Geronimo!

I’ll never forget the first time I saw you. It was a late, hot, summer afternoon in August. The children ran half naked in the backyard, squealing through the sprinkler. I was thinking, again, what I am going to make for dinner? And I thought, yeah, just look up some recipes. And somehow, as fate would have it, I stumbled onto your template. So young. Worldly. With the ability to take me to places I’d never dreamed I could go. I certainly wasn’t looking. I’m happily married. A mother to three. I saw no room in my life for another. Yet you were so alarmingly charming, and seductive. Others may have passed you by, but I saw the spark, and fell hard for you. So hard.

Look how we’ve matured! You’re no longer the plain vanilla blog you once were, teasing me with your confusing html. Laughing in my face when I couldn’t post a picture. I no longer wonder what on earth can I add to you. I stopped thinking the pretty buttons would make us better together. We just fit now, you and I. You’ve been my reason to get out of the bed each morning. You’ve shown me I’m not the only one who takes all her laundry to the cleaners instead of ironing it. You’ve made me comfortable in my ability to spend all my spare time with you, and still pull together a dinner in 7 minutes. You’ve introduced me to people around the world, and kept me current on all the news of Jessica and Nick, Britney and Kevin, Brangelina. Because of you, I’ve learned to make marble magnets, and use the USB cord on my digital camera. You’ve helped me become able to simultaneously determine which child really had the ball first, and type, with out missing a letter. You’ve listened when I gripe and gripe about not being able to commit to losing these damn last 10 pounds. You were there when my husband was working late. You’ve never judged me when it wasn’t 5:00 yet, and I came to you with a glass of wine.

But alas, I feel maybe we’ve gotten a bit too close. Maybe I’ve become too dependent on you. How can that be? you’ll say, I’m sure. I know. I know. It’s so painful to even consider. My head is spinning with confusion as I write this. Can I really walk away? Will you let me? Can’t you understand how unhealthy this relationship has become? As much as I love you, I must. get. out. For now, at least. Your comments…I run to you every time I hear your taunting, luring ding! Your praise of me…I’ve grown so accustomed to, that I need it more and more, I crave it. And it’s not just you, you know. All your friends…they seduce me, too. What are they saying? Are they more handsome than you? Do they offer me something you can’t? Have. they. linked. us. up. yet. I know, it’s so hurtful to admit. And your stat counter. Ooooh, the stat counter. I just go weak in the knees when you show it to me. My brain flies with quick calculations…is it possible that today’s hits were less than yesterday? Is there usually a slump on the weekends? Or, worse, could. it. just. be. us. And what if, just what if, we do something, anything, just one tiny thing, that someone would hate us for? It’s just too much to bear…

No. Don’t. Not a word. It will just make this worse. I have to have some space. I feel we crossed the boundaries of appropriateness. What will I do? What will I do. Well, I’ve given this some thought. I may take up walking some. Do more with the children. See that every one has clean underwear more often. Maybe get that nasty sticky spot off the kitchen floor. I know. It can’t compare to you, but these things I must do. And with you around, I just. can’t. do. it. We have a house to work on you know. The upstairs hall has had a paint can and brush in it for more than 4 months. And it’s still unpainted. The mold starting to creep up the caulking in my tub has started to make me sick. Don’t even ask about the shower curtain. How will I cope? I think I’ll open a Word file. No. Stop. Don’t be caddy. He won’t compare to you, but he’ll give me what I really need. The space to just write. And not worry about the fall out. I know. Word won’t give me what you can. The praise. The affirmation. The love. But I have this crazy idea that maybe my husband could do that. He’s offered, you know. Don’t laugh. It’s cruel. I need your support in this. And the children. Well, they’ve missed me. They need me. Jake really needs to work on his math, and Kat her reading, and Blue? Well Blue just needs help in everything, especially not chewing up the sleeves of his shirts.

I know it must feel I merely used you. That I’ve used you when I needed you, and now am leaving you, hanging. Alone. But this is just the way it must be. For now. I’ve really loved you, you know. You’ve meant the world to me. Really, you shouldn’t have, but you have. I’m so sorry it has to be this way. Maybe, just maybe, down the road we can get together again. I’d like that, I think. Please forgive me.

Until another day, my sweet, until another day…
allison

Forwarded to me by my Dad, an article worth taking a few minutes to read.

For many years Ben Stein has written a biweekly column called “Monday Night At Morton’s.” (In case you don’t know, Morton’s is a famous chain of Steakhouses known to be frequented by movie stars and famous people from around the globe.) Now, Ben is terminating the column to move on to other things in his life. Reading his final column is worth a few minutes of your time.

Ben Stein’s Last Column…
============================================
How Can Someone Who Lives in Insane Luxury Be a Star in Today’s World?

As I begin to write this, I “slug” it, as we writers say, which means I put a heading on top of the document to identify it. This heading is “eonlineFINAL,” and it gives me a shiver to write it. I have been doing this column for so long that I cannot even recall when I started. I loved writing this column so much for so long I came to believe it would never end.

It worked well for a long time, but gradually, my changing as a person and the world’s change have overtaken it. On a small scale, Morton’s, while better than ever, no longer attracts as many stars as it used to. It still brings in the rich people in droves and definitely some stars. I saw Samuel L. Jackson there a few days ago, and we had a nice visit, and right before that, I saw and had a splendid talk with Warren Beatty in an elevator, in which we agreed that Splendor in the Grass was a super movie. But Morton’s is not the star galaxy it once was, though it probably will be again.

Beyond that, a bigger change has happened. I no longer think Hollywood stars are terribly important. They are uniformly pleasant, friendly people, and they treat me better than I deserve to be treated. But a man or woman who makes a huge wage for memorizing lines and reciting them in front of a camera is no longer my idea of a shining star we should all look up to.

How can a man or woman who makes an eight-figure wage and lives in insane luxury really be a star in today’s world, if by a “star” we mean someone bright and powerful and attractive as a role model? Real stars are not riding around in the backs of limousines or in Porsches or getting trained in yoga or Pilates and eating only raw fruit while they have Vietnamese girls do their nails.

They can be interesting, nice people, but they are not heroes to me any longer. A real star is the soldier of the 4th Infantry Division who poked his head into a hole on a farm near Tikrit, Iraq. He could have been met by a bomb or a hail of AK-47 bullets. Instead, he faced an abject Saddam Hussein and the gratitude of all of the decent people of the world.

A real star is the U.S. soldier who was sent to disarm a bomb next to a road north of Baghdad. He approached it, and the bomb went off and killed him.

A real star, the kind who haunts my memory night and day, is the U.S. soldier in Baghdad who saw a little girl playing with a piece of unexploded ordnance on a street near where he was guarding a station. He pushed her aside and threw himself on it just as it exploded. He left a family desolate in California and a little girl alive in Baghdad.

The stars who deserve media attention are not the ones who have lavish weddings on TV but the ones who patrol the streets of Mosul even after two of their buddies were murdered and their bodies battered and stripped for the sin of trying to protect Iraqis from terrorists.

We put couples with incomes of $100 million a year on the covers of our magazines. The noncoms and officers who barely scrape by on military pay but stand on guard in Afghanistan and Iraq and on ships and in submarines and near the Arctic Circle are anonymous as they live and die.

I am no longer comfortable being a part of the system that has such poor values, and I do not want to perpetuate those values by pretending that who is eating at Morton’s is a big subject.

There are plenty of other stars in the American firmament…the policemen and women who go off on patrol in South Central and have no idea if they will return alive; the orderlies and paramedics who bring in people who have been in terrible accidents and prepare them for surgery; the teachers and nurses who throw their whole spirits into caring for autistic children; the kind men and women who work in hospices and in cancer wards.

Think of each and every fireman who was running up the stairs at the World Trade Center as the towers began to collapse. Now you have my idea of a real hero.

I came to realize that life lived to help others is the only one that matters. This is my highest and best use as a human. I can put it another way. Years ago, I realized I could never be as great an actor as Olivier or as good a comic as Steve Martin…or Martin Mull or Fred Willard–or as good an economist as Samuelson or Friedman or as good a writer as Fitzgerald. Or even remotely close to any of them.

But I could be a devoted father to my son, husband to my wife and, above all, a good son to the parents who had done so much for me. This came to be my main task in life. I did it moderately well with my son, pretty well with my wife and well indeed with my parents (with my sister’s help). I cared for and paid attention to them in their declining years. I stayed with my father as he got sick, went into extremis and then into a coma and then entered immortality with my sister and me reading him the Psalms.

This was the only point at which my life touched the lives of the soldiers in Iraq or the firefighters in New York. I came to realize that life lived to help others is the only one that matters and that it is my duty, in return for the lavish life God has devolved upon me, to help others He has placed in my path. This is my highest and best use as a human.

Faith is not believing that God can. It is knowing that God will.
By Ben Stein

and maybe to the one that is over 5′5″, too. If I am in the bathroom, for what may seem to you, an extraodinarily inordinate amount of time, and you don’t hear anything, and I don’t call for help, and especially if I take the laptop in there, yes. I. am. fine. Great actually. Very happy and content. Which is disturbed in incremental proportion to the amount of times I am asked through the door, when are you coming out?, or are you OK in there? Also in incremental proportion to the amount of these plaintiff inquiries is the steady increase of time that will be spent in there. Go. away.

About this time, 8 years ago, my midwife declared me 3 cm. and 80%. Any women who have ever given birth know exactly what I mean. And at 11 days over due, I was elated. And ginormous. For anyone just dying to read some stranger woman’s birth story, it’s here. All 10 months of pregnancy woe, nausea, and considerations of doing myself in. Or my husband.

This afternoon, those 8 years ago, became the day we knew we were going to have our baby girl. Labor progressed. Excitement rose. Emotions flew. I began to view our first born in an entirely different way. He was about to be a Big Boy. Catgirl didn’t actually make her arrival til 6:20 tomorrow morning, but I suppose I’m like so many other mommies out there who start remembering the little things surrounding the hour of actual birth. So today, I’m celebrating her. And oh, I have discovered who can, and who should, wear satin cargo pants.

early a.m., 1998

today, in her new satin cargo pants

Happy Birthday, Yummy Bunny.

I’m going to do something I’ve not done in a long time. Turn this thing off (computer). Get in my comfies (jammies). And. Ready? Read a book. It’s like a trip back in time or something. What a concept.

There’s bound to be some something I’m missing out there, with a cute button for Tuesday. But. Today is riding lessons, gymnastics, finishing getting the upstairs clean (gross. gross. bathroom. floors. Don’t they know the target in IN the toilet?), biga** grocery run, and maybe, just maybe, a shower. If I don’t linger here too long.

First item of business. Ahem. Carnival of Homeschooling Week 3. Beautiful compilation of brilliant observations (yes, I’m included) over at Why Homeschool. Mr. Henry Cate did a superb job making us all look wonderful. Check it out.

Second. A little funny. Urban Dictionary gave me a chuckle.

anablog:

The old fashioned journal you wrote in with crushed tree pulp, binding, and maybe some kind of lock mechanism. For some reason people used to like writing opinions only they read. It is a fad past its prime but Borders still sells them for some reason.

use:

“What is that odd rectangular shaped device you have in your lap that appears to be filled with blue lined 2 dimensional pieces of non-digital substance?”

“Oh this is just my anablog…I write it in to remember things and keep my private thoughts”

“I see, so how do you post it when you’re done?”

Third. Who ever invented the scales for home use has a special place in hell waiting for him. Enough said.

And finally, for your viewing pleasure, Mr. I Left the Room to Toot, in typical daily attire…

It’s what I get for asking him to help with the laundry. And yep. That’s underwear on his head.

Speedreader has earned his first ever belt in Karate. They give you that cheap white one. You earn the next, and all the rest. Today was yellow. And it’s never been his more favorite color.

If I were more blog savvy, I’d have these pics in a more attractive ensemble’. *sigh*

I’m also determined to figure out how to upload a 10 second video clip, but there are grandparents waiting for these pics. By the time I get it all straight and posted, they’ll have most likely lost their eye sight somewhere around the age of 102. So. For our family. And those odd interesting women out there like me, who happen to like seeing images of children they’ve never met before, I’ll eventually figure it out.

And any one else out there who would be moronic determined enough to try this. Do not try to unscrew the gunked up cap off an old tube of Household Cement, with your teeth. It’s really hard to get those stringy dried pieces out of your molars. And, it taste bad. Really. Bad.

Around here, this is a really busy season…this is the 3rd birthday in 2 weeks. And to celebrate, here’s 100 things about my friend, Mr. Tango. Happy Birthday. Love.

1. A lot of people say it, but he really is my best friend.
2. He has strong hands.
3. And a big heart.
4. And deep convictions.
5. And sometimes a hot head.
6. Because he’s passionate.
7. And more impulsive than I am.
8. So we’ve often clashed.
9. But we balance eachother.
10. Mostly.
11. He’s a visionary.
12. And a dreamer.
13. He won’t let me wallow in the negative.
14. I won’t let him go off half cocked (wait, that was about me).
15. He pushes the outer edges of possibilty.
16. And sometimes gives me a migraine.
17. He’s quiet in new situations.
18. While he sizes up the situation.
19. He doesn’t dig small talk.
20. He lets me blather all over the place.
21. He’s an artist.
22. And a musician.
23. And a Believer.
24. And sometimes spacey.
25. But not too much.
26. He used to lose his wallet and keys all the time.
27. But doesn’t any more, much.
28. He has the best hair.
29. And can cut it himself.
30. He can put on any accent in the world, and make you think he came from that place.
31. He cracks the children up reading books to them in those accents.
32. He makes a mean margarita.
33. But doesn’t make much else.
34. But could, I’m sure.
35. He hates to get up early.
36. And would be nocturnal if he could.
37. That’s tough for family life.
38. So he’s adjusted for us.
39. He was 20 when we met.
40. Today, he’s 36.
41. He gets better every year.
42. He makes me laugh. A lot.
43. He can learn nearly anything he tries to.
44. He is a perfectionist.
45. Which can make me nuts (oops, me again).
46. He was born in Texas.
47. Which he thinks is the greatest place.
48. He loves a good chile relleno.
49. And bold red wines.
50. And chips and salsa.
51. And his momma.
52. And Dad.
53. He is an only child.
54. Who says he was sometimes lonely.
55. So we had 3 children in 4 and a half years.
56. He is loyal.
57. And driven.
58. And won’t stop til the job’s done right.
59. He prefers the mountains over the beach.
60. And loves great architecture.
61. He loves to watch DIY.
62. And design shows on HGTV.
63. He can ski excellently.
64. Which I didn’t believe the first time he tried to help me down a mountain, so I fell and stumbled my way down refusing to let him just link up with me and guide me down (oh, again, me.).
65. He is extremely bright.
66. But very humble.
67. Unless he’s designing our house.
68. He has a great voice.
69. And can dance like Travolta in Grease.
70. But won’t show it off much.
71. He is red/green color blind.
72. Which is funny, because he’s a designer.
73. He has great lips.
74. And legs.
75. And I’m not telling.
76. He has an uncanny ability to see me just the way he saw me the first time, but even better.
77. He said he noticed my eyes first, but later confessed it was my bum.
78. When we met, he had long hair and 2 or 3 earrings.
79. He doesn’t anymore.
80. But he does have a tattoo that matches mine.
81. Which he gave to me partially as a 32nd birthday present.
82. He’s comfortable in his skin, and tries to help me to be.
83. He is a fantastic father.
84. But occasionally, the noise gets to him.
85. He’ll eat anything I put in front of him.
86. But is not a big fan of soup.
87. He loves my hummus.
88. And guacamole.
89. And me.
90. He’s more nervous about the children getting hurt than I am.
91. But took our oldest son hunting.
92. And helped him kill a rattlesnake.
93. He makes me better.
94. And, at times, has let me just be a big baby.
95. He has a twisted sense of humor.
96. And a real love for God.
97. He has put his family ahead of his career, and his potential income, and some things he’d really like to do.
98. Because he chose to.
99. His favorite show is King of the Hill.
100. And I gladly let him be the King of ours (dang, I just can’t stay out of it).

To spend the day catching up on all that must be done around here, and not running to my computer every time I hear that taunting little *bing* indicating that yes, I have new mail, so possibly some wonderful compliment on my brilliant and witty life observations. I can live without constant affirmation. I can, I can, I can. I hope.