Lonely Saturday Night

What's a woman gotta do in order to get some comments around here? Is anyone even still reading this? Maybe I'm talking to myself. That's ok too. This blogging thing is highly addictive and therapeutic as well. I suppose you could be reading and not comment- I've been doing that myself lately. So many blogs, so little time!

I've come to confess my newest addiction. Trading. Trading coupons and items for stamps, coupons, and items that I'm looking for. I even made up a whole Snapfish album of items that I have up for trade. It's a simple little way to rid myself of little items around the house that I'm no longer in need of. And it gets me the things I want too. Right now, I'm IDSO (in dear search of) boy's black wide wale corduroy pants in a size 7. I'm a real picture person and trying to get outfits all picked out for the boys' Christmas pictures. I want their outfits to compliment each other but not be carbon copies. They already look enough alike!

DH skipped out on me to go hunting this weekend, and wouldn't you know it Weston comes down pukey sick and Tyler gets some sort of infection from a hangnail that tore down too far (yeouch!) and requires an minor emergency room visit for antibiotics. Mom and Grandma to the rescue! They came over and entertained and played nurse to Wes and C.J. while I took Ty in. I was even able to mail out some trades at the same time.

I hate being a "hunting season widow." The following is an example of how innately strong the call of the wild is. The men were standing in the driveway and packing gear up to go hunting. DH's buddy, a childhood friend of ours, gets a phone call from home and starts crying in the driveway. Something is terribly wrong. We find out a few minutes later that his Mom just found out she has terminal brain cancer. I thought the trip would be called off then and there. NO GO. They still went. I guess that gives him time to think in the fresh air.

Being a childhood friend of his, my heart aches for him. He used to live down the street from me. We'd trade baseball cards, build forts, and ride bikes together. The first time I went away from home was when he invited me to church camp. I went to my very first movie in the theater with him- The Karate Kid. I was there when he got his first cassette tape...Michael Jackson hehe. He dated one of my girlfriends in junior high. He stood up as best man in my wedding. His Mother even wrote us a sweet poem and put it inside our wedding card. I just want to wrap him in a big hug and tell him everything will be alright. But I'll have to wait 'til they get back from hunting.

Flashback

How he probably remembers me.


What do you do when you run into someone you went to highschool with? Do you ignore them? Duck and hide? Make eye contact and force a slim smile? You know on your worst day (sick, dirty kiddos/ponytail hair/no make-up/sweats) that you are destined to run into someone from your past right? It's like the toast always falls butter side-down. Like picking an apple from the crate and biting the only one with the worm. These things just happen.

The other evening after not having been out of the house all day, I decided to go for a ride with my husband to visit his Dad. You know that feeling; anything to get away from spilled milk and broken Cheerios lost in a sea of Legos. I stepped out feeling pretty crappy but figured "Hey it's late, I won't see anyone." Ok...stained jeans. White frumpy T-shirt. I even whipped out the socks with soccer slides. A drab tan crocheted sweater thingy that looks like my Grandma's and not mine topped off the outfit. Then I slung a black didn't-match-my-outfit purse across my chest. Wait, wait. Add a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid to this ensemble. UN-HOT, and not in a cool sort of way.

We were about to walk through the gym by where DH's Dad was going to be and I could tell when I walked in that HE was across the room. The guy I once found absolutely boyishly cute in junior high/high school. The guy who gave me my first real kiss. I hung my head in shame but there was no avoiding a meet and greet. He shook my husband's hand, and shook mine, band-aid and all. Back in school we would have hugged. I almost had the urge to do it. We made small talk for a moment or two and I pressed forward. I about melted in all over my soccer slides.

That was it. I could've stayed and chatted longer without the distraction of kids or DH, and especially if I wouldn't have looked like I just woke up and put clothes on in the dark. I felt bad. I'm hoping my impression was not as bad as it FELT. At least the kids were clean this time. And he'd had on volleyball kneepads and a little weight too.

I wish I could live by this little saying. "Everyday you should walk out of the house prepared to run into an ex." cuz damnit, it will happen.

My New Love for the Fall

Weston delights in a hay ride.

I used to dread the fall when I was younger. Some signals were shrouded in back-to-school...such as the County Fair- nothing like the smell of cotton candy and manure being forced up your nostrils while you spin madly over the town. Every shopping trip stunk of back-to-school too. Pencils, wide-ruled notebook paper, and Trapper-Keepers lined the aisles of every store, mocking parents who saved school supply shopping for mere days before school started. New shoes still smell faintly of back-to-school to me. I am convinced the dentist office has stock in back-to-school air fresheners. The fall meant winter was coming, which I dreaded with equal fervor.

But something has changed. My kids now go to school. The weather goes from dry-heat to bearable-cool. The leaves undoubtedly steal the scenery show. Three particular trees catch my eye. They are planted directly in front of the cemetery and every year they are first to put on their spectacular burgundy and rust coats each year. I wonder if people's loved ones passed on help bring out the rich color in those trees. Fall means trips to the pumpkin patch, fall carnival, dressing up, trick-or-treating, caramel apples and homemade spudnuts, raking leaves and then destroying the piles...all things kids love. I think that's why it has grown on me so much. Now I get to watch my own children enjoy it.

Blankie with a capital B

Quite possibly you are wondering why I started this post with a picture of one tattered, dingy blanket. Well, it's not just any blanket, it's Blankie with a capital B. A capital because it's important to me and it's a name. My childhood lovey, my security blanket, my transitional object...whatever you want to call it, I've held onto it since I was a baby.

It has holes from when my brother and I would pretend to be superheroes and drape our Blankies over our heads while dashing through the house at incredible speeds. It has no satiny edging any more because I use to rub my fingers together along the silky smooth trim and it would "tweet." My Grandmother replaced the trim once, but that too met its doom. It is incredibly stretched out because it had to cover every part of me as I laid on the couch or in bed and I just kept getting bigger so it did too! I think it's about 3-4 times the size of a newborn security blanket. I even had a "substitute" Blankie made of the same material so when Number 1 was in the wash, I could fall asleep as peacefully as possible. There was nothing like cuddling up to Blankie warm and smelling of clean breeze.

When I gave birth to my middle son, he acquired the substitute Blankie. I'd sleep with it for a night or two when it was newly clean and then place it gently over him so he could have my scent nearby. He slept with it until he was about 4, and then my husband lovingly suggested that we take it away. He didn't want Weston to have it at age 21. He actually gave it up quite easily~ we stored it for his little brother who was due to make his grand appearance weeks later.

When Connor was born, we brought him home from the hospital and Weston of course noticed right away when Connor had his special Blankie wrapped around him. Not once did I ever hear him complain of having his Blankie taken from him. It was keeping his new little brother warm and that was enough to make Weston happy.

I, on the other hand, still have and sleep with my Blankie. It's not so much that I need a security item as it once was (My husband now gives me all the security I need,) but I got used to having it prop my neck a certain way while I sleep. Without it, I can wake up feeling like my spine/neck are out of line. When my husband married me, he married my Blankie too because that thing comes to bed with us every night. It's gotten in the way plenty of times and he's given up trying to get me put it away and just pushes it aside now. When he's mad at me, he'll hide it but no one sleeps until it's propping my neck just so.

None of my boys have/use a lovey now. You won't hear me speak ill of parents whose children still do. In fact, I wonder which of those kids will save them, wrap them in tissue and place them in a shoebox or leave them boxed in their parents' attics and which ones will still have their transitional object in bed next to them or on a shelf in their bedroom when they are 26. I wonder if it really even matters, as long as they are comforted.

Karma

I wasn't always one to believe in karma. Sure I knew my actions had consequences, but the realization that my positive actions brought favorable changes into the lives of others was beyond my grasp. I was a me, myself, and I person. It was actually quite selfish of me. But I am trying my best as a parent to open my children's eyes to karma, that their choices- good and bad- affect not only themselves but the people around them.

After the kids go to bed, we've been watching the redneck sitcom My Name Is Earl. Even though the show is slightly off kilter and downright crude at times, Earl's Karma Guide rings pretty darn true. If you want a better life, you need to be a better person...do good things and good things will happen to you...the secret to life is fixing all the bad things that you've done. Maybe, just maybe, we still have the chance to right our wrongs.

So Jason C., wherever you are...I'm sorry I teased you in the 3rd grade. I'm sorry I threw your backpack uphill to watch you run for it because I knew you would have trouble doing so. Kids can be so cruel. I saw an article in a local publishing that you graduated college with honors and I smiled as I read it. I hope that you've been able to find peace and happiness. I hope you can forgive. Please know that while I can never take my actions back, I am teaching my boys to be more aware of how their actions affect others.

Weston was first oriented with karma back in March of '04. It was nearly Easter so we'd gone to have some family pictures taken and of course go see the Easter Bunny at the mall. After a much-longer-than-quoted wait and a disastrous experience at the Picture People trying to get Weston to smile to no avail, we went to see good ol' E.B. I should have known that the boys were not in the mood to grace the lap of a stranger in a furry white costume. I should have seen the sheer gleam of sinfulness in Wes's eyes. He wanted revenge for having to sit in the bloody picture studio. God forbid someone want the boy to smile...twice...in one day. That was just too much for him. So he hauled off and spanked the Easter Bunny! More than once. The Easter Bunny shook his finger disapprovingly at Wes. Weston scowled. We were already frustrated, exhausted parents but being amongst a crowd of people we decided a spanking for a spanking wasn't going to teach him anything. Beating up the Easter Bunny was not going to be tolerated. So we had a good talk with him about karma and how it was going to come back to bite him in the ass.

We headed straight for the car. On the way out, Wes was throwing a hissy and swinging his arms and he started to walk head down in despair. No sooner had we finished the karma conversation than SMACK, he met karma head-on as he walked into a metal street sign! We giggled at the irony of it all. People around us chuckled too when they realized he was ok. He literally bounced back. Yes, Weston and karma met that day and he is reminded of it frequently.

Somewhere out there, there's a smoking hot rich guy and an Easter Bunny cheering karma on.

I met HIM

To my utter surprise, Mom brought he whose face shall remain a square (see my entry That's NOT my Dad (http://mytarnishedhalo.blogspot.com/2005/09/thats-not-my-dad.html) to my Grandma's yesterday. The whole family was over for spaghetti dinner. It took us all by surprise as she strolled up hand in hand with NOT my Dad. While we knew it was coming, but just out of the blue like that was quite wrong of her methinks. I was happily stuffing my face with some bread and homemade applesauce minutes before my soccer game. Unbeknownst to me, there lurked an unknown presence in the driveway. I saw Mom's silver Honda pull up in the driveway. Then someone yelled "She brought him!" and I about choked on my toast. A knock at the door. There was nowhere to hide. I picked up C.J. (babies make a nice wall) and continued to sit in heart-pounding misery.

He came bearing pie. He was very feminine- just the way he stood and moved and even talked. "I brought pi-h. No one can resist lemon meringue pi-h." he uttered as he stepped into the door. My Grandma embraced him in a hug, trying to make the most unwelcome person in the room feel welcome. My Mom introduced each one of us nervously standing around the room eyeing each other. My cousins and I have this thing we do where we can make eye contact and know exactly what the other is thinking and we sort of giggle to each other. What we were clearly thinking was "gay." I wanted to find the nearest exit and go throw up my applesauce and toast. I don't know if it was worse that he came over by surprise or that he was clearly not anything like I had guessed him to be. I muttered that I better be going early to soccer due to construction and I left.

First impressions were made. What was said and left unsaid spoke clearly enough for me.

Well Shoot

"No, no, NO!" she shouted from across the arcade. Apparently this Momma thought that Weston was her son, and he was playing a violent video game. Her son was awfully wide-eyed intent on what Weston was playing. She snatched him by the arm and tried to refocus his attention on something else but it wasn't working. The boy kept turning towards Mortal Kombat shouting FINISH HIM while one character pulled the heart right out of another's chest. She eyed her little one like a hawk and he wasn't even allowed NEAR the games with guns or blood or fighting (which pretty much ruled out all of them but PacMan.) I was kind of taken aback at her strong stance in the arcade.

I grew up in a house that had firearms. I was taught about gun safety from the time I learned to read. Dad would point out large words in his hunting magazines and I would awe him when I could pronounce them and even tell him what they meant. Hunting was a nearly every weekend occurrence. We would tag along with Dad on his hunting and shooting trips from the time we learned addition and subtraction. Dad would ask "Now this magazine holds 6 bullets. I've shot 3, so how many are left?" I was taught to be comfortable around firearms, yet was (and still am) cautious enough to be respectful of the power harnessed by such.

How I feel about guns: it is not the gun that kills, but the person behind the gun. I don't feel that I can shelter my children from violence, but rather choose to teach them the proper ways to handle conflict. (In fact, I feel that sheltering children can cause more harm than good, as we are more tempted to eat the forbidden fruits.) Guns are used for much more than "shooting people" like we have to see on TV way too frequently these days. Hunting and shooting will be introduced to them for pleasure and father-son bonding. It won't be forced onto them. If they decide they are a little gun-shy, they can stay home with me and scrapbook or web surf or bake cookies. We don't have toy guns in our house. We do have video games that the boys aren't allowed to play because of their content. We flip the channel when things get violent. And we own guns, the real thing, kept locked in a safe at all times.

It's certain someone will disagree here; well shoot.

Smashed

I must have been 8 or 9 on this particular Halloween. My brother and I spent all afternoon carving pumpkins, scooping out gooey handfuls of pumpkin guts and delicately etching a hillbilly mouthful of teeth and large triangle eyes into their shells. I carefully positioned a tea light inside my rotund pumpkin. I replaced the top that couldn't have fit more perfectly. I left my pumpkin proudly grinning its crooked, sparse-toothed grin on the stairs. As soon as it was dark enough, we lit the candles and left the house to peruse the neighborhood for unattended candy baskets and houses giving out full size bars.

When we returned, I could see from the edge of the driveway that the porch wasn't glowing as it was when we left. And there was something on the sidewalk. As I approached I couldn't believe my eyes. Our pumpkins had been smashed all over the place. The rat bastards. I seriously couldn't understand why someone would want to ruin our perfectly fine jack 'o' lanterns. I cried myself to sleep that night, partly because my belly ached from the sweets I'd consumed, but mostly because all that hard work was for nothing. Or so it felt...

Last year, I experienced it all over again like some kind of repeating nightmare. But this time it was my boys' very first carved pumpkins smashed shamelessly on the street in front of our house. I wanted to shelter them from all the disappointment I felt as a child having worked so hard only to see the fruits of my labor smashed to hell and so we ushered them into the house before they could see what the culprits had done. I know it was all some teenage prank, but I was irate.

The only way I can bring myself to get over it this year is to set our pumpkins out in a proud display again. We will take our time selecting them at the pumpkin patch. We will spend half the day deciding what to carve into them, and the other half doing the carving. We'll probably watch It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown while we decorate sugar cookie bats and witches hats. We will wait until just the right moment at dusk to light the candles inside and leave them side by side on the porch. After all, the whole process is for our enjoyment and no pumpkin smasher will get to take that away from me.

I'm With the Band

Let me preface by saying that I'm currently not and have never been an N'Sync fan. I don't know where the hell this dream came from. But last night I dreamt that I recognized one of the members of N'Sync in my small town. I was very amused and even casually approached the band. (I fear that if I ever run into someone famous I'll stutter and stammer the dorky "I'm your biggest fan" line.) But not in this dream. In this dream I'm confident. I'm a MILF.

I ask how long they are going to be in town, and they say until Saturday so I ask if they want me to take them somewhere good for dinner and show them what little there is to see around town. I remember telling them that the town is really small so I'd be surprised if anyone recognized them hehe. One of them says he loves good Pad Thai so I'm desperately racking my brain trying to think of where the heck I can get some of that in BumFuck, Egypt.

Next thing I know, we're at a restaurant and some guy comes up and tries to shoot me hanging out with the guys for some tabloid or something and the guys are like "We forget that when people are seen with us the paparazzi always follow us and try to get pictures." So they kind of huddle around me as we continue through town. That's the dream, in a nutshell. I just remember feeling cute and popular and confident that these guys actually wanted and were enjoying my company, but also completely odd because I had zero to do with them before hand.

"SHHH -- It's wabbit season...

...and I am hunting wabbit - wook wabbit twacks!"

It's not exactly rabbit season here, it's game birds, but the hubby is up to the same old antics. I have once again taken on my not-so-secret identity "Weekend Widow." I wonder if it's something in the air when the leaves start to turn gorgeous shades of oranges and reds or the smell of refreshing Halloween-ish nights that makes men all over rise at the butt-crack of dawn to walk around feeling manly with big guns. All of a sudden, the lure of a morning quickie can't even keep the warm man next to me in bed. Any other time, I'd have my way.

So when the doves are calling and the deer are frolicking, go proud man. Eat greasy, heart-stopping breakfasts. Go tromp through brush and blunder through fields. Shoot things. Gather round the fire like the cavemen once did and gnaw meat off the bone while you grunt to your fellow hunters about the day's successes and misadventures (cough...falling on a dead deer's antler...cough.) If that is what makes you feel manly, so be it!

Box of shotgun shells: $9.00
Tent: $54.95
Gas money: $80.00
Two days without hearing your husband complain: PRICELESS