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You say teeth, I think ISSUE.

I remember feeling so excited when GD lost his first tooth. In fact, I got so excited, I got carried away. I snuck into his room, carefully inserted my hand under his pillow, cautiously ran my fingers across his sheet until I felt that little plastic bag and pulled it out oh so carefully while holding my breath and staring at his closed eyes praying he wouldn’t suddenly open them and see me about six inches from his nose.

I also held my breath because if I breathed on the boy, the fine hairs would stir and likely wake him up. However, I was successful in pulling out his baby tooth and sliding a five dollar bill under his pillow in its stead.

Did I say a five dollar bill? I MEANT a five dollar bill. Our tooth fairy was a little TOO zealous.

Of course, it didn’t dawn on me that the five dollar per tooth thing would later bite me in the ass. Because you see, from that point on, that’s what the boy expected, anything less, and he would be disappointed. And the tooth fairy, she didn’t handle boo-boo faces very well. And then, MK came along and noticed the tooth fairy was giving big brother five dollars, so he expected the same treatment.

Sibling equality, after all.

Did I mention five dollars per tooth? I am so stupid. By the time the boys lost all of their teeth (and MK is still losing teeth, he lost his first eye tooth the other day, as a matter of fact), they had enough money to buy an XBox.

I kept all of the kids’ teeth. They are all in baggies stuffed into my jewelry case. I just can’t bring myself to throw them away, though some of them now have some mysterious growth on them. I don’t dare take them out of the baggie, but I sure do enjoy looking at them from time to time. It’s not the teeth themselves that I enjoy, it’s the memories those teeth evoke that I enjoy.

We had a standing joke in our house during that time period. In between bouts of lose teeth, the hubs would ask the boys, “Have any lose teeth?” And they would say, in their little boy voices, “no,” and the hubs would curl up his fist, shake it in their faces and say with a waggle of his brows, “want some?”

This was always met with giggles and smiles. And even to this day, we still bring that up once in a while.

I mentioned MK lost an eye tooth. I’m hoping this is the beginning of the end of his baby teeth phase. I’m sort of anxious for him to lose the rest of his teeth so I can take him into the orthodontist and start work on straightening his teeth. MK’s teeth actually aren’t that bad, his mouth is big enough to accommodate all of his teeth. He just has TOO much space and will probably need braces, but I’m betting not for very long. If anything, I’m betting he’ll have to wear a retainer longer than actual braces.

Now GD, wow, that kid had bad teeth. His mouth was too small for all of his teeth and in third grade, we began what the dentist called Phase I (but what the hubby called, a scam to get more money out of us. We still disagree as to the necessity of that first phase, but whatever).

GD had to wear a mouth plate on his palate and every day, for about 14 days, I had to insert this little metal rod into his mouth, hook it into the tiny hole in the mouth plate and then crank it about two times. This would stretch his palate apart, thereby making more room for his teeth. The metal rod came attached to a bungie-type cord thingie and I had to hook it around my little finger so if I lost my grip, it wouldn’t go down his throat.

Doesn’t that sound like fun?

GD wasn’t in any pain (so my brave little soldier said), but he did feel quite a bit of pressure. After he got the mouth plate off, he then wore braces for about 18 months. When he finally had them taken off, he had a beautiful set of teeth.

And then, he lost more baby teeth. And those permanent teeth came in crooked and behind other teeth so, we were back at square one. I took him in shortly before 8th grade started and he had braces put on again. Only this time, he had enough room in his mouth to re-situate them so there hasn’t been any more mouth stretching (thank God). He’s had them on for about 18 months and is scheduled to have them taken off sometime in October of this year.

I still feel a bit guilty for taking him the first time, but if I hadn’t, then he would have had to wear braces for most of his high school years. The dentist said it would be easier to manipulate the shape of his mouth while was still growing as opposed to now, when he’s nearly done growing. I don’t know, it’s one of those parenting decisions you’re never really sure about. Again, the hubs and I disagree about the timing, but we definitely don’t disagree on the necessity; GD needed help.

Teeth is rather a sensitive issue in our household because my husband has always had problems with his teeth (nearly every one of his teeth have fillings), and his dad had terrible teeth and could never afford to fix them, so he spent his entire life hiding his smile from people. He finally got sick of them and had them all pulled, now he has a beautiful set of false teeth.

Because of this sensitivity, the hubs was pretty adamant about making sure our boys’ teeth were never an issue for them. Life is hard enough without having to be self-conscious about something you CAN get fixed, you know?

I’ve had a root canal. Not fun. In fact, I got so stressed out over the procedure that as soon as it was over, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I blame GD for that. When I was pregnant with him, I didn’t digest enough calcium and the little booger bear took what he needed from my supply, which weakened my teeth and caused on of my molars to break in half. Okay, I don’t really blame him, it’s entirely my fault, but I like to make him feel guilty. Hehe

I put off getting it fixed until it got infected and therefore a huge problem. (I do that. I tend to put off my own health issues until I simply can’t ignore them anymore. Sort of like my digestive problems, but we won’t talk about that). So, by the time I went to the dentist, what was left of that tooth was rotted out and they simply didn’t have a choice but to drill it out.

All of this talk reminds me, I need to make appointments to get our teeth cleaned again. It’s been quite a few months. The kids don’t seem to mind cleanings too much, heck, compared to having his teeth pushed around, it’s a piece of cake for GD. And we truly have the best family dentist in the world. He is always smiling and says, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again whenever he has to do anything remotely uncomfortable. I just love that man.

MK had the weirdest cone tooth problem. I began to notice the point of a tooth coming in behind his two front teeth when he was a toddler. I took him to the dentist, they x-rayed him and it was an extra tooth. But not only an extra tooth, but a cone tooth. I found out, after the fact, that this cone tooth problem runs in my husband’s family; his dad had one.

MK was four when I took him in to have oral surgery. They had to put him under and I nearly made myself sick worrying about him. I wasn’t allowed to stay in the room after he had fallen asleep and it only took about thirty minutes, but wow, I was scared. My baby was having his tooth cut out!

They gave me the tooth afterward, I still have it. I’ve since shown MK that tooth (when he got older and could understand the significance a bit better) and he was thoroughly impressed. The tooth is about an inch long and a perfect cone shape. Isn’t that crazy??

Nearly every one of my eye teeth have come out twice. TWICE. Talk about being freaked out every time it would come out again. But my teeth grew back each time, so I guess I just had too many teeth for my head. lol

So yeah, teeth have always been an issue for us.

How about you? How often do you get your teeth cleaned? Are your teeth in good shape?

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I didn’t date that much when I was younger. I had a lot of guy friends, but very few boyfriends. I always related to guys better than I did to girls - I don’t know, girls got on my nerves with all of their fashion obsessions and their stupid, “let’s mess with the guys’ heads and make them miserable” crap. I was a pretty straight forward, flirty-but-no-strings-attached sort of gal; maybe that’s why the guys liked me, because they could kid around and not be asked to commit to a relationship.

I learned a lot about guys during that time period, though. I learned that guys are in essence, simple creatures. And they don’t like to deal with a lot of emotional garbage, unless their heart is involved, in which case, they would prefer to simply KNOW where they stand and BE TOLD straight up, what’s going on. No subtleties, please.

The dates I went on are not fantastic stories. They were pretty straight forward and I knew, about five minutes into the date, whether I liked the guy for more than a friend or not.

I usually didn’t.

There was one particular date though where everything was magical and everything felt … right. It was my first date with my husband.

For those of you that don’t know, we met at the bank we both worked out. He was the drive-thru teller, I was the lobby teller. We did work side-by-side a few times, but overall, I stuck to the lobby. I liked working with him, he was fun to be around and I loved to flirt with him. But sometimes it was uncomfortable to work with him either due to female customers getting all doe-eyed around him, thereby waking my green-eyed monster, or our different views on how to handle situations, but overall, our time working together was a blast.

In the middle of all of our flirtation, there was another woman, let’s call her T, whom my husband worked with on a regular basis. And it was really no secret she liked my husband, a lot. And she made it obvious that she wanted him. My husband, being the friendly guy that he is, perhaps led her to believe that they had a future together (he didn’t understand, and still doesn’t, that you can’t be THAT friendly to the female species and expect them to think it’s completely innocent. Women don’t generally think like that. Remember, men simple, women overly-complicated. *grin*)

Our first date was the company Christmas party. He asked me to the party, but I refused to go. He was going through a lot of emotional crap (he had just gotten a divorce from his first wife) and I was worried that I was the “rebound” girl. I had no intention of getting involved with him until he had had some time to heal.

However, he perhaps knew me better than I gave him credit for, and he bet me that if he balanced to the penny, then we would have to go to the Christmas party together. Figuring I was safe from that happening, because he never balanced to the penny, I agreed.

He balanced. I honored our agreement and said I would go to the party, but we would not go together. I would meet him there. I fought the whole “date” thing to the bitter end. lol I guarded my heart because I liked him and just didn’t want to get hurt if, or when, he got tired of me.

I remember dressing for the party and feeling oh so VERY NERVOUS. I really liked this guy. We clicked. I had only felt this way about one other guy in my life, my first “love”, and he rejected me. His sloppy rejection hurt me and I was very careful who I allowed close to me after that (which would explain all of the guy friends, now that I think about it).

I wore a long black and white speckled sweater dress to the party. I had just started the bank and didn’t have enough money to buy anything fancy. But I loved my dress, felt comfortable and pretty and didn’t think too much about it. Again, I was young and very inexperienced with the “corporate” world.

I arrived at the hotel and immediately felt out of place. I was under dressed, of course. All of the other women had formal gowns and here I was in a sweater dress.

*snicker*

I nearly turned around and went home. Not only was I the new kid on the banking block, thereby not really knowing anyone that well, I was obviously poor and didn’t have any taste whatsoever. I suddenly wished I had paid more attention to my girlfriends – they could have counseled me on my terrible decision on what NOT to wear.

Before I could turn around and head back to my apartment with my tail between my legs, the hubs found me and escorted me into the convention room and to our table. All of my lobby buds were there, with their significant others, along with T. And T was by herself. Apparently, she thought she was the hubs’ date.

This only added to my discomfort. The hubs assured me that she was NOT his date, that she had misunderstood (which I can see happening because again, my husband wouldn’t hurt a fly’s feelings) and to not worry about it.

HAHA, not worry about a woman who would cheerfully gouge me open with a butter knife? Uh no, I wasn’t afraid for my life. *snort* Trust me folks, if looks could kill, I would have been a puddle of poo within five minutes of arriving.

But, being the self-confident chit that I am, I thought, hey, whatever. I’m here now so I might as well bury the knife in this girl’s back just a little deeper. And I promptly ignored her. It was easy to do because the hubs worked overtime on his charm. And he did; he charmed me, he made me laugh and he quite melted my heart.

After dinner, we decided the party was getting a bit stuffy, so we headed to the hotel bar. We found an area big enough to accommodate all of us and we sat down and promptly drank our already escalating alcohol levels higher. We laughed, and we flirted and I felt so sexy and alive, I never wanted to evening to end. Believe it or not, T hadn’t gotten the hint that my husband didn’t like her in THAT way and had accompanied us to the bar. It was awkward for about five minutes before my attention was successfully diverted and we promptly forgot all about her. I have no idea what time she left, but when I finally realized she wasn’t still with us, I remember feeling an OVERWHELMING sense of relief. I later felt incredibly sorry for her because that whole evening couldn’t have been pleasant for her. Here she was, by herself pining for a man who obviously wasn’t interested. I have to give her credit though, she didn’t give up that easily and was willing to humiliate herself in order to make sure she hadn’t misread the signs.

By the time the bartender kicked us out, the sexual tension between me and my husband was at critical level. We stumbled out to my car, laughing, flirting and making all sorts of innuendos. I remember reaching my car and making a decision. I would invite him over to my apartment. I honestly did have any thoughts of what might happen at that point, I just wanted to continue to be around him.

He agreed to follow me back to my place. There was a moment’s panic when he got into his car and then couldn’t find me. He hadn’t gotten my address and since we couldn’t find each other, we both thought the other one was blowing each other off, but just before I was ready to give up, I saw his car and he followed me back.

Looking back, I should NOT have been driving that night. I had had several drinks and it’s quite safe to say I had a healthy buzz going, but somehow, we both made it back to my apartment without a DUI. He stayed over quite late. I won’t exactly go into any details about what we were doing (talking, of course *cough*), but suffice it to say, I shooed him home before things got out of hand. I didn’t want him to think I was THAT easy. *wink*

It was hard to make him go home, but it was the right thing to do. From that point on, we spent every spare moment with each other. He eventually moved in, we lived together for two years and here we are, twenty years later, seventeen years of marriage under our belts and two wonderful boys to show for it.

It was, by far, the best date of my life.

If I do say so myself, I think the Otter Dinner is the biggest shindig for children's book lovers this side of the Mississippi. Don't miss it. Contact your local NCCBA member bookstore for tickets (or email me and I'll put you in touch with one).

Here is the press release with all the dirty details:

NCCBA's 21st Annual Otter Awards Banquet

The Northern California Children’s Booksellers’ Association’s well-loved Otter Awards Banquet, the premier children’s literature and literacy event in the San Francisco Bay Area, is coming up on March 22, 2008 at San Francisco's elegant Hotel Nikko, 222 Mason Street.

This year marks the beginning of our third decade presenting the Otter Award, which honors an individual or organization for an ongoing and unique role in bringing together children and books. The Otter winner for 2008 is Stephen D. Krashen, professor emeritus at the University of Southern California. A highly acclaimed linguist, educational researcher, and activist, he is best known for his contributions to the fields of second language acquisition, bilingual education, and reading. He is, in addition, a tireless advocate for access to books and the right of children to free reading time.

We're also thrilled to announce our keynote speakers for the evening: Mark Teague and Ying Chang Compestine. Mark is the well-known illustrator of the How Do Dinosaurs...? picture book series with Jane Yolen, and the author/illustrator of the hilarious LaRue books, Dear Mrs. LaRue: Letters from Obedience School and Detective LaRue: Letters From the Investigation. Local author Ying has written several cook books and picture books, including The Real Story of Stone Soup and D is for Dragon Dance, and also an acclaimed first novel, the semi-autobiographical Revolution Is Not A Dinner Party.

This same evening, we will announce the winners of our grants for community-based literacy projects.

No-host cocktails start at 6 p.m.; dinner at 7 p.m. Tickets, available through you local, independent bookseller, are $75 until March 1, $85 thereafter.

This event often sells out, so be sure to order your tickets soon.

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Whenever I hear the word competition, I think of yelling coaches, angry fans, and snotty women. I associate the whole concept with sneaky, underhanded methods in order to gain one thing and one thing only: to win something.

I’m not a competitive person. I could care less if I win or lose; I’m more concerned with enjoying the journey: getting from point A to point B. I know, I sound like one of those Zen masters who speaks in calm voices and tells you that winning is not everything.

But seriously, it means nothing to me.

I’ve never had any desire, whatsoever, to compete against my peers in sports, at work, in parenting, blogging, or writing. I occasionally tell you all that I am simply me – take it or leave it – and I mean it. I put forth my best effort and if I am pleased with the results then really, I’m okay with that.

I see people get so bent out shape whenever their sports teams lose, or don’t perform to the best of their ability. It absolutely astounds me that people allow a game, A GAME, to ruin their day and/or night. I simply can’t wrap my brain around that. Do we really measure life by the number of times we win against something or someone?

And I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve witnessed, first hand, parents who pound into their kids’ heads that if they don’t win, then they are not worthy of their attention. Of course, they don’t come right out and say these things, but it’s certainly apparent in what they say and how they say it. Kids are not stupid; they figure these things out on their own. Is it no wonder some kids grow up thinking they’re not good enough? Life is all about winning – or so we’ve been conditioned to think it is.

GD concerns me; he thinks that if he doesn’t win one of his matches, or games, that he’s a loser in real life. Where exactly did I drop the ball on that? When did I imply, either consciously, or subconsciously, that if he didn’t win all the time, at everything, he would become a loser in real life?

We’ve talked about this obsessive need to win (well, I’ve talked, he has just sat there and gotten ticked off and mouthy). I keep telling him that it’s a game, that it doesn’t matter in real life and that when it’s over, no one cares. After several false starts (and that’s putting it nicely), he finally told me why he feels that way – because when he plays a game, he feels in control of his life, he feels powerful. The fact that he doesn’t feel like this in real life really bothers me.

Of course, I blame myself for this attitude. Apparently, I’ve not allowed the boy to grow and take control of his life – sounds like me, doesn’t it. I will be the first to admit, I’m a controlling person. I like to be in control of my life and everything in my life.

I can see now, this is not necessarily a good thing.

MK doesn’t seem to feel this way. He’s a pretty casual personality and though he gets upset whenever he fails at something, his reaction is not explosive, like GD’s. I realize the boys are different, and have different mentalities, but the fact that GD gets SO upset whenever he loses really worries me. How is he going to handle failure later on down the road? When it applies to real life? For though I don’t believe the boy with be a failure, I am realistic – you can’t win, or be successful, ALL the time. Is he going to be a volatile individual who blows up at everything? Will people have to walk on eggshells around him? How can I prepare him for life’s pitfalls? How can I teach him to handle setbacks with grace and humor and to not give up?

I’ve used examples from my life and from the hubs’ life. When I was first learning (well, teaching myself actually) Dreamweaver, I would become so frustrated that I would break down and cry. I will never learn this, I told myself. What makes me think I’m smart enough to manipulate this code so that it does what I want it to? But I didn’t give up; I persevered and I walked away, only to catch my breath, refresh my batteries and come back to tackle it again.

The hubs is an accountant. And life was pretty rough for him when he was going to college. He worked two jobs in addition to going to school and keeping his GPA up so he would be marketable whenever he graduated. He trudged through that period of time when all he could afford was Ramen noodles for dinner and he beat his battle. He then went on to pass the CPA exam – which was another set of stress worms.

How do we teach our son that the only competition that really matters is with yourself, that if you want something badly enough, you’ll need to get out there and fight for it? And by fighting, I mean not giving up when times get rough, or not being scared to learn new things or improve yourself both physically and emotionally in order to prepare yourself for WHEN you cross that finish line.

To me, this is the only competition that matters, not some stupid game that is meant to entertain us. Those are fleeting stitches in the fabric of time; if we want to compete at something, let’s compete with ourselves by making ourselves stronger and better equipped to handle, live, and enjoy something a bit more important – life.

________________________________

I’ll Be Home For Christmas - Linda Ronstadt

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_____________________________

As I stood on the platform and watched the train pull into the station, I thought about my sleeping husband back home. It had been no small feat to sneak out of the house with two suitcases in the dark without a sound. There had been a moment of sheer panic when I had accidentally knocked over his golf clubs in the spare bedroom, but he had slept right through my quiet cursing.

I took a deep breath and examined all of the happy faces milling around me. The holiday season was upon us and I wondered, for the five hundredth and third time, if I was doing the right thing. Leaving would crush him, leaving this time of year would destroy him.

But hadn’t he already destroyed me in so many ways?

The train slowly crawled into the building; the crowds surged forward but I held back. If I stepped forward, if I started walking, it would be the end of the life I had led for the past six years. Every experience, every memory, would dissipate with each stride and I would be walking toward a new future. Had my life really reached this point? In so many ways, I wondered if I had failed myself. Should I have stayed and tried to make things work – again?

“Come on, mum. We need to hurry so we get a decent seat,” a child next to me said while pulling her mother.

I craved her innocence.

I began walking.
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Do You Hear What I Hear - Martina McBride

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Hospitals are strange, wondrous and sometimes scary places. They’re almost magical when you think about them. There are medicines that can cure, humans that are trained to fix our problems, and miracles happen every time a new baby is born. People’s lives are transformed whenever you visit a hospital.

You go in a certain way; you come out different.

You might go in broken and come out fixed.

You might go in healthy, you might leave sick.

I have a love/hate relationship with hospitals. I love that they were able to extend my mother’s life for two more years, but I hate how they couldn’t completely fix her; she died last month.

At least the doctors were able to drug her into a blessed void.

Hospitals are designed to take your physical pain away, but what about your emotional pain? How can hospitals take away the anguish, the worry, the despair, the utter devastation when someone close to us expires?

I should have been able to help my mother. I was in a position where I should have been able to make the doctors work a bit harder, to make the staff care about her a bit more. Why did this have to happen? We’re in an amazing age – we are making incredible medical discoveries each and every day – why couldn’t any of this wonderful technology save my mother?

I can’t handle dashing people’s hopes anymore. I’m not strong enough to look grief in the face and dodge it’s ugly accusations. I should stop and simply walk away. I would, if only I hadn’t promised my mother that I would do everything in my power, everything that was humanly possible, to help save just one more life from the cancer that took her away from me.

“Denise, are you all right?”

I didn’t bother to glance up. Was I all right? I didn’t feel all right. In fact, I felt pretty lousy. How were we expected to go on when so many around us were suffering? Something bobbed to the surface of my stomach and my heart began to flutter. I swallowed it back down my throat and forced a smile.

“Of course.”

“You don’t look all right. Have you taken your …”

“I don’t need pills. I just need to,” I closed my eyes hoping that by doing so I could ignore the guilt that had attached itself to my soul, “deal with all of this.”

I sensed, rather than saw, Stacy’s nod of agreement. No one knew what to say around me anymore. I didn’t know what I wanted them to say anymore.

“Why don’t you go take a break.”

“I just had a break.”

“Go take another one.”

I opened my eyes and made the mistake of looking at my co-worker. This was the person I had trained under. She was my mentor. She was wise and well meaning, but suddenly, I hated her simple life and her caring demeanor.

“I’m fine,” I replied and I was quite proud of myself, for though my voice was strong, I knew, deep in my heart, I was not.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“I’m making my rounds. If Dr. Wilson shows up in the next ten minutes, please let me know.”

“Right.” Stacy nodded and transformed her face into a mask of professional indifference.

I returned her brusque nod and fed off her stolidity. We were trained, from the very beginning, to assume an impersonal persona when it came to dealing with patients. We weren’t allowed to become personally involved. For if we gave our hearts and sympathies to each and every patient, then we would simply not have any left over to live our lives.

I began walking down the corridor. I had been employed with this particular hospital for the past fifteen years, but had only started walking down this specific corridor for the past three years. I resented the fact that I had to frequent this wing of the hospital at all and I would have continued to avoid it – if it hadn’t been for my mother.

“Oh nurse. I’m so glad to see you.”

I stopped myself, just in the nick of time, from snarling at the young, worried looking woman standing by the bedside.

“My father,” she gestured helplessly to the pale, shrunken man in the bed beside her. “He’s in so much pain. Can you please give him something?”

My eyes shifted toward the man in the bed. He was the latest cancer patient. He had been admitted only that morning and I knew, just by looking at him, he was in the last stages of the disease. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked – the cancer was winning.

“I’m sorry. I can’t administer medication without the doctor’s approval.” Is what I found myself saying. “And it wouldn’t do any good anyway. He’s too far gone. The medicine won’t affect him at this point.” Is what I thought to myself. I knew this. I had experienced this stage with my mother and though every fiber of my being knew I needed to comfort this young woman, I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.

No one was there to comfort me.

The woman began to cry. The only sound she made was a small, pathetic whimper; her eyes began to blacken as mascara bled down her cheeks. She looked so lost, so forlorn and though it was my job to reassure her, I simply couldn’t do it. I had nothing left in my hopeful reserves to offer.

I turned and walked back out the door.

fiction

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Dear Husband,

I’m sorry for not being a better wife to you. True, I have gotten better and these past years have been wonderful, but you and I both know there was that time period, at about the seven-year mark, that things were not so great. And yes, you certainly had a part in that rough patch, but I had allowed myself to be brainwashed into thinking YOU were responsible for my happiness. I was weak and had participated in the men bashing ritual performed by the girls at work who were bitter about their own relationships and before long, I started to believe their nonsense and joined in with their complaints and discontent. This had soured my attitude toward you and I had allowed this garbage into our marriage so that before long, our relationship was nothing more than a landfill piled high with refuse - rotten and dirty.

I have learned, since then, to choose my friends wisely for they do indeed affect my attitude about our relationship and life in general. I’m sorry for all the times I have taken advantage of you - you’ve made it so easy for me. You spoil me and though I love you more for that, I am learning not to take you for granted. I’m sorry for being emotionally, and physically cold. I have since learned that this is part of who I am. I have come to terms with the reasons WHY I am like that and am learning not to allow that part of me to affect our relationship - you deserve so much more than that.

I’m amazed you have put up with me all these years. And I love you more because of it.

______________________

Dear Boys,

I’m sorry I haven’t been a better mother to you. I have been strict, and sometimes downright mean, in order to teach you to grow up with a backbone. I was afraid you would grow up with tender hearts and that would open the door for others to take advantage of you. I only pray that my harshness hasn’t completely killed your gentle spirits and loving natures. I’m sorry for being emotionally and physically cold to you over the years. Though there have been hugs and kisses, there haven’t been enough. I’m sorry I have withdrawn when I should have offered comfort; I’m sorry I have yelled when I should have understood. I’m sorry I have jumped to conclusions instead of trusting you to make the right decision.

God has blessed me with two of the most wonderful boys on this earth and I fear I haven’t always appreciated that fact. I hope you can forgive my mistakes and someday realize that everything I’ve done, the good and the bad, I did out of a deep, heart-felt love for you. I deeply regret some of the mistakes I’ve made and I hope, someday, when you have your own children, you will finally understand why I made some of the choices I did. You are, and will always be, part of who I am.

______________________

Dear Parents,

I’m sorry for being such a pain in the ass growing up. I know we’ve talked about this, and I know you have forgiven me, but my attitude and actions are something I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself for. However, I also know, deep in my heart, that if you hadn’t made the choices that you made, I would not be the person I am today. And though I have many flaws, I think, overall, I turned out pretty good and I thank God everyday that I had parents who loved each other, stuck together and who loved me the way you did. I firmly believe that your relationship is one of the reasons my husband and I are still together today. I learned from your compassion and compromise all that was required to make a relationship work. I learned to be fair and to be sympathetic. I learned to be strong, yet flexible. I am who I am today BECAUSE of you.

______________________

Dear Friends,

I’m sorry for not being a better friend. I’m sorry for being self-centered and selfish. I’m sorry I wasn’t there more often or offered more emotional support. I’m sorry for my impatience and sarcasm and I’m deeply sorry for my jealousy.

I’m sorry I gave up too easily.

______________________

Dear Blog Friends,

I’m sorry this entry is so sappy.

Feel like scribbling along?

Possession is a powerful feeling.

I’m sitting here, right this very moment, munching on dry Eggos and drinking a full glass of water (why yes, my breakfast IS exciting). It’s 9:24 in the morning. I’ve been up since 7:30, MK has been up for about an hour, I just woke GD up (who could have slept until noon, as I would have allowed that *snort*) and the hubs is still asleep.

And this is very unusual.

The hubs is an early bird. He’s just like his mother; he’s an early riser and from the moment he opens his eyes to the moment he closes his eyes, he’s on the go-go-go. However, this morning, I WANT him to sleep in. Why?

The hubs had his rodeo gig last night and he didn’t get home until about two in the morning.

Midnite Thunder has had this gig scheduled for about six weeks. And the band members have been working very hard to prepare for this gig.

It was their first paying gig. So naturally, they wanted to give their very best performance.

I didn’t go to his very first performance. I feel bad about that now, but it was in a hole-in-wall dive out in the boonies and I wasn’t sure I could handle all of those drunk good-old-boys. (And I say that with affection because I grew up with a lot of good-old-boys). And the hubs wasn’t sure he wanted me there because then he would worry about me and be distracted from his music. And of course, this wasn’t a place the boys could go to watch their dad – so he did his first gig sans family.

His first gig didn’t go as expected. It was their very first time playing in front of other people and they weren’t quite all on the same page. But they learned a lot from the experience and practiced their hearts out for the rodeo.

I wasn’t sure me and the boys would be going to this performance until the very last moment. I asked the hubs to call me and let me know if he thought this was a kid-friendly place. The rodeo was located in a neighboring town, about 30 minutes away, and of course would consist of cowboys and farmers. And that’s fine, it’s just a different world than what we’re used to – we’re purebred city folk after all.

The hubs left us about 3:00 yesterday afternoon to drive down there and help set up. They weren’t scheduled to begin playing until 8:00 p.m. At about 6:30, the hubs called to say, “Forget it. Don’t come. This place is filthy dirty and crawling with cowboy boots – you’d hate every minute of it.”

And he’s right. I don’t DO the dirt thing, never have, never will. However, this wasn’t about me. It was about supporting him. So, I just sort of grit my teeth, swallowed my revulsion and said, “Whatever. Dirt washes off. We want to come see you play. I’m more concerned with knowing if you think it’s kid safe.”

He assured me it was, though there were quite a few folks drinking beer, but there was also a lot of kids running around so I thought, “Heck. This might be the only time he plays in a venue where the kids can go at all,” and I agreed we would be there by the time he started playing.

We left a little late, and I underestimated the amount of time it would take to get there, but get there we did. We pulled into a pitch-black field and blindly made our way to what I THINK might have been a parking lot – of sorts. I couldn’t really be sure, as there was really no discernible “lot” to speak of. However, I pulled my little (brand new!) car up next to a humongous 4x4, made sure it was locked up good and tight and me and the boys proceeded to hike our way the ¼ mile to the barn, er, arena-type building.

We cautiously stepped through the tall grass and were surprised, on more than one occasion, by a passing horse. We were so close to those beautiful creatures that we could literally reach out and touch them as they walked past. I felt like we had stepped into some sort of surreal, cowboy movie for indeed, we were walking away from our comfort zone and into the unknown.

The boys were incredibly uncomfortable. They didn’t say much, but I could see, even in the dim, poor light, how big their eyes were. And they were breathing funny. As if by concentrating on their breathing they wouldn’t freak out over the completely alien world we had just willingly stepped into.

Me? I wasn’t so freaked out. If anything, I tried to appear like it was all old news and by doing so, probably stuck out like a stiff-necked city slicker with a corn cob up her butt, but hey, I had to ACT like I knew what I was doing or I would have been forced to carry two comatose boys back to my now very dusty, and filthy dirty Vibe.

I followed the music. That’s how we found our way into the barn. We sidestepped questionable mounds of dirt (?) into the building and zeroed in on the hubs immediately. The band was playing on a flatbed truck, off to the side of, but IN, the arena. They had placed one of those horse-looking fences in a semi-circle around the truck for what I assume was meant to function as a dance floor.

No one was dancing.

In fact, there were only probably about 50 people there and the boys and I ended up standing awkwardly off to the side. After we had all calmed down and convinced ourselves that people were not staring at the odd city-slickers who OBVIOUSLY didn’t belong to this crowd, I coaxed the boys from the place they had quite literally rooted their feet to, and we made our way up to the stands to sit down. By this time, our novelty had worn off, more people had arrived and everyone started ignoring us.

We couldn’t have been happier. I pulled out our Pentax camera (with the video function) and began recording them. MK, bored and wishing for anything to escape this bad dream, gently took the camera from me and without a word, became my video man. I took out our Canon Rebel and began taking pictures. It was a challenge to try and take a picture, in the poor light, while holding it completely still on a railing that rattled and shook with each “Yee-haw!” but somehow, I managed to pull off a few decent shots. (At least I hope so. I haven’t looked at them yet).

After a few more songs, I felt brave enough to suggest we actually exit the stands and go into the arena, lean on the fence and take some closer pictures. GD shook his head, at least, I think the wobble motion from his cranium region was a no, but MK was all for it. So, MK and I went into the arena, positioned ourselves and assumed the role of media.

I think, at this point, the hubs wasn’t quite sure we had made it because even though I had tried to gain his attention by waving like a star-struck groupie at him every time he looked in our direction, I don’t think it truly registered that it was us.

But he saw us at the fence and his smile? Was worth every uncomfortable moment we had experienced thus far. His back seemed to straighten and he started playing with a little more gusto.

I’ve never been more proud of the man.

This was the first time I had heard them play. And I’m being quite honest when I tell you folks, they were pretty good. The hubs never sounded better and they were all together and in-sync. The female singers were on key and also in-sync and I could tell, by the crowd’s reaction and the fact that several actually ventured onto the dirt dance floor, that they were a hit.

I preened like a peacock out to impress its peers. And every passing comment, “they’re good,” “Oh! I love this song,” “this is awesome,” made me feel just a bit more proud and possessive of my man, the sexy guy on stage with the goatee and the Wolfgang guitar dangling from his neck.

Yeah, that guy.

We took some pictures and then plodded through the clumpy dirt back to our seats. And for the next four or five songs, I studied the boys’ profiles; I watched their expressions; and I witnessed their wonder and pride as they watched their father play his heart out for these good-hearted country folks. They saw a side of their dad they had never seen before and it actually made my heart ache knowing they would never quite look at him the same way again.

And this knowledge injected a fierce shot of possessiveness in me. These were MY guys. This was MY life. I felt powerful and more alive than I’ve felt in a long time.

Life, it’s good.

(Update: I just posted a Flickr slideshow of the rodeo pictures if you’re interested).

Feel like scribbling along?

I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like a lot of clutter. As a result, I haven’t really collected much in my life. I find that if I start getting too much of something, I tend to either give it to the Christian Foundation, put a big FREE sign on it and stick it outside our garage door (it’s usually gone the next morning - we did that with our old treadmill [which was sort of a fire hazard, if you want the truth], and our old storm glass door, which was in pretty good shape), or simply throw it away.

I did, at one point in my life, start a stamp collection. And I had some pretty cool stamps. But I think it either got lost in the shuffle when I moved out of the house, or possibly thrown away (by my own hands), I’m not sure. (You don’t still have that somewhere, do you mom?)

I can’t tell you exactly when I started collecting Precious Moment figurines. It might have been shortly after I moved out of my parents’ house. I do remember having a few lying around in my apartment before the hubs moved in with me. And even though I still have these figurines today, stored safely in a curio case, I haven’t received a new one in quite a few years. (HINTHINT)

There is something about these adorable children with the teardrop eyes that appeal to me. Perhaps it’s their innocence, perhaps it’s their cuteness factor, or perhaps it’s simply a visual reminder of various stages of my life. These figurines allow me to collect those “precious moments” of my life. Here are just a few - I think I have about 60 in all. (And that’s a rough estimate).

Strong Man: My husband has always been a skinny man. And he will most likely end up being one of those impossibly thin old men you see dutifully following their plump wives around looking incredibly tolerant, but bored, around the mall. He can’t help it; he has a raging metabolism. He burns calories incredibly fast. As a result, he’s one of those rare people who actually have to eat in order to gain and/or maintain his weight. (His whole family is like that - I try not to hate them but sheesh, no pressure. *grimace*)

When we first started dating, and several years into our marriage (and even now, though not as often), my husband has lifted weights. He’s always been self-conscious about being too skinny, so to overcompensate, he would eat a lot and pack on the muscles. He gave me the strong man figurine shortly after we started dating to remind me of him (and most likely his commitment to looking good for me - HINTHINT Karen).

PM: This little guy has nothing to do with the fact that he’s standing in front of a microphone and looking incredibly shy. This figurine has everything to do with the initials - PM. These initials, of course, stand for Precious Moments. However, they don’t mean Precious Moments to us. These letters, to us, stand for “premature.” Why? Because GD was born eight weeks early. He was a 4-pound, 12-ounce preemie who simply couldn’t wait the extra eight weeks to be born. There was no explanation as to why it happened - my water broke, my labor started and the little booger was born. He was in NICU for six weeks because his lungs hadn’t fully developed. My husband bought this PM figurine to remind me of when our son was born “premature.” (As if I could EVER forget that. Geez, what an emotional roller coaster ride THAT was).

Guitar Guy: This musician figurine was given to me by the hubs to of course, remind me of him because he’s a musician and constantly serenading me. *grin* In fact, he wrote a song entitled, “A Song for Karen” just for me. Everyone together now: Awwwww. My life would be so dull without that man. lol

New Mom: This was given to me at Christmas. GD’s six-week stay at the hospital happened over Christmas. There is NOTHING more depressing than spending your child’s first Christmas at the hospital. *sigh* However, Santa came to visit him (I’ll have to post that picture sometime) and the nurses were absolutely phenomenal in trying to make the occasion special for us. (The nurses had a soft spot for GD because he was so gosh-darn cute). I think the hubs was trying to cheer me up, but it only served to make me cry because I missed my little guy so much. He came home two days after Christmas because he had finally reached, and maintained five pounds. THAT was my Christmas present. But I cherish the new mom figurine because it reminds me to appreciate both my guys - they are truly a gift from God.

Writer: This one is also self-explanatory. I’ve always wanted to be a writer; I went to college to become a better writer, and now that is how I spend my days, at the computer, writing. Of course, I’m usually wearing a sloppy t-shirt and shorts, but we won’t nick-pick. *grin*

Pulling these figurines out has awakened my desire to get new ones. Family, are you paying attention?! That’s a hint. A HUGE hint. But in case you missed it: I want new Precious Moment figurines! *grin*

What do you collect?

Feel like scribbling along?

Dear John

Alice sank down on the top step of her front porch stoop and balanced pad and pen on her knees. She gazed for long moments across the lawn and watched the neighbor kids kick a soccer ball back and forth on the street. She smiled as she watched them open their mouths and laugh. She caught a glimpse of Ms. Becky’s yellowed-flowered housecoat in the corner of her eye and watched as she walked her dog, Biscuit, past her front yard. She waved and chuckled silently as Ms. Becky stopped to allow her Scottish terrier time to sniff the green off of the grass. Ms. Becky rolled her eyes in mock annoyance and shrugged as if to say, “What else can I do?”

She watched as a young woman, probably no more than 24, jogged down the sidewalk, her long, dark blonde ponytail bouncing merrily between her shoulder blades. She watched the muscles in the woman’s legs flex with each stride. She sighed and glanced down at the roll of flesh that overlapped the waistband of her jeans. She made a vow to get back into shape.

She had time now.

A wrinkle formed on Alice’s brow and she opened up the pad. She ran the palm of her hand over the smooth paper and marveled at the feel of the fibers. She had always enjoyed touching things and savoring the various textures housed within different types of materials. Her touch released the smell of the paper and she breathed in deeply. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the various smells around her: fresh cut grass, the rose bush next to the steps, moist earth, water from her next door neighbor’s sprinkler, the smoky, burnt smell of someone’s exhaust pipe and was that … she tilted her head and sniffed rapidly. Yes, someone was baking bread.

She was really going to miss this house.

She cleared her throat and picked up her pen. The longer she put it off, the longer it would take for her to start her life over again. She placed the pen on the first line and grimaced.

Dear John,

The irony was not lost on her.

Once again, it’s hard to put into words what I need to say. It’s hard enough to communicate with you, but it’s even harder when it truly matters. I feel like I should apologize, that I should say I’m sorry that I’m not very good with words. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I feel broken in some way; I’m a mute human in a noisy world.

I’m sorry for my part in all of this. Perhaps if I had tried to communicate harder – tried to make you understand more often – none of this would have happened. I love you John, I’m just not sure that was enough to sustain our relationship.

I tried writing you several times, hundreds of times, in fact. But the words never came. I not only have trouble communicating, I have trouble verbalizing my thoughts, too. Perhaps I shouldn’t have given up, perhaps I should have tried harder to connect with you, perhaps none of this would have happened and we would still be together.

But I suppose I can’t dwell on “perhaps” or “should haves.” We are who we are and we shouldn’t have to apologize for that.

I wish you well, John. I wish you happiness. I wish we could have found that happiness and been well together.

I wish a lot of things.

Take care my love.

She allowed the pen to slip through her fingers and drop onto the pad. She lowered her head and allowed all of the old regrets to rain down upon her shoulders. She would allow herself this one last moment to grieve – this one last moment of loss.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and looked up. Her best friend, Julie, was trying to gain her attention. Alice’s lips stretched into a slow, painful smile, or was it a grimace, and she stood up. Together, they walked across the front lawn and stopped on the sidewalk. Together, they turned in perfect unison to gaze upon the small house with the dark pink trim.

Alice felt a soft pressure on her arm and she turned toward Julie.

“Are you ready to go?” She signed with a smile.

Alice nodded and signed back. “I am ready to begin again.”

Julie offered a sad, but encouraging smile and together they erected the For Sale sign.

______________________________________

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sunday scribblings, fiction

So this is what The End looks like. I don’t know, I guess I was expecting the grim reaper to come out with his scythe and slash a big hole through the time continuum with everything getting sucked into an evil dark vortex.

I gathered the kids closer to my side. Their bodies were warm and smelled faintly of cinnamon toast. I had cooked them breakfast just this morning; I had cooked all of us breakfast just this morning. That time period seems like years ago. So much has happened since then.

I steal their warmth hoping to warm my icy body. I’ve never felt so cold in my life. Well, except for that time we had an ice storm during the middle of winter and the entire city was without electricity for a full week. We had actually been out for eleven days because we live on the outskirts of town and were last on the grid. I remembered I had complained to my husband that we really ought to look into switching lines and getting onto the grid across the street – our neighbors never lost their electricity, and never bothered to offer us their place to hang out during the darker hours. I’ve never forgiven them and will never like them from this point on.

We didn’t have any sort of heat during those eleven days from hell, and we nearly froze during that time period, but now I feel even colder than I did then, and it’s the middle of June, isn’t that odd? Maybe I’m getting sick. Or maybe my body still hasn’t recovered from the shock. No one should have to endure this kind of shock. We’re not made to handle this type of emotional murder.

I can feel the kids’ shoulders shaking beneath my fingers. Poor things, they don’t know how to react. How can they know this kind of grief? No child should have to experience this type of pain so early in life. I can sense they are no longer children, but young people – this episode has forced them to grow up before they were ready.

This knowledge causes a surge of white-hot anger to race through my chilled blood. I’m suddenly angry at my husband for doing this to us. How could he? Even though I know, at some lost rational level of my brain, that part of what happened was my fault, I can’t help but feel hatred for the man I promised to love and cherish till death do us part.

I bite back a bitter chuckle. Yeah right. Who writes those kinds of vows? Who lives in that kind of fairyland world? This is real life, not some made-for-TV-movie. Our reality is what it is, not some Disney movie where everyone comes out smelling like roses and becoming better people.

I suddenly picture the butcher knives in our kitchen, the blades razor sharp and embedded in the wood block right next to the stove. I’ve given the kids countless lectures about staying away from the stove and those knives. I’ve always wanted to get rid of them, but the husband always vetoed my fears. I wish now I could take one of those long, sharp objects and bury it deep into his chest. He deserves to know one-fourth of the pain he’s caused the kids and me. His physical pain could still not match the emotional turmoil he has caused this family.

And I thought we were happy. What planet was I living on? Why was I the last to see what was happening? I would have prevented it somehow. I would have worked harder at being a better wife, partner and person for this man. I would have changed, cared a little more about my appearance, about being a better housekeeper, perhaps I should have gone ahead and taken those cooking classes. Maybe then none of this would have happened.

But in the end, would it have made any difference? Would changing my personality and the way I live have made us any happier? And why would he have expected it from me? I am who I am – no one should have to change entirely for another person.

Again, I feel angry. And again I’m grateful for the feeling. I welcome it, I embrace it, I hold on to it. This feeling makes me focus on what’s now my number one priority, taking care of the kids and helping them cope. The overwhelming sadness will come later, when I can no longer hold it at bay. It will take over my life; it will force me to reevaluate the meaning of my life.

Another thought occurs to me – I’ll have to get a job. I’m not afraid of working, indeed, I used to be a successful paralegal before getting married, but the kids will miss me. I won’t have the luxury of being there when they need a Band-Aid for their scrapes or a tissue to absorb their tears. I won’t be available when they have a question about why the sky is blue or why their turds get stuck in the pipes and cause the toilet to overflow. I will have to change my status to working mom and I resent it. A lot.

How could he do this to me? To us? I hate him and can’t wait to get rid of every last trace of him in the house. To think, I used to shine this man’s shoes every Sunday afternoon so that he could maintain a professional demeanor in front of his bosses – now he’s not worthy of scraping the dirt from my shoes. I wouldn’t let him if he tried.

I feel old. When did this happen? Yesterday, I felt 32, today, I feel 102. I no longer understand my function in the world. My definition has changed, has been forced to change, all because of one man. One lone mortal man.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to bury myself in a dark hole and lick my wounds. I want to cease to function, not for all times, but just for a short time. Just long enough for me to come to terms with what is happening with my family.

The kids sniffle and begin to openly cry at the sight of him. I hug them tighter to me and mumble reassuring words that I do not believe. It won’t be all right, our lives are going to suck and change and I am powerless to do anything to stop it. I glare at the man in front of us holding a suitcase in each pasty white hand.

It’s probably a good thing he’s leaving us, because right now, right this very moment as I watch him try and act like he cares about his children, I would rip out his heart and toss it to the neighbor dogs to first toy with and then devour.
_______________________

sunday scribblings, fiction

I usually take Sundays off from blogging but once in a while, the urge to write hits me and it’s all I can do NOT to post. So when I stumbled across Sunday Scribblings, I took advantage of the opportunity to once again bore you to tears. *grin*

By the way, read this with a grain of salt.

___________________________

Dear Diary,

I shouldn’t be telling you this, but this is something I simply must get off my chest. I plan on deleting this entry as soon as I’ve written it for if it should get in the wrong hands, it would hurt a lot of people as well as ruin my life.

I have a crush on someone - and my husband can never know. This man is sexy, witty and completely unattainable. Perhaps that’s why I am attracted to him? His name is Mike Rowe and he’s the host of Dirty Jobs. He also does Ford Truck commercials, and looks mighty sexy on that tailgate, I might add.

I can’t stop thinking about him. In fact, he appears in my dreams on a nightly basis now. I used to be able to banish him from my mind by simply fantasizing about Matthew McConaughey, but alas, even Matthew pales in comparison to Mike.

(I just realized something - both of my fantasy men’s names begin with an “M”. Is there some underlying psycho-babble explanation for that??)

Mike’s job is to get dirty. And though the type of jobs he does grosses me out at times, the fact that he’s willing to get dirty, turns me on. I can imagine all sorts of dirty jobs I’d like to do with Mike.

But I must control myself. My husband is asleep in the next room and I mustn’t allow myself to get too carried away. Perhaps it will be enough to watch these videos.

In fact, it HAS be enough to watch these videos.

I have no intentions on leaving my husband for some B-listed celebrity (as Mike likes to call himself). However, it’s fun to fantasize about the sheer danger of doing something naughty.

I’m getting ready to hit the delete button now. And after that? I think I’ll wake my husband up.

I usually take Sundays off from blogging but once in a while, the urge to write hits me and it’s all I can do NOT to post. So when I stumbled across Sunday Scribblings, I took advantage of the opportunity to once again bore you to tears. *grin*

___________________________

So yeah, I have hair issues.

I’m never quite satisfied. I’ve had short hair:

Long Hair:

In-Between Hair:

Blonde Hair:

And Reddish-Brown Hair:

And still, I’m not quite satisfied. I’m currently growing it out again. I think I look best in long hair, though it’s a pain in the butt to maintain. I wash it everyday because to NOT wash it would mean putting up with greasy, slick hair (my hair gets oily, fast).

I used to enjoy styling it, but the older I get? The more I simply don’t want to waste the time it requires to style it. So, I brush it and go. Only right now, with it being so hot, I pull it back into a ponytail most days. I’m such a wild woman.

I’m trying to get back to my original color, which is sort of a mousey brown, truth be known, but my husband likes a little red in it (he doesn’t care for the blonde. And though I loved it, I can’t stand that brown-trailer-trash-roots look when it grows out) so I guess I’ll try and maintain that color.

I’ve been noticing a lot more gray coming in. *sigh* I had been plucking them in the past (I know, shame on me) but it’s gotten to the point now that if I continue, I’ll run the risk of going bald. And speaking of losing hair, does anyone else pull out a large number of strands when you comb your hair out after washing? I’m getting a little concerned, quite frankly. It’s not bad every day, but some days, WOW. I could weave a wig with the amount of hair I pull out.

I’ve noticed it goes in spurts. Some weeks, I pull out a lot, some weeks, barely anything. Does it depend on my diet? The weather? What?

This seems like such a trivial post, doesn’t it? There’s nothing overly profound about this entry - I’m not proposing a solution to world hunger, I’m not commenting on government policies, I’m not even entertaining you, but ladies, I don’t have to explain it to you, do I. Men don’t understand the time and effort we make to attain that gorgeous hair that defines who we are as both women, and personalities.

Sometimes, I just wish I could shave it all off and be done with it. Wouldn’t that be great?

And I’m sick of looking at pictures of myself.

Bye.

I usually take Sundays off from blogging but once in a while, the urge to write hits me and it’s all I can do NOT to post. So when I stumbled across Sunday Scribblings, I took advantage of the opportunity to once again bore you to tears. *grin*

________________________________________

I have a secret. Actually, I have several secrets but the question is, should I share them with the rest of the Internet? If I share these secrets, will they come back to bite me in the butt later? Will I lose readers? Will I lose clients? Will my family disown me?

Is it worth it?

No.

So, are there any secrets that I can reveal? And will they be interesting enough to entertain the WFK readers? And lastly, have I shared these secrets before?

I’m an open book, for the most part, and quite honestly, I’m not sure I have any more PG-rated secrets to share – the remaining 999 are more like R and even X-rated. (Intrigued?)

I suppose I could share the fact that my husband and I don’t sleep together.

No, we’re not having marital problems. In fact, our relationship couldn’t be better or stronger (and no, I’m not just saying that). We don’t sleep together because he snores my ear off. And much to my chagrin, I snore his ear off.

Hello, my name is Karen and I’m a massive snorer. Wow, I can’t tell you how much better I feel after disclosing that bit of personal information to ya’ll.

We’ve never really slept that well together to begin with. At first, I wasn’t sure what the problem was; I’m a light sleeper and any little sound and/or shift from his side of the bed wakes me up. And then we saw that informercial on TV about the Sleep-By- Number thing – you know, the husband needs a 35, the wife needs a 70 sort of thing.

Considering we were desperate to get a good night’s sleep by this time, we ordered one of those beds. And as a matter of fact, he has to have it extremely soft (think sleeping in a valley-type of mattress here) and I have to have it rock hard. (That sounds bad, but I’m talking about the mattress here – behave).

And that worked for a while, but then, I don’t know, we got older, we gained a little weight and suddenly, we’re both lumberjacks in a log-sawing contest. It was terrible. And we were tired and cranky all the time because we simply weren’t getting quality sleep.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I got one of the air mattresses out of the camper, aired it up and slept in the living room. And haven’t moved back into the bedroom ever since. So, most nights, (we switch off occasionally), the hubs sleeps in our bedroom and I sleep in the living room. And though it sounds bad? We’ve never slept better.

Do I miss him? Of course. But it’s nice to be able to sprawl out and hog every bit of bed space if I so choose. And it’s heaven not to wake up to violent rattling in my head a hundred times a night.

Oh, one time, I didn’t deflate the air mattress until late and my mother-in-law came over. She never asked why we had an air mattress in the living room, but I know she thought we were having marital problems because she offered to take the kids so we could have some time alone like a thousand times, lol. Though I appreciated the offer, we never took her up on it. (The hubs and I have a standing lunch date every Wednesday).

Did I bother to tell her the real reason behind the air mattress – nope. I’m mean that way. *grin*

Anyhoo, I beg you, please don’t ask if I have any more secrets because honestly? I don’t think I have many more I can share with you.

Unless you count that time I had an affair with a married man …

I usually take Sundays off from blogging but once in a while, the urge to write hits me and it’s all I can do NOT to post. So when I stumbled across Sunday Scribblings, I took advantage of the opportunity to once again bore you to tears. *grin*

I have to admit, I was pretty stumped on this particular theme. If you will recall, I’m a 50% left-brained and 50% right-brained sort of person – I’m neither too creative, nor too logical. Considering this very accurate trait, I would never think to use eccentricity as a word to describe me.

However, I love eccentric people. They are so fun to be around. You never really know what they are going to say, or do, next. Being with them is like constantly finding tiny presents stashed in various corners of your life – it’s only a matter of time before you stumble across one or two.

And I’ve always followed social norms. I’m the kind of person who blends into the crowd – I dress the part, I act the part. There’s really nothing overly fantastic about me; you’d most likely overlook me at a PTA meeting.

And speaking of PTA meetings, wouldn’t it be fun to dress up really funky and shock the perfect hairstyles out of other moms? I mean, I’m not the most fashion-conscious person out there, but even I know off-the-shoulder couture-type clothing is not acceptable at a PTA meeting. For once, I’d like to walk into the stuffy cafeteria with my hair punked out, wearing camouflage pants and a tiny t-shirt that says, “My Kid is An Average Student and Happy” emblazoned across my chest. I’d like to sit comfortably, as opposed to sitting lady-like and I’d like to be able to say whatever is on my mind as opposed to primly nodding my agreement.

I’ve seen women like this before. And I’ve seen how the other moms shun her and promptly dismiss her as beneath their snobby standards. For once, I’d like to have the guts to approach this urban rebel and make friends with her because I suspect she’s a lot more fun than most of the stodgy moms who turn their noses up at new ideas and pretend their lives are anything less than perfect.

I hate the plastic smiles and cold eyes more than anything else in this world. I hate how PTA parents converge and forge little groups and forget to tell everyone else the rules of joining said group. And then make a person feel like a worm for daring to penetrate their little tête-à-tête. I feel uncomfortable pretending I care about whether or not my kid has green beans or peas for lunch – who cares? I get tired of treating children like they’re made of glass and one wrong decision will cause them to shatter into a million pieces.

For once, I’d like to have the guts to act on my eccentric streak, raise hell and go down in history as that mom who dared to be herself.