And the community in those 24 institutions are just grateful to have wonderful practitioners. </div><div><br /></div><div>But there certainly is a perception out there that Texas is comprised of all white bible- thumping, closed minded, ignorant and sometimes loud-mouthed people. Not so much around here. There are some, but generally speaking in Houston I can find the most beautiful saris I've ever seen, the best Vietnamese food around, friends who speak Arabic, Spanish, American and Scottish English, and hang with El Salvadorians and Ethiopians in restaurants from their own countries. There are huge mosques along with the mega-churches. Our mayor is an openly gay woman. I love this diversity- even thrive on it. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I do live among those who don't. And I probably need to remember when to shut up. </div><div><br /></div><div>So we decided to send Quirky to a Baptist school this year. I loved the inclusive and welcoming community, the class size (12 versus 26/27 in our neighborhood public school), and felt that he would find the best balance of nurture and challenge there. So far it has proven to be all that and more. Quirky is not going to be able to weasel himself through the cracks.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I had a conversation the other day that stopped me in my tracks. After school we were hanging out at the indoor playground (another perk of the school- you don't have to roast and sweat like a pig in September in Houston) with other moms and kids. This one mom introduced herself to me and we began chatting. She asked me why we had chosen that school over others. I responded that it was the class size and balance of support/challenge. I also mentioned the public school option that we didn't feel was a good fit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her next comment? "Well, I didn't even go look at that public school. You know there are just elements in the public school that I just don't want my kids exposed to. I mean, I don't want my daughter to come home saying that her friend has two moms or anything like that."</div><div><br /></div><div>My. Jaw. Dropped. I am afraid I might have even flushed. She didn't even know me. And my response probably was unnecessary considering I was sitting in a Baptist Church facility.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh- are there no single sex parent families at this school? I thought it was illegal to discriminate against children based on race, ethnicity, or sexual orientation. You know, I have a friend whose child was really being courted by a Christian high school in town and when they found out that he had two dads they told the dad on the phone that there was no place for their family at that school. He wishes he had it recorded. You know if this school is going to go up for this big accreditation this year I wonder if that is going to be an issue." </div><div><br /></div><div>Now here's what I have revealed in that stupid comment: I have friends who are gay (not to mention parents), that I'm interested in the legal aspects of school discrimination, and that I'm probably not fit to be a mother in the eyes of many of the parents at that school. Can you say "SOCIAL PARIAH?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Stupid, stupid, stupid. </div><div><br /></div><div>But what if Quirky were to go to school and talk about his friends who have same sex parents? It's out there, right? I mean, just by sending a child to a school where it's not an option, you can't deny that it's there. Is it smart of a parent who wants to protect their family's values to deny the existence of stuff that they don't like? Or is it wiser to help a child decide that it's not something that he or she wants to associate with? </div><div><br /></div><div>Whatever. There are a lot of different opinions in Texas. Perhaps I just need to know when to keep my mouth shut. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-48178266887489788422010-09-08T10:24:00.000-07:002010-09-08T10:30:24.932-07:00Stupidity- and ugliness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UeLLV8zajYBONUybhuQs4ZVo7_I7szayhjzDErzN29xydltv2DUgy7QmEjo-uWoACn5_ZCudjiAVThKZNxn57v1u8DymnZaotVHOjEZ2OE-CrtQPF0q7cvrxp9RRcf_e8RaHbyVLjtHg/s1600/IMG_3365.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UeLLV8zajYBONUybhuQs4ZVo7_I7szayhjzDErzN29xydltv2DUgy7QmEjo-uWoACn5_ZCudjiAVThKZNxn57v1u8DymnZaotVHOjEZ2OE-CrtQPF0q7cvrxp9RRcf_e8RaHbyVLjtHg/s400/IMG_3365.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514595695181893330" /></a><br />I take my toes for granted. I literally don't even think about them- unless they're getting pedicured. But once I break one, I know immediately that they are there. And how much I use them.<div><br /></div><div>So obviously I haven't had a pedicure in a while. I figure why waste the money while I'm running a lot? But maybe I won't be for a while now. Too bad I'm supposed to run a marathon in six weeks or so and haven't done any long runs yet. That was supposed to start this weekend. Does anyone see 17 miles going on those toes in 3 days? </div><div><br /></div><div>I know, I know.... everyone wanted to see an up close of my disgusting feet today. I'm trying to distract myself from the mental video I have of myself falling down the stairs yesterday in the rain.</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-47809214526068878312010-09-07T04:52:00.001-07:002010-09-07T04:54:02.818-07:00MUSTSThe To-Do list is quite long today. I must be a lot of places and make a lot of phone calls. And email a lot of people and blah, blah, blah..... <div><br /></div><div>So boring.</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-16721535275934689832010-09-03T09:33:00.000-07:002010-09-03T09:35:35.296-07:00Taking the Edge OffSo lately if you live in Houston you might notice something different. Yes- it's still HOTTER THAN HELL out there. And muggy, right. <div><br /></div><div>But there is a slight drop in temperature by one degree or so in the mornings. And while I still consider my runs to be combined attempts at saunas and cardio, I have hope that things will change. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that first day that a real cool front comes through, boy howdy, I CAN RUN SO FAST!! (well... faster, anyway)</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-32042858371457638782010-08-26T05:45:00.000-07:002010-08-30T09:22:35.951-07:00HUH?You know, there's a lot of sense in the order of most things. For example, I find it pretty obviously logical that "God makes you so sick you don't care how big you get and then so big you don't care how much it hurts to get it out." Pregnancy, right? And we all know that if we were handed teenagers when we were new parents that the human species would die out. <div><br /></div><div>But there are a few things about the order of our society that just leave me scratching my head. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the time of our lives that we should be slowing down and soaking up time with our children, we're also in this race to build bigger, make more money, collect more things, take care of more stuff, and join in more. Let's face it, in our 20's, 30's, and 40's we're under a lot of pressure to work hard enough to solidify our future in our careers and to make enough money to live off of when we get old. And that's a HUGE job. </div><div><br /></div><div>And this happens at the same moments that we're supposed to be creating and raising responsible human beings who can make decisions without hurting themselves and others, become good citizens, handle complicated relationships, and manage their own lives later on. Also a HUGE job.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then throw in that largely during this time of amassing money, building a career, creating a home, and raising human beings..... we're supposed to start caring for our aging parents. It's perhaps too huge.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know, Universe. This one doesn't make sense to me. Why does all of this happen at the same time? Shouldn't it make more sense to either raise kids first and then work on career? Or vice versa? Even if one partner decides to stay home and raise the kids and the other works outside of the home, both of those jobs are so huge that all that ends up happening is isolation in the relationship. That's a tough road for many many families that I know. </div><div><br /></div><div>I need counseling to understand all of this. And maybe drugs.</div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-49149550007241513262010-08-22T23:30:00.000-07:002010-08-22T23:32:59.739-07:00I love my life.<object style="background-image:url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/kIq8jLj5TzU/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kIq8jLj5TzU?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kIq8jLj5TzU?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1081257860293357811.post-64017960214434260212010-08-19T07:11:00.000-07:002010-08-19T07:12:35.404-07:00NeedyI need some adoration today. Does anyone else? <div><br /></div><div>I love and adore you. </div>alexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05613796136659308867noreply@blogger.com3