August 2005 Archives

I'm off on my big "risk it all" interview out of state.

I would greatly, greatly appreciate all prayers, wishes, and warm thoughts sent my way.

This is very important to me.

How does my mom make everything so much better?

I needed to get an outfit for my Wednesday interview, and so I thought if I went to the mall I could work out both the shopping and the "getting to see my kids this weekend", since they live near the mall (about an hour from here). I also needed to get my birth certificate from Mom, so I thought, heck, inviting her along would kill three birds with one stone. I didn't know it was going to be so great.

Gosh, my mom is great. Great great great. On the way I broke the news and told her about my plans to travel to Georgia on Wednesday and throw myself into attempting to get a job as a flight attendant. She was accepting and supportive.

At the mall she succeeded, after all these years, in getting me to buy--and wear--a pair of flip flops. Two, in fact, as they were not only marked down but were also "buy one get one free". She insisted I needed them because my shoes were, already, before I'd even walked in them, wearing the skin off my heel. Again. (They're still blood stained from the last time I wore them.)

Next we found a great suit. Then, we found THE Cutest Suit Ever™. Both, unfortunately, just didn't fit me quite right, even at the small size they were. Unbelievable. Finally, we found the suit that fit well. It was the only one in the entire store at that size. Of course, it's a bit frumpy--or, on the postive side, well-fitting, professional, and very flight-attendant-y.

Swimsuits were on sale, too, and I needed one. Pretty soon I had a halter-top style tankini with the cutest skirt you've ever seen.

Somehow we ended up in the 5-7-9 store where we used to shop there when I was a teenager. I remembered that I was thinking about buying something else for the interview--"comfortable clothing" for Human Performance Evaluation. And that ended up with us finding the cutest (and yet professional) athletic outfit...which Mom offered to pay for. Then she mentioned they had sleep tanks and matching panties for only $8. I went nuts. If we hadn't bought so much already, I'd have bought both adorable sets I found, but I settled for only one. Then by the register was a 4 panties for $10 sale. "Why don't you pick some out?" Mom asked, knowing the indulgance of new underwear. And then, as they were closing the store, I had to ask about the skirt I'd fallen in love with, hanging on a mannequin on the wall. I'd searched the store for it and tried to get it from my mind, but I had to ask. The sales girl was kind enough to take it down for me--and wouldn't you know it was my size, and only $14.99?

A funny thing happened to me while I was in the dressing room there. I heard a young child crying and thought to myself, "What kind of mom shops at 5-7-9?" Not only is it rather young, cute, and trendy, their speciality is small (think size 0) sizes, which moms are not known to be. Then I realized, duh, I'm a mom, and I was shopping there.

I don't think I've ever gone shopping at the mall and had to use those big bags with the handles before--let alone two such bags. (It was all on sale, of course.) I feel so much better about myself.

Thursday night was my weeknight to have the kids, since I had to work Wednesday night.

Nimmers was on his way to work, which is about a 30 minute drive from here. I wanted him to meet me at the school beside the highway, which is on his way to work but only five miles down the highway from here, but he got angry at me when I said I always do all the driving. ("How many times have you come to my house to pick up the kids?" I asked him [answer: maybe twice?] "And how many times have I come to your house to get them?" [answer: dozens of times]) As his anger and verbage picked up, I quickly backed down. "Okay," I said. "Okay. Okay. I'll come to your work place and get them." He was running late for work. What's it to me, anyway? Just more gas, I suppose.

However, by the time he arrived, it was 6pm, and the kids' bedtime is now 9pm. We needed to go to the store and pick up food for dinner, too, else what would they eat? Walmart, however, is known for sucking your hours away. So I came up with a solution: We'd go in Walmart to get food, but we'd pretend like we'd won one of those sweepstakes where you have x-amount of time to throw everything in your cart, and at the end of that time, whatever you grabbed, you get to keep. In our case, it was 15 minutes.

Also, since I shared with them the news of my final graduation, and the great task I had accomplished in finishing my exam, they said we ought to celebrate, and thus an impromptu party was born.

J wanted to invite people over, but the house was dirty and who would come over for such a thing with no notice at 7:30 on a weeknight? Besides, here was our ecclectic menu, born of our mad dash at Walmart, laid out in pretty serving dishes on a tablecloth-covered table with flowers and candles:

"Champagne" (sparkling white grape juice) served in real champagne glasses; cheese, cracker, and fruit tray; mozzarella sticks with marinara dipping sauce; soft baked pretzels; Mexicorn; peach slices (in Splenda, chosen by Shay); raspberry-flavored peach slices (chosen by Bri); Fruit Fushion Skittles; Chips Deluxe Rainbow cookies (the kind with m&m-like candies); pumpkin custard pie; and rootbeer floats.

The kids had begged for "like a real party, where you take a plate and go down the line and put food on your plate" and were thrilled with the results. When I commented on the wacky menu, saying it wasn't exactly something I'd serve to guests, they asked, "What's wrong with it?" Perhaps they had a point. They delighted in the sparkling fruit juice ("Are you sure it doesn't have alcohol in it?") and the toasting process--To finishing school, as I am, and to starting school, as you are, which resulted in much clinking of glasses and giggles. We ate on the floor (table was covered) and rushed off to bed with rootbeer floats in hand.

I devoted my entire night to my kids deliberately. I picked them up (always a huge hassle in itself), took them shopping, bought food for dinner, did fun things all night which I wanted to be writing about now... and come bedtime, I did the ultimate in nice and sat by their sides (they all wanted to sleep in my room), stroking their arm or otherwise reassuring them with my presence, in the dark, for an entire hour, while they fell asleep. All night I told myself that after I got them to sleep I could enjoy some time for me. I could relax in a much needed, long awaited bath; I could watch my movie; I could chat; I could write a blog entry about our amazing night. But do you know what laying in a dark room with sleeping people for an hour, when you're quite short on sleep yourself, does to a person?! It makes them too sleepy to do anything but go to sleep.

So now I'm not writing about our amazing night. I'm forcing myself to put away the remnants of our amazing night that need to be refrigerated or safeguarded from the cat, and trying to talk myself into the bath I should have had at least twelve hours ago but am now contemplating putting off for another 12. I'm just that sleepy. (And one of the three kids still isn't asleep. I finally gave up.)

Today was J's first day of kindergarten. My baby boy--who has indeed been babied and savored--left my care and went off to school. He was pretty excited, although playing it cool, too. I stayed overnight at his dad's house just to be there in the morning and take pics of his getting on the bus. In fact, I got to snuggle with him all night, as I have every night for the first few years of his life, and every possible night afterward.

I know he'll be fine, but today I was thinking: Did I prepare him? Does he know how to deal with other people? Does he know how to resist when other people want to do something wrong? Does he know to be nice, when others are being mean? Will he help kids who need help? I know he can share, considerate he is, and how brave he can be. If he errs, it's on the submissive side. He's shy and "too nice". Does he know how to speak up for himself? When he encounters a difficult task, does he have it in him to keep going? (That last one's a favorite story. Please read!)

So in honor of the six years I've been greatly blessed to spend with J before he's swept up into the world, here are ten of my favorite memories (not yet snuck into text) recorded on my blogs:

1. Days With My Son (November 20, 2003)

2. The Magical Deer Crossing(November 12, 2002)

3. Unable to Leave Him at Daycare (September 8, 2003)

4. Magic I Almost Missed (mornings with J) (January 7, 2004)

5. Some of J's Wit and Wisdom (April 24, 2003)

6. When J Broke The Bowl (June 29, 2005)

7. His Massive Nosebleed (October 13, 2002)

8. At The Library (May 17, 2004)

9. A Snow Day (December 10, 2003)

10. April 24, 2003:

"I open the window so the sound of rain will carry me to sleep. I lay on my back, eyes open, looking at the drops of rain on my window which glisten like diamonds or tears, and think more. My precious son lays next to me. When I think he's asleep I whisper to him from my heart, "I love you. I will take good care of you," but he stirs. He turns his soft cheek to my face and whispers back with genuineness that matches mine, "I'll take good care of you, too."

How blessed am I to have this little one! To lay at night with such love!

And later, when we both wake from awful nightmares, he wraps his arms around my neck, and I my arms around him, and we comfort each other."

I am celebrating.

I'll make this short, so I can cut to the part when I eat pizza (bought from a restaurant and everything!), drink a Pepsi, watch a good movie, and whatever else the heck I decide to do tonight (perhaps call over a friend).

I am celebrating because I just took an enormous weight off my shoulders. I am celebrating because I accomplished that which I was convinced I could not do. I am celebrating because, in essence, this is my second graduation.

I had one class left unfinished, and an agreeement to take the final at some point in the summer. Today was the last day that could be done before my grade went from a U to an F; however, I had not yet read the hundreds of pages of dozens of works I was supposed to have. I finally found a friend* who agreed I should take the F ("Is your diploma revoked if you fail?" he asked. "Heck no," I replied-- "It was only an elective." "Then #@!^ it," he said. "School is over. You have no reason to waste any more time on it. A GPA of a few points doesn't make a difference in the real world.")

However, when I looked at my degree audit to see just how it would affect my grade point average, I found this astonishing fact at the top: "DEGREE REQUIREMENTS NOT MET". Searching, I discovered the allegation that I had only completed 123 credit hours, when 124 are required for graduation, and that this was because my three hours for the unfinished course weren't counting (and many of the others I'd taken last semester were repeat courses which also didn't add anything to my total). By this time there was little time left to attempt any "cramming", but it was "ake the exam or not graduate. I actually started researching getting more Pell grants and reenrolling in a one hour course, because the exam--three challenging essays covering Roman literature and philosophy--seemed a lost cause.

But here I am, all these hours later with only a massive headache to show for the worry that's been ongoing since, oh, March or April.

I gave money to some panhandlers today. I'm not entirely sure why, but I know it was the right thing to do--and not because giving money to those who ask is the right thing to do, either. I'll try to explain.

I was driving home from my yet-unwritten-about end-of-summer/back-to-school vacation with my kids in which we visited TNG and went camping on his parents' land. The children and I were stopped at an intersection and there was a couple sitting there with a "WILL WORK FOR MONEY OR FOOD" sign. They seemed relaxed, happy, and enjoying each other's company. They smiled at my kids as if enjoying the sight of them but otherwise did nothing to attract my attention; they didn't seem to be expecting anything. I offered them my smile and thought to myself with no guilt at all, "I probably need money as much as they do". But as I waited for the light I thought, "Hmm... do I have any food in here I could give them?" and just as suddenly found myself pulling a five dollar bill--all the cash I had--out of my purse and rolling down my window. There was no thought behind this; it was pure impulse. The woman quickly slipped it into her pocket without fanfare, offering only her pleasant smile at my son in the backseat. (You need wise strangers such as this to remind you that your children are something to smile over.)

To me, $5 is a lot of money. I suppose I hope it is to them as well. I thought about that, too. What if they have more money than I do? What if they're there as the result of their own stupid decisions? But just as quickly I realized I can neither know nor judge. I can only control my own actions. I can only know that they feel the need to ask for help, and I hope my $5 serves as some blessing to them.

Someone asked if I feel good about what I did. No, I don't, not in that "do good" buzz sort of way. But I don't feel badly either. Largely I feel at peace, as if this was what I was supposed to do, and thus, I feel good about complying. I suppose, however, I do feel good about not worrying so much about money, and in hoping in karma. It feels good to let go and trust.

I didn't even make a lesson of it to my children, although it was a grand opportunity since we pretty much never encounter panhandlers, and when I do, I more often than not don't give. (Often because I don't have! Or because it feels awfully unfair of me to give to some and not the others. These are the two issues that stop me most every time.) Only the child in the front seat, Shay, even seemed to notice. (I know if Bri had, a million questions would've followed.) Since Shay is a Christian, I pointed out that it was what Jesus would do. --Although come to think of it, Jesus might have given over his entire purse, or the entire car, or who knows, the guy was kind of predictable--may have performed a miracle, trumping some faith issue over food. But you understand my point, and if my children are to be Christians, I surely want them to utilize its better lessons and put them into actions that genuinely benefit others.

I'm sorry. I have no point. I just wanted to share this anomaly of my day with you.

Richard sent me flowers for the third time the other day, August 11, to work.

August 12 when I came home from work, my neighbor called out to me, and approached me with a huge bouquet. Well, was that ever a surprise! It was a gorgeous, gorgeous arrangement sent by friend Chuck with the note, "Only a beautiful heart can care too much," which is a bit of an "inside joke" between the two of us. Except, obviously, it's not a joke.

Well, that was simply unbelievable, but it gets even more so.

Today at work I checked my voicemail, and to my great surprise, heard that Corner Floral had a delivery for me. I rushed to tell the other girls at work, and we all assumed, of course, it was from Richard. Not five minutes had passed when I was called over the intercom to the front desk. (Oh, and that's another story!) I assumed it was related to a matter from yesterday, but when I arrived, there sat our bookeeper with a boquet of flowers on her lap. For me. The first thing I noticed, however, was that they were from DeBacker Floral. No way, right? Could this mean I had two flower deliveries?

Richard's card was asking forgiveness for last night's behavior (see livejournal for story).

Shortly thereafter I got off work and ran by the Corner Floral where, indeed, there was another flower arrangement--this one from Chuck again, also, asking my forgiveness.

How weird is it to get two flower deliveries from two different men in one afternoon, asking forgiveness, less than four days after getting two flower deliveries from the same two men?

I've currently got four absolutely gorgeous boquets of flowers setting around my house.

Sure, I've been exhausted the past few days, but this is unfair. I had so much to get done today--such a great deal--since it's both a weekday now so I can take care of errands, and is the day before the kids and I leave on their end of summer/back to school annual "vacation". I need to pay my bills. Finish laundry. Pack. Buy groceries. Apply for jobs. etc. And thus, I set my alarm early.

Instead, I awoke at nearly noon, very confused. Because my alarm clock display is broken, I thought it was 7am. I had been so dead asleep and unaware of the passage of time, it felt like 7am, and I was pleased, ready to jump up and get at it. How horribly unfair that I should awake at noon! Now I've time to do little but rush back off to work. Again. For the seventh day in a row. I haven't even had a chance to blog about the flowers... you won't believe that... or anything else! I have so much news! And now it's noon and I have to run to work!

Why oh why did I not wake up this morning?

Yes, I know, I must've been tired. I must've needed the sleep. Perhaps I should be thankful my body insisted on it instead of listening to me push myself further. But darn it all. Now what am I going to do?

I have so much to talk about, and only 9 hours between when I arrive home from work and when I have to leave for work again!

Work, in itself, must now be spoken of. It's gotten so ridiculously bad that last night, I couldn't even be mad anymore. I took instead to laughing like a loon at each infraction, because my boss' behavior is absolutely unbelievable (and insufferable).

Today, however, she aimed herself more at Melanie. Melanie, who'd I have described as "strong" and "upbeat", was in tears at least three times during the six hours I worked with her. I've never seen her like that before. Mel's going through something similar to what I did with my kidney infection, where I worked right up until the day I was too weak to get out of bed and had to be hospitalized. She's been throwing up for five days, and had thrown up three times in her first 90 minutes at work, sometimes, with our boss and the facility director literally outside the door. She hasn't eaten since she first got sick and is weak from dehydration. She's had to go to the emergency room twice so far with this illness. They're awaiting blood work and are looking at hepatitis A as one culprit, which is contagious. In fact, she very well may be contagious-- and she's working as the cook at a nursing home. Just in case no one gives a poo about Mel and her wellbeing (although I sure do), the elderly are suspectible to illness and more easily die from them, i.e., it is truly possibly a resident (or more) could pick up her illness and then die from it. It seems common sense that you don't want a cook preparing food while sick, particularly in a nursing home. (I should call her Typhoid Mel.)

Would they send poor Melanie home? No, because my boss had the GALL to say she was "too exhausted" to cover for her. This was one time I saw Melanie cry. "Exhausted? You try vomiting for five days," she said to our boss. Still, our boss gave no sympathy and acted as if she didn't see Melanie's tears. "I'm going home," she said brusquely in reply. (Mel had even brought in her medical charts to prove her illness, in case the retching sounds from the bathroom weren't proof enough.)

My favorite part personally, however, was when my boss added, "I'm going home so I can get to spend some time with my kids," in this "I never get to spend time with them", put out tone. Oh, how infuriated am I! I've lost my weekends with my children for almost nine months now, all thanks to her. Her boys are with her every day! And here's the funny part: Her "kids" are two 16 year old boys, whom I happen to know for a fact do not want to spend time with her. They're not like my precious little elementary school kids who need their mommy. Hers are 16, they see their mom every day, and they hate her. Going home so she can finally get to spend some time with her kids this week?! I'd say it makes me want to slap her, but I wouldn't mean that literally. But how else do you put it?

Oh, I'm sorry, and this is only the very, very tip of the iceburg. Suffice it to say Mel's looking to quit and my boss is about to be sued, among other fun things. On the upside, I have most truly learned many lessons about management which I feel will serve me well when I land my next job. (I'll be writing an entry on that, too.)

As one of my son's favorite books ends, in which the father bear has "taught" the son bear how to go camping in what ends up being a long series of mistakes that the boy had to correct, my boss "has shown us quite a lot, about what is smart--and what is not." At least the father bear had the decency to show some chagrin.

Introducing Mr. Fred Shapely. His former name was Fred. We set to renname him. Shay wanted to name him something that started with Mr., and I had recently and coincidentally (not knowing I'd have the opportunity any time soon) vowed to name my next pet Shapely after the obnoxious character of same name in the 1934 classic movie It Happened One Night. ("Shapely's the name, and that's the way I like 'em!") We call him Mr. Shapely, and he's the newest addition to our household:

I've also been calling him invisi-cat, as he utterly disappears for hours at a time. Yes, I think we'll get along just fine!

Maybe this is an example of my problems with my boss, and why she will never promote me.

I had on my list of duties yesterday to make banana bread. I was excited. I announced to everyone how I love to bake, and went to look up the recipe. Michelle interrupted me, "I think you just use a mix," she said. My boss called out to me and stopped me, too. "That's right, just use a mix." I told her I wanted to make it from scratch (flour, sugar, egg, oil), which wouldn't have taken but five minutes, but she shook her head no.

Problem number one: The bananas were green. If you know anything about baking or banana bread, you know that you use very ripe bananas. Smushy, even.

Problem number two: We didn't have the right mix.

My boss thus insisted I use her armful of green bananas plus coffee cake mix. I wanted to tell her the bananas would not be soft nor sweet and flavorful enough. I wanted to tell her that coffee cake would be too dry, and of a different crumb structure than banana bread. My boss would not have listened, though. The only part of making this banana bread that she entrusted me to do was peel the bananas. Everything else she hovered over and did herself, including such beyond-my-capability tasks as pouring the water and mix into the bowl.

When I wanted to dump in 7 cups of mix, which is half a bag, she pooed me. "Oh, I did this all the time at the bakery," she said, and just dumped in some of the bag which she guessed was half, then poured in some amount of water. I wanted to tell her that if you don't have the flour/water ratio right, your cake will be too spongey or heavy, might not rise properly, may have a peaked or cracked top, etc. But there's absolutely no point in trying. She knows all, because she worked in a bakery! It would have taken, what, two minutes to measure the mix and water properly and ensure the product turned out properly?

After my boss had left (amazingly entrusting me to bake the bread in the oven, all by myself!) Michelle and I tasted the bread. She took one bite and headed immediately to the trash can to dispose of the rest of her slice. The banana bread was sort of like a soggy biscuit with a horribly bland, slightly-banana reminscent flavor. I have to serve it today for dinner. I'll be working with my boss again.

Here's the real reason, if there were one, that I shouldn't be "promoted":
Everything in the kitchen has to be labled. I cringed when I thought of having to sign my initials to the banana bread. Thus, along with the label, I stuck a second label: "I am not responsible for the taste of this 'banana bread'!" I added a little smiley face, as if it were a joke, hoping it serves as insurance against my being reprimanded. I just can't bear to think of everyone in the facility thinking *I* made that inedible garbage. Is it too much to ask for those poor elderly folk to get a piece of real banana bread? It would have been such a treat for them, and I'm sorry for them.

I'm sorry my boss is a know-it-all, and I'm more sorry that I never stand up to her. Whatever she says to do, and however, I do it, even when she's wrong, including when she's no longer around to know whether I'm following her instructions or not. What the boss says goes with me, so it's quite unfortunate mine's so inferior and incompetant. She's the boss.

He sent me flowers again. This time the flower delivery girl found me on the first try. "You're Mandy, right? Again?"

The card said something like, "I hope you have a great day, and don't forget to put the cake in first!" which was reference to a "funny" work story I had related to him recently, in which my know-it-all boss demanded that I drop my duties and bake a cake, which was totally unnecessary.

"Something like". I can't tell you what it actually said, because I accidentally left the flowers at work last night--where today, wondering about the mystery flowers, the card is sure to be read by my boss.

Oops.

Today I may: get a new job, speak to an Army recruiter, register to win an iPod, drive an hour, take my son to Build-a-Bear for his birthday and spend $35, eat out when I get too hungry to avoid it any longer, drive an hour, adopt a new cat, go to the store and buy cat supplies, clean a room in the house for the cat to live in, see about getting more cats (dang it, I don't even want any cats!), see Richard and introduce him to my kids, bake a cake, visit my mother, drive an hour, take the kids to a drive in movie, and drive an hour.

--possibly, and day to include possible other things as well.

It would be nice if I still had two days off work this week--today and tomorrow-as originally scheduled. But for the millionth time, someone my boss hired failed to show/quit, so we're short-staffed again, and I thought it would be nice/prudent to take on an extra shift. So I kept my son's birthday free but will be working six days this week (seven in a row). Then we go on vacation! Whoo!

Give me a recipe (as today's does) that calls for minced garlic, chopped onion, soy sauce, corn syrup, apple juice, Worcestershire sauce, molasses, wine, Italian dressing, vinegar, garlic powder, salt, onion powder, Cajun seasoning, crushed red pepper, seasoning salt, and brown sugar, and I'm lacking only the Cajun seasoning.

How's that for a well-stocked kitchen?!

I may be poor, but my kitchen is always ready for cooking and baking. A well-stocked kitchen is a point of pride for me, not only as a woman who's spent years of her life as a homemaker, but as a person whose major is largely part kitchen management.

I added this to a profile today, and I think perhaps it helps summarize me:

But recently someone asked me, for purpose of a date, "What do you like to do?"

"...uh...I like watching movies..." I said, for generality, but since then I've reflected on it and decided there are many things I enjoy, falling into the approximate following five categories. The first three vie for the title of "favorite", the next I don't seek as much as am able to enjoy when the opportunity arises, and the last is simply an accent that makes my life exciting and livable when it gets entirely too prudish, responsible, restrictive, or boring:

Simple stuff: I like taking walks, anywhere, even in the rain. Dinner and movies is a great night, as is spending an evening in a book shop, or staying home and watching movies. I can spend much time happily wandering around a new town and exploring. Road trips anywhere are always good. I enjoy anything from watching firework displays, going out for coffee or ice cream, and always, sitting and talking.

Snobby: I adore all theater, wine and visiting wineries, going out for sushi, art galleries/shows/museums/festivals, film festivals (and good movies of all sorts, particularly indy, classic, and usually, whatever the critics adore), museums, live music, botanical gardens, and anything cultural.

Childish pleasures: I love milk and cookies. I'd be up for playing on a playground, splashing in a fountain, drawing on the sidewalk with chalk, coloring, blowing bubbles, digging in the sand, watching cartoons--and I love parades. I like to play! Kids are pretty good judges of what's fun. Play with me!

Country stuff: Can we go fishing? Camping? Walk in a pasture, ride four wheelers, visit a pond, hunt frogs, walk in the woods, say hello to cows, sit on hay bales? Watch hobby stock, motorcycle, or mud races? Visit country craftsmen and listen to fiddle or bluegrass?

Wild: You don't even want to know. I'm open-minded, so if you're up for it, I'm likely to agree. I'm amazingly open to the occasional taboo and risky, as long as no serious and irreversible harm is likely to occur.

TNG picked the kids up from miles out of town while I was at work and took them swimming.

He showed them websites, them huddled around his computer, exclaiming and pointing and giggling as he showed them internet wonders and I started stir fry and rice.

Later we all crammed into the kitchen floor, debating how to make sushi. We had an impromptu sushi contest, TNG and I, with kids taking sides and cheering us on all the way as we formed maki. We ate by candlelight with chopsticks, pickled ginger, wasabi and all the real works. The kids goaded TNG to "make his face red" with wasabi. "Don't worry; we never eat sushi without him doing that!" I teased, and they all laughed. Intentionally, he did so, and held his funny faces long enough for the kids to take pictures.

Afterward he put them to bed, 'though I didn't ask him to. He put them to bed with giggles and smiles, teasing and laughing, rather than the arguments and tears that I give and get at bedtime. Before we were able to start our movie, he suddenly stood to run upstairs and check on them, something I had not even thought of. And when they came downstairs not long afterward and interrupted our pleasant time together, claiming they heard something in the vents, instead of irritation there was this:

TNG: Zombies?!
kids: No, silly! We think we heard mice!
TNG: Zombie mice?! Oh no! Come on, let's get them! Does anyone have a weapon?

He ended up settling for a plastic sword, and when J protested, pointing out it was his, TNG in his "panic" and "seriousness" of crusade, refused to relinquish. "Get your own weapon!" he said, teasing, and the kids scrambled for anything that could suffice, one for each. Off they marched back upstairs and to bed, and after a few minutes of overhearing muffled laughter above, he returned triumphant. "No zombie mice?" I asked. "No, just bugs caught in the window," he said, and miraculously, he was happy, and the children slept peacefully.

I don't want to forget when TNG looked at me his last night here, as he sat in that chair and I stood before him, when suddenly he said it would be hard to find a girl like me. In fact, still thinking I misheard him, I asked, and he pointed out that in that very evening, we'd had sushi, watched a classic movie, drank wine, and danced. I looked at him, and smiled a half-smile, knowing these words came under the influence of alcohol, and knowing they had truth, too. It's most precious to me, and bittersweet. Of course. Of course.

Today was one of three tax free days in Missouri on school supplies and school clothes, so today was the day to shop. I estimate I saved $4.28 by taking advantage of this.

Oh it was fun. Except for hearing about how much money their dad is making, or about the leisurely life of their grandma who cuts his living expenses in half, who has so much money that she'll never have to work again. They're talking about dad's new car, how he now owns two, and I'm watching my cart pile up with $3 boxes of colored pencils. I did the best I could. I bought the cheapest tissues, found baby wipes on clearance, bought in bulk, and talked Bri into a plain binder that we could decorate (although relented on the beautiful $1.44 dividers, even though I have an opened plain set at home).

It made me long for school supplies so badly that I caved and bought a chocol-latte notebook for myself after Bri pointed out I could write notes or diary entries in it. "I could re-enroll..." I said wistfully, until my fantasies of a degree in computer science were interrupted by a frowning Shay. "But Mom, then we'd never see you again!" Good point.

Left to buy are the items which I am relinquishing to their rich grandmother: one red pen, three backpacks, three lunch boxes, hand sanitizer, and nylon zippered pencil pouch. This with all the dry erase supplies struck me as the oddest school list I've ever seen. And did you know they don't make school boxes anymore, but only cheap, unadorned plastic varieties?

The grand total was $55.58

At McDonalds' drive through:

me: I want an All American meal.
TNG: An All American meal?
me: Yeah.
TNG: What's an All American meal?
me: Just order it. They'll know.
TNG: They won't know what that is. It's not on the menu.
me: I always order it everywhere I go, and they always know what it is.
TNG: I don't want to order it.
me: Just order it!
TNG to speaker: "I'd like a #2 with a Coke, and an All American meal."
them: A what?
TNG to me: They don't know what it is.
me: They always know what it is!
TNG: What is it?
me: It's like a happy meal. It's a cheeseburger, small fries, and a drink.
TNG: Why don't you just order a happy meal?
me: [recoiling] No! Those are for kids!
TNG: I'm just going to order you a happy meal.
me: No! I don't want a happy meal.
TNG: Why not?
me: They're for kids.
TNG, to speaker: "...and I need a happy meal. But when you give us that, could you tell us it's a Big Kids Meal?"
me: [hits TNG in the arm]
[We drive to the next window. TNG hands me the Happy Meal.]
TNG: [gleefully, with the false excitement you use on kids to try to convince them something's good] Look! It's a Big Kids meal! It's for big kids!
me: [suspiciously] For adults?
TNG: Yes! Yes! It's a meal just for adults!
me: [taking my order, under my breath] Big Kids meal. HMPH.

Memories:
-zombie
-"Big Kids" meal
-scaring me in the hotel
-kids: zombie mice, swimming, putting them to bed, checking on them before starting movie

The kids went nutty at Walmart over some Thai food. They've never had Thai food before, so I don't know what got into them, but they were as excited as squirrels, chittering, bopping up and down, saying, "Get it! Get it!" They spent much time trying to guess how much food would result from the little box kit, and how much they'd each get, and who would get whose serving if one of them should deem it "not good". They were all eager to eat the other's.

We bought Pad Thai and, on their advice that I buy something I'd never tried before, Coconut Ginger, which contains ingredients such as galanga ginger, shallot, kaffir lime leaves, and lemongrass. This cooked in four minutes (and gave us each only about 1/2 cup of food), so I started some brown rice jambalaya, too. We're just uppity, multicultural like that. Okay, so we're so classless as to eat two conflicting boxed dinners in a meal, but eat them we did.

Dessert was yogurt with mixins. The girls and I had vanilla yogurt with dried cinnamon apples, and J had vanilla yogurt with crushed oreo cookies.

Reasonably cheap, reasonably healthy, reasonably "something new", reasonably cultural, and eaten without too many tears and complaints. This makes for a happy mom and a good evening.

... I've been blowing off the Pap smear results, saying it was probably just atypical cells, a common and usually benign finding. However, the other night I opened a much more ominous letter. It turns out in the stages of classifications, there are three findings that are more benign than the stage I have, which is "low grade squamous intraepithelial lesion". "Abnormal" they mention in the description. "Pre-malignant." I felt a little panicky all over again, and held tightly to the news until TNG tore the letter from my hands and made me redirect my attention toward the movie we were starting. Now I'm rethinking my "wait and see" policy. However, I can't really take on any more debt at this time, so "wait and see" is probably going to have to just that.

GASP! My baby boy is going off to school this year!

I miss being a mother.

I miss lots of things since their dad moved them an hour away from me, but today, specifically, I was lamenting not getting to buy their school supplies. I didn't get to last year, 'though I think it was the first year I didn't. All of their school-related activities have always been my domain. However, their father is in much, much better position financially to buy them such things, and so very reluctantly I let more and more of their expenses fall into his hands. Today I decided, budget deficit be damned, I want to buy their school supplies this year.

Call it another rash, irresponsible decision of mine, but we're on our way to the store, and we're all very excited. Buying fresh new school supplies, owning all that promise and wonder as the summer wanes and the seriousness of fall sets in... school supply shopping is one of the joys of life, and my budget is simply going to have to accomodate.