The Soundtrack Of Your Life

When I watch Dateline NBC, I always let my mind wonder. The guy who narrates, Keith Morrison, always has these zinger lines that he says in a way that gives me the hibby-jibbies. Recently, he started like this: "You know back in the 80's when you'd make a mixed tape for a friend as a special gift....." He lingered on every two words so that all you could do was put yourself in that situation.

Well, that got me to thinking..........If you had to make a soundtrack of your life, do you know what your songs would be? There are so many components that would come into play, right?

The first being, significance. The songs would have to have significant meaning to your life's events. It might not even be an event you'd want to commemorate with a song, but it happened and it's a part of you.

The second component would have to be sequence. The songs would need to be in some order to make the story complete. Each chapter of your life makes a story. Is your story one that you would be able to put on ITunes for all to download? Is it one you'd rather put in a drawer to never hear again.

Are parts of it those that should be earmarked as, "Subscribers Only". Would you have a soundtrack that you give to others, but one that you'd have that was REALLY your soundtrack?

I think I could sit down with Billboard's Top Hits for each year and identify pretty well with certain songs and pretty accurately be able to match them to events--most small, insignificant events, but those where you were you and you were there. <---That sentence I just wrote, a teacher would have slammed me for in school---WHICH IS WHY I NEVER WROTE IN SCHOOL. :)

What I mean by that is you may have heard a song that just reminds you of a ride down a certain road when the song came on the radio. That's not significant, riding down the road, but what is significant (<--and, I'd have just gotten slammed for overusing that word) is that you were you and you were there. If that still doesn't make sense to you, go back to teaching college and begin a career where you shut writers down. I'm just sayin'.

Soooo, back on track (minus 10 points for being off topic)--could you list out your soundtrack? How would it differ from what someone else would have you upload to ITunes? I think I'll work on what my soundtrack would be and I'll post it when I get it together. (minus 20 points for being late, Phillips!)

That's All Folks

I don't even know where to begin. I really don't know where to go even from here now that I have begun, and I certianly don't know where to end.

One thing I do know, however, is that I'm stinkin' tired of looking at the "$3.50 a Box" entry from last time.

Cartoons have always seemed unproductive to me. Even as a kid, I couldn't tolerate a cartoon too long. I used to wonder why Popeye wasn't miserable with his one eye, why Tom never caught Jerry and if Pink Panther would EVER talk. I'd get bored with cartoons because I couldn't find out the answers to my questions and I'd then find other things to do. I especially disliked the "ThThThThaaaat's all folks!" at the end.

Those are mainly the reasons that it surprised me to like the movie "Up" so much. I actually really liked about a third of it and slept through the rest. (I'll go ahead and step aside for that "Mother of the Year" award.)

Much of what I liked about the movie didn't even have words. Isn't that the case often times? What isn't said is what SCREAMS at you? It is as if you stop talking or thinking about what your going to say long enough to let conversation go on the journey it's intended to, you'll see things far more clearly in future interactions. I'd be willing to bet that you could get to know someone pretty well by just watching them for a while, it might make future conversations have more purpose because you actually have things you want to know based on observation than based on what they've just said.

You'd just have to watch that movie to see how the couple interacts. The main character married this girl who had huge hopes for her future and he worked his whole life trying to meet those goals, but always seemed to lose ground because of the "life" happening around them. At the end of the couple's time together, he has become a grouchy old man. Seeing the grouchy old man without having seen all that led up to his grouchy demeanor, would ordinarily make you just write his grouchy tail off, but because you know what's led up to it, you have compassion for him and want well for him. You watch him with interest. Have you ever watched someone with interest?

Growing up around my mom's parents always provided for some great entertainment. A typical afternoon at their house in the summer would be Pappaw bringing in vegetables from his garden and everyone shucking corn or "stringin' beans" to get them ready to be canned for winter. Then, it'd get quiet as we watched cars pass and all the sudden, one of the two, Granny or PawPaw, would say, "You know, I been a settin' here a-studyin'..........." and you knew whatever epiphany they'd had was a good one that completely changed the direction of things.

Do we, as a hurried society, ever just "set and study"?

$3.50 A Box

There are two brands of Girl Scout Cookies: One brand made by ABC Distributers and the other made by Little Brownies. One of the companies has cutesy names for the cookies, but unless you are a seasoned consumer, you can't tell what you are ordering. The other distributor calls it what it is.

Don't you think most people like for you to call it what it is? Not just in the world of cookies, but in life in general. I know that when you "call it like it is," you really have to "see it like it is" and that's where some people THINK they are calling it like it is, but in actuality, they are calling it like they see it.

If you don't get the Girl Scout cookie metaphor, maybe you'll get the Thelma metaphor.

On one side of my family, we had the two Thelmas. There was "Aunt Thelma" who saw things for exactly what they were and would lay it on the line. For example, if she saw a kid acting out of control around the house, she'd say, "Marie, trust me, that kid's going to grow up to be out of control if you don't bust her hiney this instant. Trust me. Trust me. I tell it like it is." Well, looking at Aunt Thelma's track record, she must have known she didn't give out enough "butt whoopins" because a majority of her kids (I think she had like 9) were incarcerated or running from the law. There were actually three who were very good people. They probably got the "whoopins". So, my Nanny Ree, tried hard to talk or bust the bad out of our hineys to adhere to Aunt Thelma's telling it like it is. I'd like to say I got a many of preventative "whoopins". I not only got them on the Thelma's side of the family, but I attempted to outrun my other granny's hickory, too. I'm thinkin' preventative and reactive where what encompassed my "whoopins".

So, what about the other Thelma? Well, she renamed herself, "Betty B. Dobbins". She didn't like the name "Thelma" and without any legal papers changed her name to Betty B. She always had a new car and when she went places with you, you never got to ride in the new car. You rode in Nanny Ree's car. It was a rust colored station wagon with not back door and it honked the horn every time a corner was turned. Oh, yeah. Absolute classic. She said she needed that station wagon because she never knew when she'd have to haul a good roll of carpet or something. Even at 9, I couldn't get that rationale, but, you know...Now, Miss Betty B. was full of opinions. She thought she was "telling it like it is," but she was actually "telling it like she THOUGHT it was." Here's an illustration of Betty B.'s "telling it like it is." Said kid was running around the house acting crazy and Betty B. would comment, "Hmm. " She'd never tell you what she was thinking (possibly there weren't any complete thoughts there) and just look at everyone she felt was responsible for the said child as though she were making a prediction of the future by raising her eyebrows and josteling her keys. She'd never tell you like it is. She'd just act like she knew what it would be. And, she didn't have much of a track record for perspective either because she typically absorbed the environment around her, but never really contributed to it herself. Maybe her not summing it all up for you, led you to think a little on your own....

You have Thelma #1 that ironed in full make up at the kitchen table telling everybody like it was and Thelma#2 that was in and out of situations long enough to form her opinion, but never be able to sway outcomes because she really wasn't around long enough to make a solid observation that would lead to anything productive.

A Thin Mint's a thin mint, right? What the heck's a Tag A Long?

I think a good piece of advice is that if you are calling it like it is, make sure you know enough to call it like it is. Right?

Memory Lane

NOT EDITED! SORRY! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! Six years ago (I feel like I should be starting out "Four Score and...) I decided to mimic my sister's hobby of scrapbooking. The art of scrapbooking is one that you should do if you are interested in creatively chronicling (<--word or unword?) events. I am not much of a fan of capturing events because it's the memory or unimportant moments that I could just swim in without even pedaling. Like right now, Libby is running from her frustrated Daddy after her bathtime reciting her Kindermusik CD to try to make him laugh. She is saying in a European accent (that which is the same of the narrator on the CD), "Here's the sound of an adult parrot....." She also loves to put her hands in his hair and just mess it up and run away as he says in a low voice, "Liiiibby." How do you capture that in a scraptbook? You don't. The only way you capture that moment, and moments like that, you know those that seem rather insignificant, but are absolutely delicious, is by just stopping and getting every second of it with your ears, heart, eyes and emotion! So, back to my short stint with scrapbooking. My sweet sister, trying to encourage a mutual hobby, gave me everything I would need to scrapbook. I scrapbooked mine and Steven's lives with all the Creative Memories Stickers one could imagine, put the fancy cut trims on and closed the book in like a few hours. Scrapbooking didn't work for me. It was proabably the cheesed up Olan Mills posed shots I tried to use. Maybe the magic, well the magic of scrapbooking has to be in the skill/talent of the photographer. The pictures have to get that feeling or that moment just right so that when you look at it you have memories as describable as Taylor Swift's song, "Best Day Ever". No matter what time of month, I CRY. LIKE. A. BABY. when I listen to that song. So, scrapbooking--I just wasn't feelin' it! That's the type of person I am, once I lose heart in something, I not only don't want to be in it, I don't even want to remember or think about it. I just want to close the book and take in things I love, things that are delicious, things that capture the essence of your mind moving quickly down a path you once trampled. I just think about things much later when I have time and wonder what all the details were. Maybe a picture would help! I just start mulling around the concept of remembering life at 33, life with a 5 year old, life when you still prepared her food and got to show her things for the first time--simple things like moving clouds, how to work the blinds or the names of characters from her favorite cartoons. How will I ever capture how it sounded when her little feet would run down the hall so fast that you just held tight thinking, "she's going to crash or fall" and then two seconds later she was in the playroom, fine, using her fake cartoon voice with her toys and all was well.....How will I remember that? A scrapbook wouldn't get it. It's just everyday. It's just everyday, right now, but soon, it will be faded past. I don't have time to write, though I still manage to have time to think. It's an ironic thing, really. For example, Libby started school last week--we think. On the twentieth day, we have to decide if "big school" or Kindergarten is ready for her! I word that honestly as I know intellectually she is fine, but maturity wise--who knows? We'll see on the 20th day. Will we remember this dilemma, so big now, but soon to be a small and faded part of the past everyday trivialness (<--unword, I know). We celebrated her 5th birthday on August 17th. We tried to do everything in the world to make her feel special. I think we did that for many reasons, most of which center around the fact that she is old enough to interact with us. Will we remember those interactions as she grows up sooooo fast? Maybe a scrapbook would be a good "Memory Lane", it seems like I am wanting to put velvet ropes around memory lane! Hmmm....

Pretty Soon

Pretty soon, our Bridenstine3 Life With Libby, will go Invitee Only. If you are on my Facebook, it won't matter because it imports itself there. If you aren't on my Facebook friends' list and want to keep reading, let me know so that I can be sure you are on the readers list. Thanks.

I'm Jus' Sayin'

I have been discouraged in my blog because someone recently summed up blogging in a play on a Winston Churchill quote saying, "Never have so many had so much to say where so few cared". To me, that thought just wasn't inspiring. It made me get confused and think several things.

One, do I care HOW MANY people care, as long as they care? Of course not. However, I am the type of person, that if I am talking to you and can tell you don't care what I am saying or that you aren't listening, I can quit mid-sentence and move on with my life. So, do I care if others care what I have to say? More importantly, do I care how many care about what I have to say? I hit those walls of questions with no answers and went into writer's hiatus. You'll see several starts of blogs I wanted to do below, you'll see my being plagued by that Churchill comment and you'll be unrequited...if you care......

This past weekend, I watched a movie that made me realize that it is the really big things in life that make you see the small things. The big things aren't necessarily the important things, but the small things are what's important. It was the stupidest movie ever, which is why my mind wondered into that epiphany. Want to know more? Then, hey, maybe you care.......however, that stupid quote from above haunts me and so I stop that thought.

Tenth grade English...........stream of conscience writing...........magical ability that lies within everyone...........it is the secret of writing..........want to know how to tap into that...........do you care.................the quote. prohibits. me. from. sharing. that......

If you were in a car and knew it wouldn't go off the road, would you even need to work at keeping the car going? Would you work at keeping it in the lane? JK8 saga...........maybe if divorce had been viewed as a option, they'd have worked harder to keep their "car" on the road. Divorce, irregardless of religious jargon, is always an option. Thank God for it in many people's lives. It's their perogative. Though I've never been divorced, I'm not anti-divorce. How many people who are divorced probably never considered it an option until it became a "have to". If you don't consider it an option, you won't work at avoiding it..........I think I'm right on that. I feel strongly that if you know something can't be taken away, you'll just bitterly exist in a prison that isn't really a prison and eventually you'll burst of out of that prison with a run in such an opposite direction that there will be no coming back. Divorce is an option. If it is to be avoided, it must be acknowledged. You can't take the "head in the sand" approach on that, otherwise, you'll be blindsighted by something you hadn't even explored. Accountants know that to catch a thief, you have to be trained in at least, knowing how to think like one............therefore, if you don't look at divorce and the ramifications of it......you'll end up in it and won't realize the energy you were putting in to not even acknowledging it could have been used in preventing it................said more than Churchill would have wanted there...............I'mjussayin'

Chivalry AIN'T dead. Knights are extinct. Chilvarly is not. Everyone desires courtship behavior. "I'm a guy just lost in myself, doing my thing, she's okay with it" is JUNK. Google manners. Use them. I'm just sayin.............more than Churchill cared to hear............

Overrated

I remember when I first heard the word overrated and actually got the concept of something being "overrated". Oh, how I loved that concept. I could liberally label anything or anyone as overrated and felt better about having categorically defined things.

This elated discovery stuck with me for only a short time when I equated it to the fable of "The Fox and the Grapes". Often times, I was labeling something as overrated because I couldn't attain it, but really wanted it. So, if I gave it a "well, I never really wanted that anyway", then I'd feel better and move on.

Or, would I?

Is being wealthy overrated? Is being beautiful overrated? Is being at the top of your job field overrated? Is being married overrated? Is being famous overrated? Is being a parent overrated? Is having a great family overrated? Is having a recollection of a great childhood overrated?

I might say that being wealthy/famous, for instance, after watching a few episodes of "E! True Hollywood Story" is overrated. However, how would I know something was "overrated" if I hadn't ever really walked that walk? If I watch an episode of "Cribs", I think that 30 minutes in that lifestyle would be so NOT overrated, however, 30 minutes is about all I can take before I've seen all I wanted to see. I have no desire after seeing their lavish lifestyle to "miss" the person. So, would that mean I could lop "fancy house, fancy cars" into my "overrated" slot? Not, if I truly believe you have to walk the walk before categorizing it.

Therefore, I learned that my newfound attachment to the stamping of "overrated" was not overrated, but rather underrated. You have to have some significant experience with something in order to label it overrated and quite frankly, I hadn't any significant experience with being rich or famous.

I could say, with certainty, that a Light Bright, an Etch-A-Sketch, and college life were overrated. The benefits of college, of course, were not overrated. You strive for college life as high schooler to be able to live as an adult while someone else foots the bill. Now, for many people this is how it works and the only thing "overrated" about it is the morning after some of their wild charades. (Yes, that statement was from the mouth of an assuming prude, right?)

However, college life for me was 100% overrated. I did not live on campus. I was an education major which had zero value to some of my family that thought you should make six figures your first year out of college. I worked two jobs. I was so tired half the time, I wasn't sure when I answered the phone at my job if I was at job A or job B. I NEVER had money. I actually had a tab at a local diner in Red Bank so that I could eat between my jobs.

So, college life for me was overrated. I can say that with all the experience in the world. Could I tell that to someone else? No, it wouldn't be fair. They may have a different experience and who would I be to detour them from that opportunity. In addition, the education you get drastically changes your path, for some people. See, I am even eluding to the fact that the college education itself, for some because of their lives, could be overrated. It might even be a financial burden they wouldn't have otherwise acquired. It's all in the person's experience.

Furthermore, a Light Bright and an Etch-A-Sketch, for example, were unequivocally overrated, to me. Who can remember their first encounter with "overrated". I can, possibly because I've drawn on this connection because of my fascination with the concept of "overratedness". At seven or eight, I had wanted them, saved up for them, gotten them and found the level at which they were enjoyable to me to be less than exciting or even unfulfilling. Those two "showy" toys were overrated. The child on TV.... looking like they were having hours of fun with a newfound talent..... (albeit the talent was absolutely in a zero demand with no future of helping them with anything) was such a magnetic pull that when I got the box with many black sheets of guide dot paper, oodles of pegs and a plug in peg board, it stunk to high heaven that I couldn't make use of it---at all. I could go on and on about being able to do nothing with an Etch-A-Sketch, maybe a primitive house drawing or, if you had an easy name, that could appear, but really, it could go with my Rubics Cube and other 'funless' toys. Suddenly, the commericals didn't even come on anymore and I couldn't even remember why I wanted those things. So, I discovered the experience of the word overrated before I ever knew I couldn't just make flippant use of it.

So, I'd definitely say that being a grown up is overrated. It comes with a certain degree of freedom, yes, but so much more that could be sailed like a Plinko chip from Price Is Right into the "overrated" column.

Might it be that we, as grown ups, bring problems on ourselves, therefore making what we don't have the grapes high in the tree? Do we spend too much time focusing on what we "don't" want or "can't have".

So, overratedness....it's really just all those things we spend time loathing because some part of us really wanted to attain it, master it or be the one to 'trade up' from it..........just a thought.

Road Trippin'

I like road trips. The two things that I like about road trips? The waiting to go phase and about the first hour of the trip. After that, I hate road trips and will act as though I never had an affinity for even the remote idea of a road trip. But, that first hour is such a nice diversion from my everyday life, or is it?


To start, for my husband's blood pressure to resemble anything but shape of Applachian Mountain Range, I don't usually drive. For some reason, his driving pattern of "as fast as you can go while not signaling anything and slam on your breaks periodically" keeps his blood pressure at a steady rate. This pattern is always followed by the statement, "I'm not the one that's ever had a wreck, Meleia". I usually think, but don't say, well statistics would clearly show your time could be near, not to mention the way you drive.

His driving means I get Libby settled in her "back suite" as I fondly refer to it. We could put that backseat on vrbo.com and run a tight race with some of the advertised cottages....sleeps 3, tv/dvr, cold drinks, lots of entertainment. Then, I put my huge sunglasses on. i.e. The ones that are the total opposite color and shape from the Kate Gosselin white, plastic huge square sunglasses that go with the red-pink clash, mini skirt outfit.....you know the picture. My faithful sunglasses are what allow me to view everything along the way and to gaze off into thought without being asked what I'm thinking.



Traveling takes money, which is why we don't. It's so unlike my Nanny Ree's favorite saying, "have 'drawers' will travel". At seven years old, I knew the saying, but hadn't a clue what she lightheartedly meant. At 33, I know what drawers means and I know it takes more than drawers to travel.


Anyway, every blue moon, we plan a little road trip. I can't much tell you about the planning phases because my form of planning is to say, "let's go somewhere that we can see....or somewhere we can get....." and that starts the process with sbridenstine. He budgets it out to a tee, spreadsheets it up and before too long the Purchase Order is processed and we are on our way. (somewhat exaggerated, there).


Here's the magic of that first hour...........you're driving--well, riding, along and you begin to look at things in a way you don't look at them on your normal beaten path. Obviously, there are times when you really "eye" those houses on your neighborhood street and harbor those same questions that you have on a road trip, but far too little. Those thoughts like...."I wonder who lives in that house..how the heck do those folks live like that, or awww, that person drives a bus...wonder what their neighbors think about them parking it in their yard...." Those random "wonders", those thoughts that would lead you to waltz right up to their door and ask if it weren't for speeding along at 75 mph.


A perfect example is when I see a school. I think, "you know, my world revolves even if that school is scoring X or even if that school does Y" and it puts my sometimes "school tizzies" into perspective.


I really like analyzing the community and thinking how it's somewhat like an anthill. The ants busy along doing what makes their hill survive, doing what they know and not until someone disturbs it do the ants realize there's a whole world out there or at least a reminder of why they stay in their little circle of existence.


Do you think that's how we are? Do you think, we as Daltonians or Georgians or whateverians, don't even notice the things in other places that make them matter? Why is it that things that make a world of difference to us don't make a bit of difference to the passerby?


I bet that's why I can't be on a road trip more than an hour before I'm tired of it. I try to analyze way too much!


There used to be this show on CBS Saturday Mornings that showed a guy open a phonebook, run his finger down the page and lands on a name that he called and met with to show the point that "everyone has a story". I loved that show segment. If it were on 24 hours, 7 days a week, I'd have wasted away the remainder of my life because I'd still be sitting there in absolute amazement at people's stories. There was another guy that did documentaries about living in people's lives for a period of time. He did one where he lived on minimum wage. It was fascinating to me. It was kinda what I invited Oprah to do a couple of blogs ago. When her people call my people, 'cause you know she must be amongst my five faithfuls, I'll have a whole list of them for her to try.

Think along your drives. Wonder about those around you who have their own little universe of issues spilling out.

Twice!? In ONE day??

I bet you thought that title was something to reckon with. You probably thought a true yummy secret was about to come out, however, nope. The title just refers to the fact that I am blogging twice in one day. I'd promise this one would be short, but I don't really know until I get it all written out, and then I don't look back. My sister said she doesn't like my new blog layout. She says the colors are difficult to see and the posts I've written as of late are too long. So, FOCUS, Sanna. Good thing these posts are free to readers or I might have to give a pooh about what readers think of me/posts.

I try not to be a bragger. However, today, is a BIG day!!! As a high school senior, I had no idea what I DIDN'T want to be after college. I just knew that pretty much anything captured my fancy. Therefore, when it was time to apply for scholarships, and my grades were definitely good enough, I chose not to apply for any. I just couldn't bring myself to write about something like it was my "forever choice". I couldn't write essays for scholarships I didn't REALLY want. There was no way I was going to try to convince an unknown audience I had a desire to do something I really didn't have a desire for. So, a few automatic college scholarship letters came in the mail, as I'm sure they do with everyone and I didn't reply. I would see the award amount and compare it to what the college would cost with the award and still feel that it wasn't something I wanted to even try for. I decided to attend the local university because it was a good school and a better use of my "money" if I didn't know for sure what I wanted to do. My mom was just proud I didn't cringe at the thought of more schooling and would help me with gas money, clothes and extras that I wanted when she could. My dad felt that if I wasn't going to get out of college and earn a six figure income that it was useless for me to go. So, I decided that I would start at UTC and just see what happened.

Gosh, the days were long and difficult. My first memory of college, which should have been a sign of hard times to come was that I can remember getting a parking space that was by the arena and my first class being at 8 by Memorial Auditorium. I thought 8 was a nice late start compared to my high school start time that was in the 7 am hour time frame. So, trudging to classes carrying books that were heavy and pricey stunk. Nothing about college was fun nor easy. However, I had watched a video in the Financial Aid office that said if I quit college or even took a break, I'd have to pay back the money and it would be hard to start back. So, I stuck it through. Year one---learned what "study" meant and that it didn't mean "no homework". Year two---learned I had better try to take classes that would help me figure out what I wanted to do. Year three---went to the career planning office and took an interest survey that showed I'd do well in social work, teaching or anything with elderly people. Shortly after that test, I began my classes in the education department. I busted my butt and worked two jobs to get through years three and four, and took as many classes as I could to graduate on time. Year four---was already dreading the student loan payments that were sure to start upon my graduation. Due to that dread, I never took out another student loan. Steven and I paying for my undergraduate loans and his made for lots of nights eating Rice-A-Roni and Hamburger Helper. We paid for our graduate schooling as we went. I'll be starting back in Fall of 2010 and will pay as I go because I do not heart student loans.

Well, guess what?! MY UNDERGRADUATE LOANS ARE FREAKIN' PAAAAAAID OFFFFFF! Wahooo! Here's a dear john letter to my student loans. Pardon the lack of, a-hemmmm, excitement.

Dear Student Loans,

We took you out in June of 1994 and carried you on our back until June of 2009. Kiss our butts and never come back! Stop the auto bank draft and do as "DX the wrestler" tells people.

Best regards,
Steven Bridenstine, MBA and Meleia P. Bridenstine, M.Ed

Dear Oprah, Shuuuuuut Up. Thanks, Meleia

I know that I just committed a terrible act in telling the Queen of Goodwill and Charity to shuuuuut up. But, seriously, Oprah, shuuuuut up. This directive has been coming on for a couple of weeks. It all started when our TV was tuned in to her show and I was doing something else while listening. I overheard that the topic of the show which went with her ongoing theme of "Live Your Best Life". Oprah went on to lament to a person on the show, who was jobless, that he should "live his best life, pray more..." I overheard Oprah's voice trail off as I thought about how she is so out of touch and people actually listen to her in masses hoping to get a smidgen of some kind of "insight" as to what they should do in their lives. Ugh. Oprahhhhh, shuuuuuut up.

Steven used to have the hot sauce called, "Nothin' hotter than a scorned woman". I kind of wondered if a scorned Oprah might could identify better with people if she had to maybe not be jobless, but try living on minimum wage, throw in a medical problem of two, and combine that with a child who saaaaaay is oppositionally defiant. Think Oprah could "live her best life, listen to her inner voice....."?

I know that faith is truly tried and exemplified when all is not well, when all you have is God and you learn that He is all you need. I'm sure Oprah had lots of things in her childhood that helped her connect with that "voice" or "best life vision". I'm thankful for her and am sure the world would be a better place if she could be cloned. However, in this economy, Oprah, unless you are giving the person a job or some type of life training/skill, shuuuuuut up.

Thanks,
Meleia

My Favorite Car

I would say I just made a HUGE mistake, but I can't call it a mistake, I think it's actually the beginnings of a very bad trend. I think you can only call something a mistake if you did that thing completely oblivious to the outcome it could have. I knew the outcome of eating a bowl of lowfat popcorn with a little added hot butter and dark chocolate almonds. OUCH. Just writing that like made my laptop gain weight. The bad thing about the mistake is that it's the second time this week and it makes the my dreadmill efforts not make a difference. Ugga Bugga!

Anyway, eating the popcorn reminded me of my favorite car ever. I have to first start this story with listing the cars I've left in my path of short term favorites:

1) Used 89 Chevy Corsica--grey paint defect car (the color on the title could have read primer--really). Gave it to my grandmother because my dad said it was his and I couldn't trade it. Its air condition quit.

2) Used 93 Teal Nissan Altima--like 140,000 miles on it....when I got it, hey I was a struggling college kid. Got rid of it because it started have problems.

3) Used 98 White Honda Accord--wrecked it REAL good. Didn't like it until after it was totaled and I couldn't have it anymore.

4) fLEASED 2000 White Toyota Camary--I felt like I needed a boat license to sail this thing. I bought this one in like 15 minutes at night and just didn't realize how long five years was. Steven ended up driving it.

5) Maroon 98? Jeep Cherokee--Steven's parents took it over because we decided to try to get more fiscally responsible. Bought this one because I thought I needed more space to carry stuff. Steven ended up driving it.

6) Red 98 Saturn SC--bought this one because it was what I really wanted when I was 16 and I thought it would be great to zip into parking space and hide shopping bags in the back. Steven ended up driving this one.

7) Brownish 200? Nissan Altima--bought it off Ebay because it was a good deal and I missed my teal one. I don't think Steven ever had to drive this one.

8) 200? White VW Passat--bought this one because I like the interior light colors and I thought it was THE ONE until I got preggars and the smell made me puke. Steven ended up driving this one.

9) 2004 Black Nissan Murano--hated them at first, then liked the crossover component of it. As I walked around the new car inspection and signed off on it, someone sprayed paint nearby and it went all over my brand new car right there in the parking lot of the dealership. Fought with Nissan in Kennesaw for the last 2 months of my pregnancy until they agreed to buy it from me and sell me...

10) my second 2004 Black Nissan Murano--love it, but Steven drives it because I just had to have.....

11) my current 2008 White Nissan Altima--love it, but my favorite car isssssssssssssss: what I have yet to get which is an Infinity G20 which I'm waiting for Joey at Pye to start selling and then I can buy it.

So, I got my first car at 17 and sixteen years later, I have had 11 cars! Steven says that we aren't trading anymore. But, how does he know I won't find my the car that will make everything seem right? **Shallow laugh**

So, if I had to choose from the eleven cars, each one has reasons it could be my favorite--

1) Corisca--got me to and from some of my first jobs, hauled my precious sister who was the most patient person in the world around, as well as my sweet cousins Anna, Amy and Phil on some afternoons from school

2) Altima--the interior was so soft

3) Accord--the airbags saved my life in a crash where I was hit head on twice while sitting still and the other person was going like 60 mph

4) Camry--NOTHING, hated it

5) Cherokee--first SUV

6) Saturn--fun to drive

7) Ebay Altima--great experience

8) Passat--great insides, "Your bootlid is open." The German factor wore off!

9 & 10) Murano--lots of fun ride to vacations, it's just a sexy car LOL

11) current Altima--has lots of buttons to press inside, the blue tooth is interesting, the color is good, the trunk is big

So, there, my I'm so promiscuous when it comes to cars. It kinda makes me feel bad.

Look at the path of favorites! YIKESEE!

Production Notes and Reality Shows

I'm not writing this entry about reality shows because I necessarily heart them, but I do feel like being the devil's advocate on some things regarding reality shows.

Okay, most people say, "reality shows are anything but reality". Yes, they are right. However, here's two things about that statement: you have to watch them often to really be able to say that and YOU WOULDN'T watch it if it were true reality.

Case in point, "my reality show" yesterday (and it would be a bit more exciting because of a couple of very short moments) would have run a camera crew off and had a TV set begging for a power outage.

Yesterday started with waking up and deciding that I wished I was a good little sleeper. It's actually a ritualistic thought I have when I wake, "man, I wish I slept so deep and so long I felt like I had been elsewhere" and "gosh, let me calucate the less than seven hours I get on daily basis." See, you would have already turned the channel.

The upcoming happenings are even worth fast forwarding to, but here goes. After my B-ah session about sleep, I decide to do 30 on the dreadmill.

Steven leaves for work. I'm sure before he left, he reminded me of what times I needed to take Libby places and not to spend any money. Oh, here's an exciting question I answered, "is my tie tied too short?"

Now, hang on to your seats, it finally picks up pace as Libby wakes up.

Of course, her usual waking is that, as mentioned many times before, of someone directly off the battlefield beginning combat from mid sleep. She enters with a wail, "IIIIIIIIIIIIIWWWWWWWWWWaaaaaaannnnntppppppaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnncccccccccakes." Of course, the only way to stop the wailing is to either do it or respond with something that will spawn another long wail, but with a beginning conjuntion of "BUT" and emphasis on "IIIIIII".

Seeing as how SuperNanny hasn't ever taken me up on an all accomadations stay at my house, I've decided to implement it myself and say no when not asked properly.

She and I went downstairs to eat Life cereal together. See, my reality show would have all kinds of product placement and network affilitation (i.e. SuperNanny).

She, who stomped her way down the stairs rambling a list of all things unfair that have been imposed on her, decides to not notice the slow pace at which I am taking every step. As I went downstairs, I could easily say that every single step I argued with myself that I do love summer and it's the right thing to save daycare money and spend every waking second with my darling-there's-an-obvious-reason-she's-an-only-and-I'd-have-moved-to-China-to-keep-it-that-way-but-thank-God-sbridenstine-sees-it-the-same-way daughter.

Once downstairs, sparring #2 occurred with daughter because she demands to do a marathon of her shows. She argues that she needs to learnnnnn something and that she can't learnnnnn if she can't watch: Backyardigans, Dora, Go Diego Go, Little Einsteins, Ni Hao Kai Lan, Sid the Science Kid.......and at this point I take the other side of my, "it's best for her to be home with me this summer argument" and toss it out the door.

I think of A. laying facedown on the couch and not moving until 5:30 when I can have an adult conversation with the working mate of the household about the summer decision, B. sitting in my car with the door shut so that I can just hear silence, or C. running on the dreadmill and pretending I am going somewhere.

However, I of course, enter negotionations with North Korea (or you can still call her Libby). I tell her that she can make her own shows and soon it will be time for swim lessons.

North Korea doesn't take that for an answer and says if she can't watch "ch-oweys" all day, then maybe I can just read to her all day.

I think if we were on a reality show, at this point, the camera crew would whip her butt. And, I smile at that thought.

So, we read and read and read until I hate books. It's the blunt truth of the matter.

Here's a high point for the show: I contemplated, well threw away, a copy of the Madeline book because I was SICK OF FREAKIN' reading it. I hate Madeline. Those two straight lines. bleh

After reading it five times, I didn't ever want to see it again. So, when North Korea went to get 'nudder book, MWWWWommy. I tossed it in the trash-WAY under a bunch of junk because I am well aware that North Korea will sense it's in there and then it will turn into Peyton from "Hand That Rocks The Cradle" when she's after Solomon at the end of the movie. I know my kid.

I knew I could have some silent therapeutic tossing of a book moment, but certainly it must be well hidden. So, bye bye Madeline and her dumb butt lines. That was mean. At that point, the reality show would probably bring in a shrink and do a complimentary DFACS referral.

However, it is only my IQ in danger when staying at home. It just gets lower and lower.

So, next on a real reality show, you'd see the getting ready portion of the day where I ask myself why I cut my hair so short and why haven't I gotten Libby's hair cut.

Then, we'd be off to swim lessons. The whole way to swim lessons, Libby remarks how Kaylee told her to stay away from water that she'd drown. Convinced that we are journeying to her demise in my Altima, Libby chatters the entire way about it. No matter how much I reassure her that she is LEARNING to swim so she won't ever have problems in the water, she continues.

Once at the Wellness Center pool, she thinks her role as North Korea will be accepted by Miss Sandy the Swim Teacher. What she doesn't know is Miss Sandy is France and she is not going to negotiate. It was like choir singin' satisfaction to see someone else work with North Korea. I took EXXXtra long filling out those swim papers, just to be sure I could watch North Korea concede.

After screaming, "walley" for about 15 minutes of my $19, she finally decides participate in the swim lesson Miss Sandy was progressing without her through.

That moment would have gone two ways on a reality show: 1) it would have been stretched out to the whole show or 2) it would have been about two minutes long.

Next, we go to get Steven, who can play golf on his league now but still can't lift heavy stuff, so he can pick up a box for me from school. Then, we go to Taco Bell lunch on a budget in Murray County.

Steven would only make a small appearance on the reality show because he is a man of few words and is not in the least bit a source of drama.

So, back to the two drama queens. Libby and I then go home where she assumes the role of North Korea on the topic of napping. She refuses to nap and I get sleepy commanding it. This is the point where I'd like an emergency red phone like they are rumored to have in the basement of the White House. I'd like to pick up the red phone and say, "hello, I can't do this another second of this day, help."

The nap negotiation goes on for about two hours. What else do we have to do? We can't spend money and I'll be derned if I am going to read another book.

I facebook a confession that I didn't pay daycare enough the past four years. My day 2 with Libby proves in my soul that it's HARD to do. (By the way, I love when a proper noun can become a verb...facebook).

Here's where the drama reaches about two on a scale of one to ten, ten being Nancy Grace level of drama.

I take Libby to TaeKwonDo. I miss a rejection call. What? You blinked and missed the drama, right? That's why reality tv can't be true reality. It's flippin' boring as all get out. Just writing about it makes me bored.

So, then, we go to my sister's house for supper and to take her the boxes we picked up for her.

Lastly, we go to Cremo because sbridenstine was dying for a chocolate soft serve. That's how I KNOW we are opposites. I do not like ice cream. I would never drive across town for it and certainly not chocolate flavor. Yuck.

Finally, we get home, try to negotiate with North Korea that it's bedtime.

I talk on the phone with a friend for about an hour and it's night time.

Of course, reality tv would have stopped at the pilot and edited out 90% of that day, don't cha think?

What Makes Me Cry

If you know me well, you know I am not one to show my emotions with tears. You can cry in front of me and I'm your rock, I'm the one to hear you out and pray for you a ton, but chances are, no matter what, I won't cry with you.

It's not that I don't think what you are crying about is unworthy, it's not that I think you are stupid for crying, I just am not a co-cryer. Steven is just the opposite. If you cry, he'll probably tear up about it with you. My sister will not only cry with you, but she'll cry FOR you. Why she'll cry about an email forward that she herself has verified to be an urban myth. She's very in touch with that side of her emotions.

I don't know why I don't tear up easily or feel the urge to cry with others. It's not that I don't ever cry. I cry, just not a lot, not with others and it's a rare hap. Usually, it's more that I'm angry about something that brings about the cry rather than sad about something. It's like when I reach a point of crying, it's that I've finally had to concede that I can't fix something. It's almost like a battle between two worlds when I have to finally let go of the hope and hang on to the desperation for a period that is crying. If I had to list all the things that could make me cry, it would be numerous. If I list all the things I'd let make me cry, it'd be in the single digits because to really give up and cry about something is something of a concession I can't remotely own. The single digit list would be mostly comprised of people in hopeless situations (spriritual, health, financial wise, etc).

However, there's this book that makes me cry. And Honey, if you've never cried with a book, Lawwwww help you! I've loved this book for four years. I've bought it for a few others when their child entered kindergarten, son got married or had a special birthday.

Rarely can I make it through the book. I actually keep it on a shelf so I don't even have to look at the cover because it tears me up. It's a text that breaks me. The illustrations, however, are amazing, too. It gets right through my tough game face and bores right to the core of my soul. I HAVE to share the text with you because I can finally read it and not SOB through it.

The book is written by Karen Kingsbury and is titled, "Let Me Hold You Longer". It's one of those...............delicious books.

Here's the text, hopefully I won't end up in copyright jail. I'm not claiming as my own text, but won't deny it captures my feelings and makes me face the uncontrollable concept of passing time.

Long ago you came to me,
a miracle of firsts:
First smiles and teeth and baby steps,
a sunbeam on the burst.
But one day you will move away
and leave to me your past,
And I will be left thinking of
a lifetime of your lasts....

The last time that I held a bottle
to your baby lips.
The last time that I lifted you
and held you to my hip.

The last night when you woke up crying,
needing to be walked.
When last you crawled up with your blanket,
wanting to be rocked.

The last time when you ran to me,
still small enough to hold.
The last time that you said you'd marry
me when you grew old.
Precious, eimple moments and
bright flashes from your past--
Would I have held on longer if
I'd known they were your last?

Our last adventure to the park
your final midday nap.
The last time when you wore your favorite
faded baseball cap.

Your last few hours of kinderarten,
those last days of first grade.
Your last at bat in Little League,
last colored picture made.

I never said good-bye to all
your yesterdays long passed.
So what about tomorrow--
will I recognizeyour lasts?

The last time that you catch a frog
in that old backyard pond.
The last time that you run barefoot
across our fresh-cut lawn.
Silly, scattered images
will represent your past.
I keep on taking pictures,
never quite sure of your lasts...

The last time that I comb your hair
or stop a pillow fight.
The last time that I pray with you
and tuck you in at night.
The last time when we cuddle
with a book, just me and you.
The last time you jump in our bed
and sleep between us two.

The last piano lesson,
last vacation to the lake.
Your last few weeks of middle school,
last soccer goal you make.

I look ahead and dream of days
that haven't comet o pass,
But as I do, I sometimes miss
today's sweet, precious lasts....

The last time that I help you with
a math or spelling test.

The last time when I shout that yes,
your room is still a mess.
The last time that you need me for
a ride from here to there.
The last time that you spend the night
with your old tattered bear.

My life keeps moving faster,
stealing precious days that pass.
I want to hold on longer--
want to recognize your lasts...

The last time that you need my help
with details of a dance.
The last time that you ask me for
advice about romance.

The last time that you talk to me
about your hopes and dreams.
The last time that you wear a jersey
for your high school team.

I've watched you grow and barely noticed
seasons as they pass.
If I could freeze the hands of time,
I'd hold on to your lasts.

For come some bright fall morning,
you'll be going far away.
College life will beckon
in a brilliant sort of way.
One last hug, one last good-bye,
one quick and hurried kiss.
One last time to understand
just how much you'll be missed.
I'll watch you leave and think how fast
our time together passed.

Let mehold on longer, God,
to every precious last.

What'd you think??? What makes you cry??? Have you ever cried with a book???

Oh, No It Jus' Di'iint!

I got a new treadmill, which will be referred to as a dreadmill from here on out.

Top 3 Reasons I call it a dreadmill:

1). I actually comtemplated when Lent was so I could give it up...missed that, plus I hadn't even started using it. I was like, "Lent is already passed....oh, no it jus' di'iint."

2). The delivery people delivered it and set it up a week and a half ago. I didn't figure out it didn't work until like 2 days after that. I was like, "broken...oh, no it jus' di'iint." The motherboard was blown. It's brand new. How could that be that I got a defective dreadmill?

3). A new one got delivered and set up today. It only burns like a 60 calories on a short run. PLUS, if you're not on it, it's not burning. I think that's a ripoff. Of course, 60 calories made me say, "oh, no it jus' di'iint."

Maybe tomorrow, I'll "suit up" and try again.

When I Grow Up..........

Remember when you were little and you'd think, "when I grow up...". Well, I remember what I thought when I was little, not that they were lofty or even productive aspirations....I used to think, "when I grow up........."
1). I'm going to go to Six Flags without planning it.
2). I'm going to eat only things I like for meals.
3). I'm not going to worry about anything.
4). I won't have to mind any grown ups.
5). I'll go on vacations once a month.
That's about all I remember thinking. I'm sure I thought of other things, but those are all I can really remember. It's funny what actually ends up happening when you "grow up." You don't go to Six Flags, if you do, you plan NOT to go back. You eat things because they are healthy and you want to live longer, thereby eating things you don't like. You worry constantly. At least, I do. I worry that I'll let someone down mostly. I spend a majority of my time "minding" other grown ups. My livelihood depends on that. I don't go on vacations once a month--others might like a vacation FROM me once a month, however. I just think it's funny how you have the thoughts of adulthood being freedom from anything when it's actually freedom from nothing. Isn't that weird? I don't know, I think it's weird. It was just a thought I had today. I realized how I work in order to play, I respond to things in order to please, and derned if that's not adulthood in a nutshell.

Here's a little snippet of Libby's latest...

Water Cooler Talk

My friend, Kendra, and several of us were talking one morning before school about the Bible Study Kendra was doing in her Sunday school class. I've really wanted to do the study, but I am still working on "Conversation Peace." The study she is doing is from "Fireproof: Your Marriage." She said the topic of marriage vows came up and the question was presented: "What's the most difficult vow to keep?" So, of course, five of us women in a room with 5 minutes to hash that thought out, debated as to whether it was "in sickness and in health," "for richer or poorer," "'til death do us part"......At the moment, I thought, "How could 'in sickness and in health' be a problem?" I mean, being the somewhat lover of "stuff," I got the point of richer or poorer.....And Lord knows, 'til death do us part' can give anybody the hmmmm's. Well, I've found out the "in sickness and in health" part---somewhat....

Saturday, my sister alerted me (I've trained her well from a young age) that there was a MAJOR sale at a stationary shop downtown. I mentioned going to the sale to Steven and seeing how he was indifferent, I thought he shouldn't go because that would be distracting to me. He said he'd rather just go home and get some things done. Of course, I thought about it for all of five seconds and as soon as we were back in town, I took Steven home and Libby and I were on our way to the sale. The store, as all good things in Dalton do, closed at noon. I didn't make the sale. I decided to take Libby on some errands to give Steven a break from us. I also wanted to get my car cleaned, gas filled up, and then possibly go to the store. I felt like a "mad checker" of all the things on my list.

When Libby and I returned home, Steven was visiting with his parents. The kitchen looked rather spiffy....or Swiffey... =) I noticed Steven didn't look super comfortable and he said he wasn't. He said he moved some of the kitchen chairs to sweep the floor---STOP, he doesn't really do housework on a regular basis and I have NO idea what possessed him to clean it like the health department was coming---and he must have turned his back wrong. Well, he just finished other tasks he had on his list that must have been titled: "How To Injure Yourself To The Point Of No Return."

The day progressed and he got worse. He couldn't stand without assistance. Then, he couldn't walk without assistance. Finally, Sunday rolled around and he couldn't get out of bed without just falling to the floor like a fish out of water. I called the on call number for our doctors and my doctor was on call. She was very compassionate and called in a muscle relaxer, an anti inflammartory and told him to take some Hydrocodone we had from a dental experience. Now, at this point, I flashed to the scene in "Father of the Bride 2" where the wedding planner gets very loopy on some muscle relaxers and thought, "Ohhhh, nooooo." Once he got the meds in, my cousin, who is a Neuromuscular Therapist, came over to see if she could work on his back. Nothing worked. She advised him to get checked with his doctor.

Night rolled around and Steven said, "I have to pee. I can't move. I want to go to the Emergency Room. I would go, if I could get up." I said, "okay, we'll have to call 911." That was definitely with some dread as we've called 911 in the past few months for a "skunk-fire alert," and a few "neighbor's dogs are driving me crazies." Nonetheless, I really didn't want him to pee on my toile comforter, so 911 it was. I called my sister to send Rodney to see if he and I could move Steven, but we couldn't. My sister took Libby with her and there we were waiting on 911. Finally, they arrive. They call the fireman to help with getting Steven into a chair so they can lower him down the two flights of stairs. At this point, I hate the builder that put the master bedroom on the second floor, I hate myself for buying this house with a bedroom on the second floor and I can't believe it feels like an episode of Springer where "Fattest Person Ever Gets Cut Out Of Their Bedroom." I have no idea why that came into my head because Steven is tall and his back injury is defintiely not a result of being a candidate for Springer.

As the emergency chair thing was being lowered down the stairs and he was wincing in silence, I see him motion for everyone to stop. He looks up at me, now obviously, I'm thinking he's going to give me a profound word like where the benefits card is or an I love you and thanks for sticking with me in sickness and health....But. No. He says, "where are my blue underwhere?" I'm like, "oh, yeah, you had to pee, did you pee on yourself, oh noooo." He says, "no, Carolina plays tomorrow and I have worn them everytime they won and I want to make sure I have them for tomorrow's game." Okay, that's when I got the "in sickness and in health" frustration. Are we in dire times here or are you, I mean, I don't get it. You are being hurled down the stairs in a yellow and black straight jacket chair by 9 or 10 people and you stop them to ask about your superstitious UNDERWEAR?!?!

We get to the hospital. He gets a muscle relaxer shot in the back. He gets a pain killer cocktail in the vein. He is told to work his way through the pain. That was the point that if he could have lifted his superstitious leg he'd have kicked the super smart A doctor, but he couldn't, so he didn't. Finally, they give us "Leave Papers" and we are on our way. He can stand, but reluctantly. BTW, that was 5 hours in the ER.

Monday rolls around. We'd had a rough weekend and not great sleep in that it was from about 3 to 8, interrupted. Around noon, Sanna calls to tell us she didn't take Libby to daycare and needed to bring Kaylee and Libby over while she went to a meeting at Kaylee's school. Steven continued to feel like "nervous" about his back. He worked from his laptop in the same chair that apparently amputated his back muscles.

Tuesday (today) arrives. I told him we needed to call his doctor to find out if he is supposed to be active as the ER doctor advised for the back strain diagnosis or be resting as the "Leave Papers" said to do. Also, I wanted to know if we needed to get the pain killers filled or if he shouldn't need them and how long he should need the muscle relaxers and anti-inflammatory meds. So, I call the doctor and leave a voicemail with his doctor's nurse. If I had a statement t-shirt today, it would not say, "I HEART NURSES." She was rude, wouldn't let me finish my sentences and said, "You are JUST an ER follow up, go back to the ER tonight if you can't wait until Thursday." I kept saying, "Please, with all due respect, listen. He's a patient of Dr. Jensen's. He was instructed to follow up with his doctor, not the ER." Finally, she rudely says, "ohhh. Sorry, we still only have Thursday." I said, "By Thursday, he could be making his back worse because we don't know whether to have him active or resting. By Thursday, he could be addicted to all these meds. We need our doctor's counsel. Why are you treating us this way?" Honestly, if I had a statement t-shirt it would say, "I B-Slap Smart A's. So, WALK THE LINE." Okay, that an outburst I should have kept to myself. At the end of the conversation, I said, "Please have his doctor call us so we can explain that we need an appointment with someone responsive and compassionate. " She said, "I can't tell you he will call you back." We hung up. I wanted to cry, but I didn't have any tears left. I hate his doctor now. I called my doctor who works in the same office and explained that someone needed to pull the ER report and help us understand what direction to go. She said, "sure and we'll call you right back." In the meantime, his P.O.C. (piece of crap) doctor's staff called back and said, "we have a cancellation at 2:15, but Dr. Jensen said he's hasn't seen him in 51 weeks and doesn't know anything about an ER visit." I promise you if I could have cussed her out and not have felt badly about it, I would have. I said, "yes, he's due for a physical and hasn't had any problems. We called your office over the weekend and he wasn't on call and another designee directed the weekend's events. We will see you at 2:15." At 2:15, I'd like to rip somebody a new butthole, but I won't. Steven will see him, we will get direction and his upcoming physical will be scheduled elsewhere.

If that's how educated, patient and insured patients are treated, how are the majority of the non working, uninsured treated? Shame on them. Shame. Shame. Shame, Dr. J. and your nurse. When people are sick and vulnerable, they should at least get the minimum request of counsel for direction.

So, "in sickness and in health," it's harder than I thought.

Libby Goes To Kindergarten?

So, we've registered Libby for kindergarten with no guarantees as to whether she'll go in the Fall or not. I'd love to take her to school with me. However, I can't say I will for sure be there for the duration of her elementary career, so I've opted for her to go to her neighborhood school---if she goes.

Here's how the registration went:
We pull up to the front of the school. Mind you, I have been to this school many times as an employee of the county, but never as a PARENT. I felt very out of control regarding her education. It was weird. I felt like I was at the mercy of whatever certified breathing homosapian the county hired. I know that's ridiculous, but it's truly how I felt. What a different role to be the parent and not the teacher!

Of course, I didn't wear my name badge in or even tell that I was a teacher. Why? Not because I wanted to spy, nor because I wanted to keep it for ammo later! Only because, Libby was with me and you NEVER know what she's going to say or do; and I'd like to salvage my professional reputation as long as I can before I get "ohhhh, her parenting" gets attached to it.

We weren't sure where the registration table was, but soon we saw some rather unethusiastic folk sitting at a table. Oh, I had to bite my bossy tongue because I wanted to say, "Heeeeeyyy, teachers! Liven up!!! This is her first school experience! Come on!!!! Here's how to do it....." But, you'll be proud of me, I took a "walk of shut up" right to the table and gave our names.

The whole time I was praying Libby didn't fall out in a floor fit. She had just recovered from a Play Park fit and I felt it wasn't quite over.

A teacher walks up (no introduction by her, me biting my bossy tongue) and says, "come with me for the test". Libby snarled and remarked, "I don't do tests". Right then and there, I thought, "okay, forget it, she's not going, this is just too much." I assume a position on the wall with the other victims, I mean parents. No one talked. Five long minutes went by and out came Libby.

Her mood was no better, no worse. She spotted some treat bags. She went over to the treat bags. The whole time I was thinking, "please, no fits, no attitude, please, please." She looks through the bags and finds that they were all the same. She takes a bag and says, "'dis has SpongeBob in it. SpongeBob has a bad attitude an' my mom won't let me watch it. She'll probably 'drow' 'dis' away." I just rolled my lips in and I'm sure my eyes got huge with embarrassment.

I looked at the teacher who tested her, kept my bossy suggestions to myself and said, "could you tell me what she missed on the assessment"? She responded as though no one had ever asked that. I thought, I've probably given away that I'm a teacher. She replied that instead of cutting the heart out, Libby cut it in half. She said she got everything else correct.

When we got out of the school doors, Libby went into the horizontal fit for the playground mode. I had to tote her like a duffle bag to the backseat where I was about to either pray or scream.

Because I'd been in prayer the whole time, I decided to wedge her in the seat, shut the door, and then pray. Once she dwindled down to a low drone, I asked her to tell me about the scissors.

She said, "'duh scissors were like we have at home. I put my rest fingers in the bottom loop like you said to". I said, as calmly as I could, however my teeth were in "clench smile mode", "then, tell mommy why you chose not to cut the heart out on the lines like we've practiced for weeks." She said, "my heart was broken because I couldn't play on Play Park and so I cut it in half like my broken heart." Sigh. She's registered, we'll see.

The Blogology of the Matter

What the heck is blogology? Google it and it will have a completely different meaning than what I use it as. I think the life in my blog or my blog life is getting more difficult by the blog. Why is it getting more difficult? Usually, I just blog about my thoughts and ongoings. I just want to hang a "Closed" sign over my thoughts right now. The blogology of the matter is going to stay in my head for a while longer. Maybe in a couple of days, I'll do a great blog about Kaylee's program at school or Libby's upcoming Kindergarten year...........but, for now....sigh, I can't write. I am unbloggable.

It's Not Easy Bein' Green

Look at that title. No, I don't have a sinus infection and I'm not getting all "St. Patricksy" on ya. It's just not easy bein' green. I love that little melancholy song from Sesame Street. You see, I sorta believe that part of what makes kids born from 1975-1980 on the melancholy side of life, more times than other folks, is those darn little sing songy songs about how it's not easy being yourself.

Why shouldn't it be easy to be you? You are you. I mean, shheee, what could be easier than that? You certainly can't change it. Well, not inexpensively.

(If that paragraph didn't just SCREAM combo between a therapy session, an advertisement for Dr. 90210 and a guidance lesson in school, I don't know what does.)

And listen, if run on sentences paid the bills, I'd be rollin' in the dough faster than Publisher's Clearing House.

Anyhow, I've been running from the blogosphere avoiding blogging because....well, here's my dialogue:

ME: Who wants to hear me complain?
MYSELF: It's my blog, I can blog what I want to. And, post scriptum, DX if you don't like that I hate editing, so. I. don't. edit. ;P That was down right awful. And silly. Sorry.
I: Tone it down, Sister, you've got it good.

So, between this strange little place I'm in thought-wise and writing, I've just not had the umph.

Right about now, you're thinking, "yea, I see what you mean. Why don't you finish that conversation with yourself and then try the writing thing...."

I'll ignore your thoughts and my own, and write a little.

On complaining: Libby slept in her bed for five days in a row. Hang on Hallaleuah chorus, not yet. She slept in her bed for five days in a row about a week ago and ever since, back to the same ole same ole. That's rather disappointing as I enjoyed living like I WASN'T in a one room shacks where all events took place in the one and only bedroom. She's amazing in every other way and I remind myself, she won't wake during the night forever--maybe.

On blogging: No matter how many dern times I re-read my posts, I'll miss stuff. Re-reading takes away from my flow. That sounds like an artists' cop out for not being grammatically or syntactically strong, but seriously. So.....I'm not gonna edit no more, no more, I'm not gonna edit no more..... anymore, anymore....see, it doesn't sound as good!

On got it good: I'm very grateful for 100% of the facets that make up my life. That's why it's kinda hard to blog. In economic times like these shall I go on and on about how fortunate I am to live in a household that still has two jobs? That just doesn't feel right. I am so thankful, but at the same time, I have friends and some relatives who aren't so fortunate and it's stinky AND GREEN.

I guess that's why it's not easy........being green. ;)

Sign For Sale--Cheap, Real Cheap

Because I saw where not proofreading your work, thereby allowing grammar and spelling errors through, made some people cringe, I actually tried to slow down and not publish until I had edited my work to pieces, so here's to what I hope is an easier read.

In my sophomore year of high school, we had to give speeches. One topic we were to prepare and present a speech for was "Pet Peeves". Mine, at that time, was the penny. I felt that it could be eliminated and everything could just work from the nickle on up. Another guy reported on his pet peeve he'd inherited from his aunt which were the two pieces of bread at each end of a loaf of bread. He wanted them gone and found them to be annoying. He did however provide a creative solution in that he had a sibling that love that piece of bread and so he'd decided that his solution was located in the four walls of his very own home. Another guy, who was too cool for school and probably too old for high school, said his pet peeve was guys who flirted with his girlfriend. He got so mad when he was talking about it that he cussed and the teacher made him sit down. I think he ended with something cheesey from his seat in the back of the room like, "Don't Get Down With O.P.P.". Since those dear old days of censorship and miniscule pet peeves, I found I have one lurking in my own mind greater in value than the penny from seventeen years ago. I'll start from my now thought and back up to my new thought. Bear with me. The path begins in my very own car. Go ahead, hop in the passenger's side. Let me take you through it and to it.

Oh, hasn't the weather been lovely? Driving over Dug Gap Mountain every morning provides me with a lot of "mindless" time. Funny as it seems, at one time, I really missed having "mindless" time. That would have been the time when I lived about 3 minutes from my job. Now, I'm about 15 or 20 minutes from my job. That time is partially because of the "Red Light Parade". In Dalton, that means that you are on a five lane road with a stop light that turns red before you get to it--and that happens every 100 yards or so. Your destination that was only about ten miles away turns into a twenty minute stop and go scenerio. So, that mindless time is what I define as time where I can't multitask, a time where I don't have time to be mindless, but am forced to. On that journey around the curves, up the various inclines, through patches of fog I've come to know better than my way to the bathroom from my bed in the deep night.......I think about random things that I wouldn't even call thinking about, but just noticing the whim of a thought. Yesterday's little nuance of a thought was about this picture that I chose, purchased and have had hanging in our guestroom for a couple of years now. See it. It's right there, the colorful little thing on the plain old wall. My guest room gets no attention.

As I topped the mountain, I almost audibly questioned myself, "WHAT IN THE HECK IS THAT DOING HANGING IN A HOUSE I LIVE IN?" I then emphatically told myself that the thing hanging in that room went against everything I was really about. It states nothing I believe. The colors are okay. I really like the shiney glitter, curvey writing, and mix of fonts, but THE WORDS....oh, no. Oh, my, oh, no. They don't define anything about me. The words aren't even something I aspire for. Here's the picture upclose and personal:

Now, if they describe you to a tee than that's great. I'm glad for you. Honestly, your personality type would be exactly opposite of mine and if I had to work with you on something, you'd probably drive me batty. Equally true, I'd proabably drive you batty, too.

Here's why it's all wrong for me and mi casa:

Work --Like You Don't Need The Money: OMG. NEVER. I work like, well, not like I don't need the money. As a matter of fact, working like you don't need the money leads those of us like me who need the money and work like they do to work on your behalf WHICH ERKS THE HECK OUT OF ME! Okay, so that slipped through my mind as I drove over the mountain. As a matter of fact, I'd like to repaint that ridiculous, cutesy thing to say: "If you work like you don't need the money, you're hanging out. So, sign out and go home if you don't need the money." I bet I couldn't get all the cutesy fonts to say that. No one would buy it.

Love--Like You've Never Been Hurt: I will NEVER love like I've never been hurt. That, to me, is a sure fire way to get your tail burnt. Nope. Not this chick. I'll tell you how I'll love. I'll love like I've been hurt and your butt's lucky to still live to tell about it. (That is not just about my husband. We are happy and fine.) Sorry, it's the truth. That was so bad wasn't it. It's true though. I'm not down with loving like I've never been hurt. I've been stinkin' hurt, it's going to affect how I choose to love AND it's not going to be like I haven't.

Dance--Like No One Is Watching: bahahahahaaaaahaha. If you are dancing, you better bet somebody is watching. Maybe you should sing and only if no one is listening. That's what I'd do. The dancing--I'm not good at it, never have been, never will be. Here's how I'd repaint that: Dance--If You Can, Pick the songs if you can't.

What would have possessed me to buy that? Was it cheap? Was it the colors? Have I changed into a lesser of a carefree person? I suppose I'll think on that tomorrow as I pick up where I left off in the "Red Light Parade". Don't slam my door on your way out............:)