I just can't take me anywhere.

Yesterday, I ran over to the Soldier's and Sailor's home after picking Kade up from school. I figured, since it was right there, I could take over the packet of info that one of the vets had asked for. No problem, right?

So I walked into the infirmary and headed towards the nurse's station. I didn't want to disturb anyone's nap, so I had to be sure he'd be awake. She said she'd just spoken to him, that he was up and about here somewhere. I walked down to his room, but he wasn't there. So I just left the packet on his bed.

As I walked out of his room, I noticed a door leading straight out to the parking lot. How convenient, right? So Kade and I headed that way and pushed open the door. That's when the alarm sounded. I froze in my tracks, as an eerie "ee ooh ee ooh ee ooh" sound pulsated all around the building. I frantically looked about, setting my eyes on the housekeeper, who rushed our way with a grin on her face.

"I didn't know I couldn't go out this way," I stammered.

"Oh, it's all right. We needed a little excitement, anyway," she said.

I hung my head in embarrassment and shame, as I realized that I had probably disturbed tons of naps and rest time for the vets. I apologized profusely, as she tried to set the alarm, again. But there was a problem. She couldn't get the code to work. So that sound just kept going and going. Finally, an administrator came over and told her the code.

"Yeah, I know. That's what I put in," she said.

Great. I broke it.

"Here, let me try."

He punched in the code and suddenly the alarm stopped. Still, someone could have put a firehose to my face, it was so hot. Totally embarrassed. I apologized again and made my way out of the OTHER side of the building. As we walked along, one of the vets put his hands on the wall, as if he were being arrested.

"You got me! The jig is up! Take me away!" he joked.

This shit only happens to me, I swear.

I'm not your door mat, so quit trying to walk on me.

Lately, I feel like Stretch Armstrong with a thousand people tugging on me at once. At some point, I'm gonna snap. There's only so much I can do. Really, it's all about time. It seems like my time is being focused in various ways. And that's fine. But I need me time. Me time. Time for myself. Time to reflect. More time than it takes to write an entry in this thing. If I don't get me time, I'm going to make YOUR time a living hell. That's just how it is.

So this past weekend, we went to the Illinois Gathering of the Guard. It's nice to see some of the familiar Patriot Guard Riders in a setting that isn't sorrowful. It's nice to be able to sit down, chat, picnic and smile with them. I had a great time. Lo and behold, they awarded Chris with a plaque for all the work he's done. I was shocked and so proud. He is a good man. Plus, we were able to raise around a thousand dollars to help with memorials. That was awesome.

Next weekend, we have something else to go to. I can't remember what it is. Our plate is full, I'm telling you. I don't know whether I'm coming or going. The weekend after that, we're going to Chicago for an awards ceremony where the Governor of Illinois shall declare September 9th, Patriot Guard Day. It'll be amazing.

The weekend after that, Kade's birthday party, which was held off because I don't like to bombard the mothers with birthday invitations the first week of school. Plus, that was the only time we could get the skating rink. The very next day, we are supposed to be in a walk for juvenile diabetes.

Now all that, which I am very happy and grateful to do, mind you, and then I get phone calls from the church. Why haven't we been going? What could be more important than salvation? Well first of all, fuck you. I've been busy honoring dead soldiers and will be walking to help children who suffer from diabetes. What the hell have YOU done lately, church, besides give lessons on how to can goods? Yeah, I said it. I'm giving away my free time for good causes, so no I can't be bothered to attend a church that is only going to tell me how I should conform to some way of life that we all know I am incapable of. Fuck you. I got better things to do. And no, I will not take that calling. No, I will not give lessons. So there.

Do you know my husband works anywhere from 60-80 hours a week and then with all the other work we do besides that, and this church is pissed that we won't do MORE? Oh sure, do more FOR THEM. Help THEM. Get off my back, I'm not prejudiced like that. If I see a person in need, I don't think I should have to care what creed they follow. Besides, the time I have with Chris is already limited. I refuse to limit it more. What really pisses me off is that they just won't take a hint. Chris has already told the missionaries not to come back. Then I have to deal with the church ladies that have nothing better to do than push their way into my time. My time, people. It's getting to the point, where I'm going to have to snap on church ladies. I will rot in hell, but I'll do it gladly, because I can't fucking take anymore time out of my day to deal with this shit and I'm tired of explaining myself. I'm tired period.

For awhile, after I finish my committments, the answer is no. No, I will not help you. No, I will not go to church. No, I'm not doing anymore walks for anyone. No, you cannot rely on me. NO NO NO NO NO NO. The answer is no.

I'm taking me time now.

Celebration

Happy Birthday, Kade!!

I hate stupid people.

Ya know, I don't ask for much. Okay, I do. But when it comes to food, I like eating out. Very rarely do I complain. But it just burns me when I order food to be delivered to my house and they get the order all wrong. Now don't get me wrong, I am the LAST person to talk about bad hearing. But then again, I'M NOT TAKING CALLS!!! So when I order two beef taco meals and one beef chimichanga combo, I expect three meals. Maybe that's just me.

Somehow the lady on the line thought I wanted two tacos and a chimichanga. So that's what she sent. That's great. That feeds the boys, so now what am I supposed to eat? Who orders two tacos to be delivered? Who? That doesn't even make sense! I kid you not, I opened it and there was a whole chimichanga meal, then one little box with two tacos in it. Who does that?! Someone out there must do that, or she wouldn't have gotten confused so easily. Whoever it is that orders two measily tacos to be delivered to their home needs to STOP!

So I wasn't about to starve, so I had the task of calling the restaurant back to correct the order. I hate doing this. I hate complaining, because I know mistakes happen. Not only that but, my brother is a pizza delivery guy. I KNOW the things he does to people's food if they get rude with him. I know better than to be rude. So I called back and politely corrected the order. The lady apologized profusely, then said the third meal would arrive at my home shortly. I was satisfied...

Then she said, "That'll be $8.07"

Uh, what? You got the order wrong and I have to pay for your mistake? Are you kidding me?! Do you want me to tip the delivery guy again, as well, for YOUR mistake?! That should come out of YOUR paycheck. Bitch.

But wait. It gets better.

I kept my mouth shut (because again, don't mess with the people that make your food. Don't ever do it.) and wrote out a check for eight bucks. Sheesh. So the guy comes to the door, I pay him, then settle down to eat my dinner. In the box... are three tacos. That's it. Nothing else. No side salad, no refried beans, no spanish rice. Three tacos. Eight bucks for three tacos. As I look over the ticket in dismay (there's no way I'm calling back to complain a second time) I read the name of the person who called in the order.

"Blacksmith".

My last name is Brocksmith.

My Garbage Disposal

If given the choice between chocolate or fruit, my son would choose fruit almost every time. He begs me to make salads for dinner. He's quite the healthy kid when it comes to choosing foods. Sometimes, though, he goes on these binges. I can't even describe them. It's like he can't enough to eat. One day, he'll be all fruits and veggies and the next day, he's eating an entire family-sized bag of tortilla chips. I don't LET him eat the whole bag. I just didn't catch him doing it, until after he had scarfed it down. Now this is in addition to the normal meals he eats.

The other night, I made porkchops. They were huuuuuge ones. Four of them. Chris ate one, I ate one, and I gave Kade one. So there should have been one left over, but when I went into the kitchen to clean up, I found the fourth one missing.

"I totally ate it," Kade grinned.

The strange thing is that he does this all the time and he hasn't gained any weight for a year. It's like he's stuck at forty-nine pounds. He can't even make it to a solid fifty pounds, yet he out-eats me daily. I know he's really active, I just can't imagine how he manages to burn off all those calories. And you know what? It kind of pisses me off that he can eat an entire bag of tortilla chips in one sitting because, hey, I like chips and salsa too! I'd like to be able to enjoy some!

Lately, he's been trying to be more independent. Wants to draw his own bath, to make his own lunches. And that's fine. I don't mind giving him the freedom to make his own turkey sandwich. But he's going to have to learn that this doesn't mean you get a sandwich and a whole bag of chips, too. Portion control, people.

Sometimes, I worry. There are days when I can't get him to eat anything. Then there are the binging days. Does this mean he has an eating disorder? How the hell did that come about? Should I talk to the doctor? He's not gaining or losing weight or anything. I like giving him freedom and independence, but I might have to start laying down some ground rules. But then again, that scares me too. What if by making rules about food, I will plant some seeds that will lead to an eating disorder?

It just scares the hell out of me, because his best friend weighs 160 pounds. The kid looks like he belongs in eighth grade. He's only eight years old. He's a sweetheart, the doctors can't figure out why he weighs so much. Yes, I know, lots of food goes in and all that, but honestly, Kade can out-eat this kid. That's what scares me. I don't want health problems to develop.

Having Fun

I'm messing around with templates and stuff. Gonna make a new one for a friend, so I'm testing it here. I might change mine, too, but I found that I've grown quite fond of it. I dunno. Anyway, don't really pay attention if things look drastically different with a different title. I'm just monkeying around.

Where has the funny gone?

I haven't been commenting on other's blogs lately. I read them, I just ... I guess I've just been really lazy. I'm going to try to get back into the swing of things. I feel bad about it. I'm kind of in a funk. Do you ever notice that when things are going well for you, that you have trouble thinking of things to write about? Or is that just me? It seems like if something goes wrong, that's when the sarcastic wit button in my brain goes off, consequently making me go off, too. And it's amusing to read, I know. I just can't seem to be funny when I'm happy. It's like I get all stupid and gooberish. Maybe I need to lose another award. That should make me funny again. *snicker*

I'm so moody, though. Chances are if I wait five minutes, I'll be in a miserable enough state as to write something sophomoric and amusing. Let's wait this out, shall we?

***

All right. I'm back. I've found something strange about myself in the time it's taken to write this entry. I've found that I have a weird fetish. When I use my mouse and I find that it's stuck, I get all giddy. And the reason I get all giddy is because it means I have to clean it. Nay. I GET to clean it. Oh joy. I don't know what it is, but I like opening up the mouse and picking all that crap off the rollers. There is definitely something wrong with me. This, I know.

Did anyone else see that episode of Flavor of Love where that girl shat on the floor? The only reason I bring this up is so I can use the word "shat". You don't think it's a real word, do you?

Main Entry: shat

past and past participle of SHIT

Merriam Webster, I feel your pain. I am now addicted to this word.

She shat on the floor.

She shat herself.

She shat all the way up the stairs.

She shat during the elimination ceremony and still managed to NOT get eliminated.

She shat on national tv.

I mean really, who does that?

When English people play pool (billiards), are they all like "Put some english on it!"? Or do they have another term for that? That would be weird. What if they just changed it altogether and said, "Put some Canada on that!" Of course you know, I totally expect Char to answer this one.

Eh, okay. Enough. Sophomoric enough for ya? Meh, we'll try again another day.

Silence Is A Virtue

I have a pet peeve. It's not my own, but one that was handed down to me from my high school English professor. There is a word that people mispronounce on a daily basis. Even the most educated people say it incorrectly. In fact, it is pronounced incorrectly so much so, that most dictionaries nowadays have included the INCORRECT pronunciation.

It's getting to me. Don't get me wrong, I am not a stickler for grammar. My own entries would probably land me in jail with the grammar police for so many sentence fragments. But this one word just jars me everytime I hear it. It's getting to me. I can't not say anything anymore.

The word is "often". OFF EN. Not of-ten. OFFEN. That's how it's pronounced. You wouldn't say sof-ten. You say soffen, when you want to use the word "soften." It's the same with the word "often". The T is silent. IT'S SILENT!!!!!! Stop saying it incorrectly! Stop, people! Stop the madness! You're killing me!

Now, I've got to go. Chris just asked for filet mignons and he totally pronounced the G!!!! What is wrong with people?!

Mickey

I have no rhyme or reason to this, I just feel like talking about Grandma today. I don't know, man. Where do I even begin? This lady, she would wear a mink coat in the dead of summer, because she always wanted one. When she finally got it, she never took it off, not even for ninety degree weather. That's my Grandma.

I think if there ever were real gentlemen and ladies, my Gram would be the epitome of a lady. Well, sometimes. Other times, she might have been a hellion. But when she wasn't raising hell (always for a good cause, I might add) she was a saint. She had the best shoes. I always did envy her shoes. I would try them on and prance around in them until she caught me and made me take them off. She had strappy high heels. Those were great. She had tons of costume jewelry. Sometimes, she would let us get in her jewelry boxes to try them on.

Grandma had treasures in her house. They were treasures to me, anyway. The garden was the best. I would sneak out there to inspect the cherry tomatoes. If they were ripe, I would pick and eat them right off the vines. There was no prewashing in those days. There could have been bug poop on there for all I know, but if it was ripe I totally ate it anyway. I would come in the house and she would ask me, "Where did all my cherry tomatoes go? I know I saw some ripe ones on there today, but when I went out there, they were gone. Did you eat those cherry tomatoes, Ari?"

"No, I did not. Maybe there's a thief."

Somehow, she always caught me. It was only revealed to me later that I had the juice and seeds around my mouth. You don't think to cover your tracks when you're a kid.

She also had a picture of Jesus up above the china cabinet. She would go and stand before it everyday. So I figured, it must be valuable for her to stare at it so. Sometimes, she would whisper. I found that very strange, at first. Then I realized that the painting was magic. Maybe if I listened hard enough, the painting would talk back. I never did hear it talk back, but I always did watch myself around that painting, because you never know. Those eyes were watching.

She also had a deep freezer. In this freezer was a stash of popsicles. Always replenished, we never ran out. It might have had something to do with that Jesus painting. The painting was on the other side of the wall from the freezer. I'm just saying. This was tricky, though. This wasn't a normal freezer. I could open it fine, but it was deep. That meant that I had to brace my stomach on the ledge while I precariously tilted forward to reach down for a popsicle. If I lost my balance, I fell in the freezer. For some reason, Gram thought it hilarious to find me with my legs sticking out the door. Grandma had a way of laughing that let you know she was laughing AT you, not with you. I always felt dumb when I fell in the freezer.

For some reason, Grampa wanted a camper. So he bought one and set it up outside in the driveway. Makes no sense to me, now. It made perfect sense back then. I was forever playing in that thing. One time, I was talking to Gram, who had come outside to enjoy the day by sitting in the camper (weird!!). I backed out with the intention to go play, but I was still facing Grandma, so I ended up falling backwards out of it. I never saw the woman laugh so hard in her life. "You bounced out like one of them basketballs!" Thanks Grandma. That was a blow to the ego. I remember storming away angrily, because she had laughed. I regret that now. Had I seen myself, chances are that I would have laughed, too.

What I regret the most was the time I was about six or seven. I had just learned how to make a star. So I set about making one on anything I could find. I wrote a star in her Bible. She found it and asked who had done that. I lied and said I didn't know. I felt awful about it afterwards. I never did tell her. I think she knew, obviously, no one else was childish enough to do that. Still, I think about that and to this day, I feel so ashamed.

After all is said and done, I loved that woman. I miss her a lot. I tell Kade stories about her, because she died before he was born. He didn't get to meet her, but he seems to like the stories. Those are the memories I cherish. On days like this, when I'm not bogged down by distractions, I like to think back and remember.

Neurotic

Today, I found out that Kade made it in the TAG class at school. It was a complete surprise, instant elation. But sometimes I can't help but wonder if maybe I push him too hard. It only confirmed my suspicion when he expressed his own surprise.

"And just think," he said, "I made it into that class even though I didn't do very well last year."

Bad, Erika, bad. Honestly, I did become concerned last year when he brought home a test with an 89% on it. I overlooked it, thinking maybe he just had a bad day. But then he brought another home with an 80% on it and I freaked out. I demanded a conference with the teacher. She smothered a laugh, tried to reassure me that he was fine. But I freaked out. And he knew it. I wasn't disappointed in him; I made sure to tell him that. I was just disappointed, because it was a test that covered things he already knew. I knew he knew it. But the whole point is that he did do well in second grade. I freaked out over nothing. So when I heard him say that, I was really disappointed in myself.

And now he's in that TAG class. School hasn't even begun, yet I know I'm going to freak out over this class. Part of me (and this is the part that begins with a "C" and ends with an "S") thinks that I should just stand back and let him be a kid. Yes, that's great. I agree. But then my brain starts going into overdrive. What if they start actually challenging him? What if his grades go down? What if his self-esteem starts to plummet? Shouldn't I make sure he stays one step ahead of the game? Shouldn't I prepare him?

And that's not all. This year, he has a pretty teacher. I am fairly confident that I am the only mother that worries over such a thing. But you see, he already unabashedly flirts with the secretary and she's not hot at all. He'll never get any work done, now. You think I'm overdramatizing this, don't you? But you don't know that he asked to add Axe body spray to his list of school supplies. See what I mean? I am going to loathe those teenage years. I can see it already.

Each year it just gets harder. When he was a baby, I declared that he would be home-schooled. No way would I allow a public educational system to taint his existence. No way would I send him to one of those over-priced schools that push religion on him. No way. But then reality set in and he wanted friends. Sigh. Apparently, I'm not the best playmate in the world. Apparently, I hog the playstation too much to allow him ample time to play. Pfffffft, whatever. So I let him go to public school, but I pushed him in a year early just for good measure. We had a good run, until second grade. He became even more social, rushing through his work, so he could have free time to be with the kids. Inevitably, he made more mistakes that way. And now third grade is about to start... and he's taken an interest in girls. At the ripe old age of seven, almost eight.

Maybe that home-schooling idea wasn't so bad afterall. I wouldn't feel the need to push him as much, because there'd be no other kids to compete with. (I really need to stop that behavior. I don't know what is wrong with me, but I do feel that my kid is better than everyone else's. And so does he.) He'd have no one to flirt with. He'd get his work done... But let's face it. We'd end up choking each other to death in sheer frustration. So I guess I'm just going to have to suck it up, face this parenting thing and take each battle as it comes. I need to find a good balance between challenging him mentally, while still letting him be a kid. That's just a little hard to do when this seven year old sadly shakes his head at the Girls Gone Wild commercials and patronizingly declares, "Those girls need to cover their butts." The secretary may very well be right. He IS a little man. He really is.

Close Call

I can name a few close calls in my lifetime. Like the time my uncle ran me over with a mini-bike and my mother thought I was dead. Turns out, I just had a fractured pinkie. Or the time that I did ninety at four in the morning, trying to get to Peoria. How I managed to make it through that road trip alive is amazing. Or the time I fell from a skyscraper into a vat of chocolate pudding. Ok that last one really didn't happen, it was just a dream. But to me, it's still a close call, because hey I woke up and did the whole sigh of relief. The really trying thing is when it happens not to YOU, but to people you love.

So today, I went outside to help Chris load the motorcycle. Now I am all for helping out if I can. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. But no, he was rushing and instead of holding the bike stable while I tied it down, he decided to try and tie it down himself... with NO ONE holding the bike. So when he went to pull the cable, the bike's weight shifted. I saw it all happening in slow motion. The bike was leaning, then it went straight up and over. I'd like to say I stepped in to save the day, but in all honesty I froze and gasped in horror. That fifteen hundred pound bike came crashing down on my husband. Somehow, I guess my little gasp gave him warning and he got out the way (mostly) while simultaneously saving the bike from hitting the ground. Did I mention that the bike was elevated on a trailer? Yeah.

He ended up with a knock in the head from the handlebar (ya know, the spiked ones...) and a bruised side. I'm just glad he's friggin' alive. Scared the hell out of me. The sad thing is that this is the SECOND TIME he's done this. You'd think he'd learn.

Some days, I am five years old.

About a week ago, I fried my power supply. Nice. It wasn't a crappy one, either. I only had it a year. So naturally, I was pretty pissed. Luckily, we have a room dedicated to old computer parts. Actually, it's Chris' office, but he has tons of spare parts in there. He hooked me up with an old power supply so that I could still have computer access. That all sounds fine and dandy, right? Wrong. I can't really run any of my games. Obviously, this wasn't working out.

So when that Dell magazine came in the mail and I realized that Chris had an account with them from work, I put on the smirky face. Sometimes, things happen for a reason. I browsed through that magazine, my eye catching on duo core. OOohhh. Then I saw a quad core. Ooooooooooh! 150 gig hard drive. 250mb video card, Nvidia at that. 13 in 1 media reader. Dvd/cd burner. 2 gigs or ram. 1k power supply. Designed for the sole purpose of running games. Yeah, sigh with me, people.

I kept that page open for when he came home. He took one look and said, "I am not paying two thousand dollars for a computer!!! No one pays that kind of money for a computer!"

I would. I'd pay ten thousand if I got the one I wanted. But I guess I'm in the minority. Especially when I know he could build one for a thousand. But that's beside the point. I wanted THIS one. He can't build this. So we talked about it. He showed me a different one that I didn't want. Said it was more reasonable. But I didn't want that one.

The next day, I did some research. I found a quad core with a really nice case and all the above specs, but it also came with a liquid cooling system for a thousand. Great bargain, right? I got all excited, because I was saving money and getting a badass system. Unbeknownst to me, husband had already ordered the Dell that I didn't want. Less than a 24 span here, people. So I ask him if he can cancel the order. We went online, but as it turns out, Dell has REALLY great customer service. It was already on its way to our house.

I will be the first to admit that I am not perfect. I know I have faults. I won't even pretend that I am above anyone else, because I know I'm not. So when I found out that I wasn't getting what I wanted... I pouted. I won't make excuses for that. I did. I pouted. I even pondered refusing the shipment and getting a job so I could pay for it on my own. I might have even talked to a few people about a job. See, this is the thing. I always get what I want. The reason I always get what I want, is that I have no problem working for it. I can have all the patience in the world, if I know that at the end, I will get what I want.

But then I started thinking... how bad could this Dell be, anyway? It's still vastly superior to what I have. The Dell came. I accepted it. For the past day and a half, I've been transferring data from one computer to the next. I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE this computer. It's soooooo fast. And it's still a duo core, so I sort of got what I wanted. And in the end, I think I just might take a job anyway. That way, I can save up money for the next thing I want. (The liquid cooling system.) And not have to do that whole pouting thing. Because let's face it, that's so not attractive and mature.

So it all worked out in the end.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Chuck!!

Let's Talk About Sex

Oh, come on. You knew I'd get to this eventually. I'm only surprised I haven't spoken up about this before. At the start of my day, my Chris called to tell me he needed clean socks. Clean socks, he says, I could do that. The key word is could. Maybe he forgot who he was talking to. So of course, I waited until the very last minute before he came home to start it. I cleaned the house, hemming and hawwing about, cleaning anything that wasn't laundry. That's when I realized... it's Tuesday.

The rest of the world maybe waits until Wednesday, it being hump day and all. But not Chris, because he is too impatient. So Tuesdays it is. So I cleaned the house for nothing. Because on Tuesdays, he would never notice anyway. He only has one thing on his mind. Do you know how much energy I spent cleaning and procrastinating on laundry?! And now it's Tuesday?! At this point, I was fatigued.

He was pretty forlorn. With the puppy dogs eyes and everything. I'm a sucker for that. It all plays into my ego. So naturally, I started negotiating. I can't do everything at once. If I'm going to get all that laundry done, we'd have to be quick. He doesn't understand the meaning of that word. So I told him, clean socks or sex. This is the point where the gears of his brain started grinding together read hard as he actually pretended to consider the options. And I knew exactly what he was thinking. His slacks go down to there, his work boots go up to here... No one will notice if he's not wearing socks.

Needless to say, it's two-thirty in the morning and my laundry still isn't done. Who needs socks, anyway?