The hazards of getting dressed for work when you stay at home

This week, I am celebrating my 11-year anniversary as a stay-at-home mom. This has been the best job I could ever have hoped for. However, to commemorate this momentous occasion, I also want to point out one of the perils of going to work at home.

When I first started staying home more than a decade ago, it was difficult to motivate myself to get up and get ready in the morning when I had no where to go. Many times, I wouldn't even take a shower until right before my husband came home from work.

I have come full circle since then. Now, I know that I will feel better about myself if I get up and put on clothes that I like even if I don't have any plans to leave the house. I even complete my daily outfit with accessories, such as a necklace or a scarf.

But this can also lead to some significant dangers on the job. 

Take for example, the long necklace. Now, we all know it's stylish to wear a long necklace. But look what can happen when you attempt to cook dinner! There is nothing worse — nothing! — than raw chicken on your long necklace!

Then, there is the fashion scarf. It is cute. It's stylish. But it is not a practical look for cleaning any part of the house that involves bleach. Just imagine what can happen when the long scarf meets cleaning the toilet. (It gives me shivers just to think about it.)

Finally, there's the cape. I love my comfy cape with the long, dangly fringe. But I cannot even tell you how many times I have nearly burst into flames trying to bake while wearing the cape. Just imagine the danger of pulling a pan of cookies out of the oven while wearing the long cape!

So, I admit, it is crazy to subject myself to this kind of danger on a daily basis. But I have to say it's worth it. When I lounge around in my PJs all day, I get grumpy. It's better to get up, get dressed, go to work and just try my best to survive the accessories!

What about you? Do you like to lounge around if you are going to work at home? Or do you prefer to get dressed for the day?

I'm wearing red on the inside

A couple of years ago, it was Cubs-White Sox night at Awana. Since I'm the one who buys clothes for everyone in this house, the kids didn't have a stitch of sports-related clothing in their closets.

I called my husband from a last-minute clothing search at Wal-Mart a couple of hours before it was time to go: "Honey, are we for the Cubs or the White Sox?"

"The Cardinals," he replied.

You see, my husband and I are both born and raised in southern Illinois. Down there, if you talk about baseball, you are either for the Cardinals or the Cubs. If you choose the Cubs, everyone hates you, but at least you do have that as a choice.

So, I have been a Cardinals fan as long as I can remember. Well, that's a Cardinals fan in my own little, "I don't care about baseball and could you please turn the radio station to some music" type of way.

Even though St. Louis proper is just past the border of Illinois, I think people in southern Illinois feel more like they can relate to that city than what's happening in big ol' Chi-ca-go, a million miles away. To us, even though St. Louis was a two-hour drive, it was one of the closest shopping malls to my home. My whole family would pile in the station wagon and drive over there for an entire day of shopping and dinner out at The Spaghetti Factory.

This might not make sense to some of my suburban readers who think that when I'm talking about southern Illinois I mean Joliet or DeKalb or Rock Island. Those are very much in the northern part of the state. And, I regret to inform you that even Peoria, Champaign and Bloomington still don't make it past the halfway point of our long state. I am actually talking about places and events that happen in SOUTHERN Illinois.

It's there. Trust me.

Anyway... Back to baseball.

My husband has always been a huge Cardinals fan, but up here, you kind of have to practice your allegiance in private since you are so surrounded by St. Louis haters. There just aren't a lot of people who want to come over to watch a Cardinals game on TV. And I do believe he has been boo-ed a time or two for wearing his redbird hat out in public.

But during the last couple of years, we have become good friends with a family from St. Louis. They have three boys who are great friends with our boys. So, our two families have developed a bond around our love for the Cardinals.

When it became apparent the Cardinals were on their way to the World Series, I couldn't look away any longer. I decided to join in on the fun. I had to stop thinking about my iPhone and necklaces and Photoshop tricks for a while and focus my brain on sports.

I have to tell you there have been some DRAMATIC changes in my lifestyle during the last few weeks. For example:

• Last week, my husband was not home, and for the first time in my life, I willingly turned on the TV to watch a sporting event.
• On another day, I missed the game. The first thing I did the next morning was check the score. (I can't believe I just said, "I checked the score.") hee hee hee.
• I have learned to recognize the players. I can now match up their names to their faces and the positions they play on the field.
• I even know some facts about the players and have been known to spout them off while we're watching a game.
• But the most amazing feat yet came during Game 6. My husband got discourage after the 5th inning and went to bed. I stayed up until midnight, watching that unbelievable 11-inning game! I even posted about it on Facebook like real sports fans do! (You have to know how much sleep I require on a nightly basis to fully grasp the magnitude of this last statement.)

However, there has been one thing I have not been able to bring myself to do to support My Cardinals. I simply can't wear red.

I'm sorry, redbirds.

I don't look good in red. When I wear red, people always ask me if I'm feeling OK. Before I diagnosed myself with a red-wearing disorder, I was known to have to go home in the middle of the day and change clothes because I wasn't feeling "quite right."

I don't even like to stand in a red room or next to a red wall. With my pale, splotchy skin, I look like a corpse with chicken pox.

I'm not able to get all dressed up in my Cardinals gear today to support the World Series Champs. I'll have to do that in a cute, comfy sweater in a neutral tone and possibly a coordinating scarf. But believe me, people, I'm Cardinals through and through. I'm wearing red on the inside.

My new frenemy

I was really a little surprised when I got up today and found it was pretty much like any other day. I had expected more of a change. A transformation even. Surely my life would be radically different.

I mean yesterday was the day I had been waiting on for months. It was around 10:29 a.m. when we heard a knock at the door. We all leaped from our seats and ran to make sure she didn't leave. The FedEx lady handed me the package, and I gave her my signature.

I was afraid to even open the box for the first few hours. I knew the excitement would be too much for us to concentrate on school. So there it sat. All wrapped up in its cute little white box just waiting to work its magic.

I had already been thinking of how I would use Facetime. I was imagining who I could iMessage. Oh, and the Reminders. Those were going to be amazing.

But in reality, not much had changed when I rolled out of bed this morning for my first full day with my new 4S. I synched her up, and my day started out like any ordinary day. I checked my e-mail. I checked Facebook. I texted a few people.

By the afternoon, I even used the phone feature.

I started playing around. All my apps were there. My music was there. But there was one button I was determined I would never tap. I had heard enough about Siri to bring back nightmares of that love-hate relationship I once had with my GPS. I have accepted the fact I simply have an unhealthy fear of automated voices telling me what to do.

I remembered how irritated I used to get when Richard, my GPS voice, would start shouting at me to make a U-Turn when I was simply trying to pull off the highway to get gas. I know my way around my own neighborhood so I would about lose it when he would tell me to turn left and take the long way out of the subdivision. And I can't even tell you how many times I almost veered into a line of semi-tractor trailers because Richard insisted that I "GET IN THE RIGHT LANE."

I admit it. I was afraid of Siri.

So, I guess that's what finally did it for me. I just felt I needed to conquer my fear. And what better time to do it than when I was browning hamburger meat and holding a cranky toddler on my hip. I needed to get my 9-year-old home for dinner.

I held down the center button and told Siri to text. I was nervous, yes. But I gave her my message plain and clear. Then she said, "Are you ready to send your message?"

Being the control freak I am, I couldn't help it. I reached up and tapped the send option myself.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I told her. Could she hear me? What would she say?

I fully expected her to lash out at me or to tell me to make a U-Turn. Her screen didn't change. She seemed fine. No big deal. Whew.

My confidence was growing. "Add So-and-So to my contacts," I said.

"I'm not allowed to complete that request."

What? Not allowed? Hmmm. I could sense her passive aggressive attitude. I would show her who is boss.

"What can Siri do?" I asked.

She displayed a long, and I must say, impressive list of her functions. She could text someone. Call someone. Play a song. Search the Internet. Check the weather. Remind me of stuff. Set an alarm. And the list goes on.

I decided to give her a test.

"What's the weather?"

"Play Jamie Grace."

Not only did she do what I asked, she added on a few cheerful remarks, like "Let's hear some 'Hold Me'," or "The weather isn't looking so great this week."

I couldn't believe it. Maybe she likes me!

And you know what... I was starting to like my personal assistant. You might even call her My Office Manager. Except it just seemed so stereotypical. Why did Siri have to be a woman? If I was going to have an assistant, I think it would be nice to have a man to boss around.

So, I asked her how to change her voice. I went through about 20 voices with my GPS before I settled on Richard. She didn't know the answer (or so she said) so I had to figure it out on my own. I finally discovered that I couldn't change her voice, but I could change her nationality.

I decided to make her English (Australian). Now that sounded much better. Her voice wasn't as choppy and uptight with that nice Australian accent.

Only one problem. I asked her the weather and she gave me the weather in Sydney, Australia. I asked her to search for something and she said she couldn't understand me. I tried to convince myself that just because SHE was from Australia that didn't mean she could only understand me if I was from Australia!

Just because she was speaking English (Australian) didn't mean she couldn't understand what I was saying when I spoke English (perfect Midwestern United States of American with a slight southern drawl).

I asked her to "Show me Popeye," and she responded with "Show me Papa?" I asked her "Where is Olive Oyl?" and she responded with "Redial by?"

I wished I could set her voice to Swedish Chef or Yoda or Southern.... something — ANYTHING — I might be able to better communicate with. But no. I wasn't going to dare try Spanish or French. English (Australian) seemed like my best bet.

So, we'll see what happens tomorrow.

Hopefully, it's all just a fluke. If not, maybe she'll be able to understand me all the way over in Australia. Or maybe I will be able to perfect my Australian accent by then.

I'm hoping I didn't irk her enough already. With my luck, she'll probably turn her alarm on for 5 a.m. and set it to shout, "Turn right! Turn right!"

My extreme workout revealed

I've had several people ask me lately about my workout routine. I know a lot of people are into P90X right now. I have friends training for marathons or 10Ks. Others do spin class, boot camp or other types of extreme workout classes with fancy names.

Me? I'm more of a runner. I have been sticking with the same routine for the past 10 years or so and it has really been working well for me.

Basically, the way it works is that every so often, I decide to strap on my running shoes and go out for a 1-mile run. This typically happens about once every two years (give or take six months or so). That is why I named it My Biannual Run. This should not be confused with a semi-annual run, which would be a 1-mile run twice a year. This is once every two years, so you really have to stay on top of your calendar.

Now, I run about a 14-minute mile, so it's really a sight to see if I come jogging down the sidewalk. "Jogging" isn't really the right word, but I have been looking through the Thesaurus and I'm not sure there's a word in the English language that really describes what I do. It's not really an "amble." "Meander" doesn't work, or "mosey." "Stroll" isn't quite right or "toddle." "Sashay" is close, only because there is a bit of a swing to it.

So, the entire time I am sashaying my one-mile run, I am thinking about how I am going to continue doing this more than once every two years. I think about doing it three times a week. I decide I am going to work my way up to three miles and then six.

The problem is that with a workout routine like mine, all conditions have to be perfect before I can set out on My Biannual Run.

• I have to check with all of my runner friends who live in or near my neighborhood to find out when and where they run and then I have to completely avoid those routes. There is nothing more discouraging than being passed by someone you know. Trust me.
• I have to run when it's starting to get dark outside, but not totally dark. This is so people don't stop and stare at me when I'm running. When you run a 14-minute mile, people tend to roll down their windows and ask if you need help. They aren't sure if you are ill or maybe you are trying to run from something. I don't like to cause people to worry.
• At the same time, it can't be too dark because of the tripping factor. I can't even tell you how many times I have had to run the last half mile with bloody knees because I tripped on the sidewalk.
• Finally, I can't be hungry. But I don't want to eat too close to the run. I could get a side ache, which could cause me to have to walk.

So, to find all of these conditions lining up at exactly the same time is difficult. In fact, it only happens about once every two years. But let me tell you. When it does. I am ready.

That's basically the key to my whole workout. Just stay ready. Have cute jogging clothes on hand and be prepared to put them on at a moment's notice. And when the workout is done, you can take a deep breath because a moment like that probably won't come around again for a while.

My year, according to Facebook

I compiled my favorite Facebook status updates of 2010. Here are the top 24. (That's two a month, you know.)

1. Jayda: "ga-ga-ga-ga" Translation: "So many pieces of furniture to spit up on, so little time."

2. I'm not sure how I'm going to tell my imaginary personal trainer on Wii Active that I haven't been showing up to jog in place on her fake track because I'm too busy dancing with my imaginary friends on Wii Just Dance. I think I'm getting more of a workout, too.

3. I'm wondering how the "French bread" I made for dinner is going to taste, since I just read the package and found out it was a roll of refrigerated pizza crust dough.

4. I'm thinking about going on my biannual run. I try to run one mile once every two years. It's a rigorous schedule so I want to make sure I'm mentally prepared before I just jump in.

5. Three children in awana. Spent the evening at awards ceremony. One out of the 3 actually made it all the way home with the award.

6. Matthew just asked me when I was a kid how old I had to be to have an iPod. :)

7. I love how the first born wants to make sure he completely understands the rules. The second born tries his best to break the rules. And the third born is like, "Oh, I didn't know there were rules!"

8. I love my 9-year-old. I asked him the difference between famous and obscure. Famous: "Barack Obama." Obscure: "A kid named Toto Baggypants who lived in Africa and only had nine friends."

9.The kids found a centipede in our house so they used the scissors to cut it into three pieces. When it was STILL moving, they suggested we put it on Facebook, my blog AND my iPod... "That would really froke people out," according to Alayna. (Froke is the past tense of freak, in case you didn't know.)

10. just discovered the best way to do laundry: "One load at a time." (If anyone wants to quote me on this amazing statement, please feel free. I'm sure it will be a famous quote someday. hahahaha.)

11. deep thoughts from a 9-year-old: "When Tiger Woods was good, it seemed like he was really good. But when he's not good, you find out his true character... I get tired of seeing his tantrums."

12. Alayna has an empty water bottle and she wants to know if she can use it for a "Skittles" bottle. Her plan is to go around the neighborhood and ask people if they have any leftover Skittles.

13. The 7 year old just came downstairs wearing swimming trunks, a firefighter jacket and carrying an Indiana Jones whip. Sometimes, I don't bother to ask why.

14. Quotes of the day: "WHEN is tomorrow?" ... and you can't let your toothbrush touch someone else's toothbrush because "you might get diabetes!!"

15. Hmmm... Not sure about certain little boys who beg me to go down the tube slide with them because my extreme weight will increase their speed, then to thank me they jump off at the end and make me flip into the water! Fun times!

16. Perspective is a great thing. Funny how when we had one child it seemed like we had our hands full. But now that we have four, and three are at a sleep-over, it seems totally quiet with one.

17. Quote of the week: Matthew: "So what's that smell at So-and-So's house?" Andrew: "I think it's... clean-ness." (Because, clearly, it's not a smell they are used to!)

18. Uncle! I've reached my limit. Just did the "emergency" load of laundry so we would have clothes for soccer tomorrow. The washing machine was on the spin cycle when I noticed the clothes still sitting on the floor. The load of water should be nice and clean.

19. Kent and I have been married for 13 years. He just said to me: "It's been the best 10 years of my life." Oh well... at least we make each other laugh!

20. We are studying biology this year, and we have read three different books recently with sections about the sea cucumber. When it is threatened, it protects itself by expelling its intestines. Another fish likes to live inside the cucumber and sometimes eats its insides. When we opened our book today and saw another setion on the sea cucumber, Alayna said, "Oh no! Not that pickle again!"

21. I love it when the kids, including their friends, all come inside for hot chocolate after playing outside since the crack of dawn, they take off their snowsuits and realize they are still wearing PJs. So funny!

22. iPad.

23. I solved the rubik's cube.

24. The zoo lights really put me in the Christmas spirit. I'm ready to get out the Christmas tree! Visiting the zoo in December inspired me to write this poem: At the zoo. In the Winter. No crowds. No animals.

I need to know... I really do!

This question is for the both of you... as in ALL of my blog readers. I really need to know what you think.

A friend the other day said she was debating between asking her husband for one of these two Christmas gifts:

1. a Keurig coffee maker or

2. a pair of Ugg boots.

This was a tough one. Well, it was tough for her, but quite obvious to me.

Despite my love for all things boot, I just don't get the Ugg. I think it's the name. I'm sure that Ugg means "beautiful foot" in Scandinavian or Swedish or whatever far off land where the boot is manufactured. But in English, I feel that Ugg is a good description of the boot or house shoe or whatever the heck that thing is.

However, my friend has amazingly good taste in clothing so I know I must be totally clueless about this foot fashion with the horrible name that is worth more than $100. Worth the price of the wonderful, life-changing Keurig hot-beverage brewing machine. The machine that turns itself on and begins heating your hot water and is ready at a moment's notice to serve any hot beverage you would like at the perfect temperature. Absolutely perfect temperature. Not one degree too hot or cold.

So, I would love it if all of you would enlighten me on the Ugg. I have several friends who are saving all the pennies in their piggy bank to get a pair of these, so I know it has to be ME who is out of touch.

I do have two other very important questions.

If you were going somewhere and wearing open-toed shoes and you were running late, but you had not eaten breakfast yet and you realized that your toe nails were NOT painted, would you:

a. paint your toe nails and skip breakfast?

b. eat breakfast and go out with naked toe nails?

And finally, if you were choosing a football team to support throughout your life and your support of this team required you to attend games, dress in team sweatshirts and possibly even paint your face, would you:

1. choose the team based on the college you attended, team standings or your love for a certain state?

2. choose the team based on the team colors that best match your complexion and would fit in best with the majority of sweaters in your wardrobe?

I'm sure you have no idea what my answers to these questions would be. However, I thought this would be a really nice bonding experience if the three of us could share on this topic.

Oh, and does anyone know of a football team with jerseys in a nice olive green and brown? Something that would go with tall brown boots?

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Blackberry or iPhone?

For the past few years, my husband has had a Blackberry for work. A few months ago, he bought me an iPhone.

We have been amazed at the differences between these two very similar communication devices.

For example, with the Blackberry, CapableDad feels like he must always be in touch. People can reach him anytime, day or night and even on the weekends. To him, the Blackberry is like a ball and chain.

With the iPhone, on the other hand, I feel like I can always be in touch. I don't have to worry about missing a message anytime, day or night and even on the weekends. To me, the iPhone gives me great freedom.

With the Blackberry, CapableDad dreads its ringing to alert him of a phone call or the buzz of another e-mail. He feels like he has to respond immediately.

On the other hand, with the iPhone, I love the ringing to alert me of a phone call or the buzz of another e-mail. I love the fact I can respond immediately.

When we are on a trip, CapableDad can never escape knowing what is going on back at the office because of his Blackberry. He is aware of all of the latest news.

With the iPhone, when we are on a trip, I don't ever have to wonder what is going on back home with my friends and family. I'm always aware of all of the latest news.

So, clearly, it's plain to see that the iPhone is FAR superior to the Blackberry.

What do you think? Do you have either an iPhone or a Blackberry? Which one do you prefer? Or maybe I should ask: Are you more like CapableDad or more like me?

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It's alive

There's something I've been meaning to tell you all for a while now. I've been keeping it a secret because I wasn't sure how it would affect our imaginary relationship.

You see. When I was in the third grade, I developed this strange belief that everything had life. Straws. Napkins. Milk cartons. Candy wrappers.

I pretended to collect these things for a perfectly good reason. Ummm. Because every third-grade girl needs her own collection of candy bar wrappers? Because I was making a pretend telephone by stretching drinking straws out the window to the neighbor's house?

Afraid to discard any of these objects and hurt their feelings, I stuffed them in my desk at school. I pushed them behind my dresser in my room. I piled them under my bed. All of this continued until my usually mild-mannered third-grade teacher had enough of my messy desk.

She dumped it. That's right. She tilted my desk on its side and dumped out all of the contents to reveal to the entire class a mountain of used straws, napkins and other paper goods. Clearly, she did not share my belief that any of these items had life.

And I have decided to finally come clean with this story to ask you this: Do I seem like a good candidate to own a batch of Friendship Bread starter?

My rational side is very excited on Day 7 that I am a few days away from baking my first loaf of Friendship Bread and slicing into its warm goodness.

But I have to admit that when my friend handed over the bag of starter, my former wrapper-collecting self was trying to hide a little panic. What if I failed to divide and then pass on the starter?

I mean, most of the plants in this household are down to only one green leaf. The dirty clothes are piled 3-feet high above the rims of the laundry baskets. I haven't mopped the kitchen floor in more than a month. I'm not exactly keeping up with things over here.

If I didn't pass on the starter, would I be subjected to seven years of bad luck?

My mind started racing. We love bread. So, I could just keep the bags of starter and make more bread. And more. And more.

I was practicing my math facts as fast as my sleep-deprived brain could multiply. Four bags of starter times 4 would make 16 bags. Sixteen times four is 64. Sixty-four times 4 is 256. Oh man. This stuff is multiplying faster than a family of bunnies in my flowerbed.

I'm going to have so many bags of starter on my counter, I might have to give them names. But the alternative was unthinkable: Throw them away?

At first, that option didn't sound so bad. But that was before I reached Day 6 and added the cup of milk, flour and sugar.

Just mushing the bag for a few minutes a day up until that point seemed simple enough. I could remember that. But once I put in the extra ingredients, I had no doubt this bag of stuff on my counter was in fact alive.

It was gurgling. It was churning in there. I had to open the top a little to release its gas. I am 90 percent sure that I did indeed hear it hiss. I kid you not.

I asked my friends on Facebook if it was really safe to leave a mixture containing milk sitting out on my counter for days. And then adding more milk and dividing it to give to my "friends". Was this a secret plot to use a so-called Amish tradition to annihilate the human race? Had I become nothing more than a pawn in a foreign nation's trick to use food poisoning to knock out American households one by one in the name of friendship?

I was shocked at the wide-ranging opinions that were coming in. Apparently, people have VERY strong feelings about Friendship Bread. It is either something to be loved, cared for and doused with chocolate chips. Or it is a gift to be loaved... I mean loathed.

One thing was for sure. It is not something to take lightly, like Facebook, where you go around befriending every person you vaguely recall from high school or your waitressing job in college. Before you pass along Friendship Bread starter, you better know your friend and be darned sure she isn't going to toss that bag of fermenting goo in the garbage while cursing your name as you leave the house.

I'm not sure where I stand on Friendship Bread at this point. I have been wanting to start baking my own bread so I'm hoping I will like it, despite my reservations about unknown numbers of strangers who have added their portions of milk, flour and sugar to the bag that now lives in my kitchen.

But, I'm not sure what I will do with all of the starter it creates. At some point, my counter top will be too full to collect any more starter and I will have to make the awful choice of whether to risk a friendship by passing it on, or be haunted by its gaseous groan if I throw it in the garbage.

One thing is for sure. My bread is scheduled to rise in the oven on Easter Sunday. And really? How can that be a coincidence?

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My day at preschool aka, could we get a little more glue over here?

As promised, it's finally time for me to tell you about my experience going to preschool with my daughter.

I must admit that I sometimes get a little nervous when I'm around little kids or dogs. When I was a little kid, I had a bad experience with a dog and I think it traumatized me for life. When I was a little kid, I also had a bad experience with a little kid, and well, I've been afraid of little kids ever since.

I also was scared I would stick out in the preschool class given the fact that I'm at least 2.5 feet taller than all the other kids, I no longer own any Mary Janes, and I will never again wear leggings during this lifetime outside the privacy of my own home.

But fortunately, I had my brave, self-confident preschooler to guide me through the long hallway to the preschool class and tell me what to do.

We got to class with our big piece of posterboard and despite the fact the class had a substitute teacher that day, she immediately knew I was THE Mom.

We washed our hands and when I wasn't looking, my daughter correctly spotted our last name on a magnet on the chalkboard and placed it under her emotion for the day. The kids have just started recognizing their last names, rather than their first.

I looked up to see she had placed us on Excited, and that made me feel very Happy. But we only had one last name magnet, so I decided it was best for me to feel Excited, too.

As we were hanging up our coats, one of the boys announced that Aidan* was wearing sandals.

"But we won't be going outside today so his socks won't get wet," the boy said in a very loud voice.

I looked around to find the culprit. Sure enough. There was a little boy wearing socks with sandals. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt that he must be having an allergic reaction to his tennis shoes or perhaps he had a sweaty foot problem. But then I remembered all of the times my boys insisted on wearing socks with their sandals in preschool and realized he might not have grown out of his strong-willed toddler years just yet.

Soon, it was time for our circle time. My daughter and I excitedly walked to the corner of the room and excitedly sat down on a little plaid sofa while all of the other kids sat in a circle on the floor in front of us.

The Substitute told the children that she was recovering from a case of laryngitis. She asked all of the children to say the word laryngitis, and amazingly, they all said it perfectly. Her doctor had instructed her to speak very softly, she said, so the kids would need to be very quiet and listen carefully to her speak.

I had a sneaking suspicion she was making this up. But whatever the case, I thought it was an excellent story, and one I planned to use in home school instead of my usual tactic of using my harsh, mean voice when my boys were running around during math time.

It was time for us to explain the photos on the "All About Me" poster we had so lovingly and painstakingly made together. My daughter immediately skipped to the middle photo on the bottom row and explained that this was the one in which she and her brothers are dressed like INDIANS! Then, she was done.

My thoughts were racing: What about all of the other photos?!? What about your baby picutre?!? What about our fabulous trip to Rio de Janeiro?!? And what about DisneyLand?!? And haven't I told you a hundred times to say NATIVE AMERICANS?!?

But then I remembered that kids don't even develop a memory until they are about 4 years old, so how could she possibly be expected to recite the details of more than half of the photos. I guided her through the explanations we had rehearsed of the other photos and was relieved to be done with our presentation.

"We usually have questions," the teacher's aide said.

Oh.

The hands shot up and I have to say that my daughter handled herself like she was the press secretary at a news conference.

"Yes, Olivia," she said, pointing at a blond girl to the left.

"What is your favorite color?"

Whew! An easy one. As if the pink posterboard and the purple outfit weren't a dead giveaway.

My daughter scanned the children.

"Yes. Ally?"

"What is your favorite fruit?"

"Strawberries," she answered calmly.

WHY didn't I THINK of putting a strawberry sticker on the poster?!?

Finally, we had time for one more question from Aidan.

"What is you favo-ite yo-ga?"

"Excuse me," I asked, hoping the kid wasn't inquiring about her favorite Yoga move.

"Yo-gut?"

Yo-gut?

"Yogurt?" Yes, that was it. "What is your favorite yogurt?"

"Vanilla," my daughter calmly answered, which I thought was really good since the true answer is: "Well, I love strawberry and blueberry yogurt, but my mom is so cheap she will only buy the big jumbo container of vanilla."

Next, it was time for everyone to bring out a secret item from their backpack for the letter of the day, R.

All of the girls brought rabbits and all of the boys brought racecars, except for one very creative little boy who brought a Red Robot. Oh, and Aidan. He brought a rocket. The same little boy who had called him on the sandals also argued that his vehicle wasn't a rocket at all.

The teachers and I looked at the blaster on the back and defended him, "Oh, yes. It's a rocket." But inside, I think we all had the same thought: "That thing is totally a hovercraft."

OK... It was finally time for us to go to our first station. This is where we had to color pictures of various weather conditions and draw a line connecting them to a child playing outside in the same type of weather. We got ours done in no time and carefully colored our pictures using identical color choices.

We then spent the next five minutes trying to convince a little boy that although it can be windy in winter, the picture of the wind would best go with the kid flying a kite, rather than the picture of a girl playing in the snow. "But I already used that one," he kept telling us as we tried to convince him to change his line. We finally gave up and left the teacher's aide to argue with him.

Next, we went to the other station where we had to use squares of various sizes and colors to create a mosaic-type picture. The teacher said only three children could work at this station at once because the class only had three glue sticks left.

To say they even had three glue sticks was a bit of an exaggeration, since all that was left was a tiny bit of blue glue stuck to the very top of the inside twisty part.

Without thinking, I said, "Boy, honey, I think we should have brought some glue sticks to school today."

"Oh, the glue sticks will be arriving this afternoon!" The Substitute reassured me. I'm sure she was afraid I might be thinking: "With the hundreds of dollars I spend each month on tuition, you people can't even afford GLUE STICKS?!?", but I wasn't thinking that at all. Nope. Not even for one second.

(I might have been thinking, "Yeah, and you have laryngitis, too," but I wasn't. I just thought that would be kind of funny to write.)

Finally, it was time to have some free play. We joined a table where we got to build with some little blocks that were sort of like Legos, but not Legos because they were nearly impossible to get the tiny bricks apart. All of the kids were building tall towers with their bricks. And one little girl showed me a secret trick to pull them apart.

I decided this would be a good time to use my years of training as a Toy Lady and suggested we build our towers in patterns. Then, I realized we COULD put the bricks together in directions other than UP.

I built a little base for mine and then started placing the bricks in alternating directions.

"What IS that?!?" one of the kids asked. Soon, a few more kids had gathered around to see the square tower I had created.

I decided to try something more complicated and built a rainbow, then a frog. Nearly the whole class had now gathered around us.

"Can I play with that?!"

"Will you build one for me?!" kids asked. Soon, I was whipping out brick structures faster than a balloon-sculpting artist at a kids' carnival.

Despite my tall stature and my lack of fashion, I was becoming popular!** Now, I WAS excited! I wondered if all of the other moms were this popular when they visited, and I decided that they probably were. It was finally time for me to go, and I have to say that I wished I could come back another day.

But it was time for home school. And time for me to use a few of the phrases I had learned that morning in preschool, which means that I learned a few things myself in the land of 4- and 5-year-olds.

* The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent.

** If you were able to make it through all of my sarcasm, then I thank you very much for reading.




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You don't know Jacques

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you already know I have a thing about the names of nail polish color.

I love OPI. I love all the creative names they make up for their colors.

My real interest in the names of polish started a few years ago when I chose a color called, "My Private Jet" for a pedicure and then ended up earning an unbelievable get-away on a private jet that same month.

So, when I went for a pedicure in January, I promised myself that I would let the nail specialists at the same day spa choose my color. They were the ones who convinced me of "My Private Jet" the year before.

I loved the color they chose for me. But I was perplexed by the name: "You Don't Know Jacques"?

How could that possibly bode well for the year to come? Why not "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" or "You Look Fantastic in a New Minivan".

I was putting on the nail color this week and suddenly it all made sense.

They were right back in January. They predicted what I didn't even know yet.

Pregnancy brain.

You don't know Jacques.

I really don't.

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How does a little whine sound?

As of today, I have exactly three months until Baby Girl will enter the world. Ah. The beauty of a scheduled C-Section.

I want to write something really sweet about how much we can't wait to meet our new family member. And I also want to write something funny about how the kids try to yell messages to the baby through my belly button and then try to line up their ears directly over the belly button to hear the answer.

But first... I was wondering if you all would like to hear me whine?

I mean, really?? What is more pleasant than hearing a pregnant woman whine continuously about all of her aches and pains? You are dying to hear it, aren't you?

You do have to admit, that the last trimester of pregnancy is filled with some of the most unmentionable bodily malfunctions that women experience in the first to middle half of life. Fortunately, I had forgotten about some of these horrifying aches, or I would have spent at least ten times as much time dreading month #7 as I have up until now.

And the problem is, you really can't just mention in casual conversation that all of the muscles in the lower half of your body feel like they are being pulled apart by a giant torturing device. It's just not socially acceptable.

Even when my midwife asks me how I'm doing, I still smile and tell her everything is perfect.

"You are way easier than... um... most of my patients," she stresses over and over again in such a tone that I wish she would go ahead and add "most of my NORMAL 25-YEAR-OLD patients who aren't old enough to be a GRANDMA, AND IT'S A MIRACLE YOU CAN EVEN GET OUT OF BED!"

So, I was thinking that maybe once a week or so, I could just set aside a time here on the blog when I could write down all that's hurtin' me. And then you readers would know in advance just to skip reading that whole post and go straight to the comments and say something like, "Hope you're feelin' better today."

And then I would believe for a few minutes that someone actually cares that I have to wake up every time I want to flip over in bed because my stomach is so heavy, except that I'm awake anyway to go to the bathroom, and then I would feel better because of all of the sympathy.

Whaddaya think?

(Smile and nod. Smile and nod.)

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pioneer-less woman

While I was off learning how to be a home school mom this weekend, my husband decided to take the kids to visit his relatives in southern Illinois.

Being the extremely supportive bloggy husband that he is, he had the excellent idea that maybe if he took a bunch of photos of cows while visiting his grandparent's farm, that it would significantly increase my blog traffic.

He's no blogging dummy. He reads Pioneer Woman. And he knows what a few hundred cow photos will do for readership.



So, we thought that if I just interjected some "photos from the ranch" (or at least the small family farm) into my regular writing, it might help.

I'm thinking that my traffic will probably jump at least a thousand fold when you see these photos. (Or, if not, that hopefully none of my current readers will unsubscribe, like someone did a few weeks ago, sending me into a depression for several days.)



So, here is the story of our life.

My name is Em. Welcome to my frontier.


You see, I grew up in a small town in southern Illinois where we spent our weekends dragging Main and hanging out at McDonald's, the only fast food restaurant in town. It was a perfect life, but as I grew older, I went away to college with the hopes of never living there again.

Years later, I started dating a boy from high school. We fell in love. Got married. And moved to the suburbs of Chicago to live our dream. (Actually, we promised to stay there for one year, just until my husband could get a little experience at his job, and then we would run for our lives toward a state with mountains or forests or at least a couple of big hills.) Eleven years later, we are still here.


We now live on a quaint .25 acre plot of land that is identical in size and shape to thousands of neighbors to the north, south, east and west.


We have never had any pets, of any make, shape or model. This is a wonderful tradition that I hope to pass down to future generations.

We do, however, spend a lot of time chasing rabbits away from our flowers and running for cover when we hear the sound of birds. The trees in our subdivision recently grew large enough to attract a squirrel. The kids reacted by saying, "What's that, Mommy?"


We drive a mini-van, which was manufactured by an American car company that is now bankrupt. This probably means we have no chance of getting it serviced in the future when it has one of its tantrums during which the electrical system goes haywire for no apparent reason.


My husband commutes 40 miles to work each day. It's a lovely drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic, which typically takes three hours round trip.


We live in a three-bedroom home, into which we are trying to determine how we will squeeze a family of six and space for home schooling.


My husband is working on a remarkable addition to our swing set, which involved a lot of power tools and many boards and screws. But that's OK. Because we can walk less than .5 miles to two different community parks in either direction.


And yes. My daughter does try to take that pink blankie with her everywhere she goes. I see from the photos that she was quite successful on this trip. Just try to get away with that if you lived on a farm full-time.

(All of these photos were taken on a Canon point-and-shoot camera and not edited in PhotoShop. I do, however, have a copy of PhotoShop and use it on occasion, if that helps in any way.)

Let me just apologize, in advance, to my regular readers if it took a little longer for this page to load due to the dramatic surge in traffic that I'm sure this post will create. A few cows can go a long way.

lost in the wind without the correct color of paint and no room for a sink

I know you are all probably waiting on the edge of your seats to hear my thoughts about last night's Season Finale of LOST.

All I can really say at this point is: "How about that hole in the ground?"

First, you can throw a nuclear bomb down there and after plummeting about 1,000 miles to the center of the Earth it doesn't explode.

And then, poor, sweet Juliet falls in after it. And she must have landed on a pillow, rather than all of the metal debris that went in before and after her because she seems to be fine. And it sure is a good thing she fell down there because she now can blow up the entire island.

I can handle the new revelations about Jacob and how he mysteriously was present at the key moment of every character's life. And I was strangely excited to find out that Locke really was dead and that other nameless guy had taken over his body.

And I don't really mind the whole premise that the Losties are now going to completely alter the future by running through the woods with a nuclear bomb in a backpack and then throwing it in the hole.

But, come on?!? Let's get realistic with throwing Juliet down there and having her survive. That's a little far-fetched, don't you think?

Well, anyway. I'm kind of happy the show is over for the summer and I can relax. I would sure hate to be one of those script writers who has to figure out how to tie all of that together.

Moving on... I just wanted to mention that my husband has been out of town for a bit, but unlike in the past when I might have started to get a little stir crazy from the lack of adult conversation, I think I'm holding things together perfectly well. In all honesty, the days do get a little long when he isn't available for days on end to chat by Skype about all of the daily events around here. But, I think I'm doing OK.

Take last night, for example, when a tornado watch was in effect during LOST. I didn't freak out and carry all three of the sleeping children to the basement, and I actually stayed quite calm until a huge bolt of thunder and lightning that sounded like a freight train exploded right over the house and it sounded like someone was taking huge buckets of water and throwing them at the windows.

But when I woke up at 5 a.m., the first thought that ran through my mind was what the weatherman had said last night. "Believe it or not, when this storm passes through here, it's going to be a beautiful sunny day tomorrow."

And so I jumped out of bed bright and early and prepared myself to go for a walk as soon as I could get the boys off to school. I knew better than to make the same mistake I had made two days ago when I let my 4-year-old daughter ride her tiny bicycle along during the walk. It seems "the bike gets very tired" about halfway through and then I have to carry it the whole way.

So, I put her in the wagon, and immediately realized how out of shape I am. Pulling her 40 pound body, plus the 10 pound wagon, felt like I was pulling 50 pounds. I had misunderstood the weatherman's prediction of "beautiful sunny day" to mean pleasant and warm. He didn't mention the frigid wind that was going to wisk across my face for the next six (or maybe it's two) miles of my walk.

And so I pulled that wagon into the wind with my ears stinging.

And when we got home, I realized it was only 8:30 a.m. and I still had an hour and a half before ballet class. So, I turned on PBS Kids for my daughter and snuggled my frozen body back in bed. I woke up exactly 45 minutes later, because that is precisely the length of my REM cycle, not one minute more or one minute less, and I suddenly had a wonderful thought!

"It's observation day at ballet class!"

That means instead of sitting out in the hall, trying to make small talk with the other moms and trying to act like I'm busy doing some sort of paperwork, I would be able to sit in the ballet class. That alone was cause for a cute outfit! So, I jumped up and found a winter sweater, some jeans and wooly socks and tried to hide the indentation on the side of my face and my flat hair on one side and make myself look like a true ballet mom.

I had a job to do now! I had an actual purpose. I could video tape and photograph my darling daughter for 45 minutes! I picked out my absolute favorite of her ballet outfits and told her to get dressed. And since Clifford, The Big Red Dog, was still on TV, she didn't have enough sense to argue with me that she would rather wear the glittery, hand-me-down Strawberry Shortcake ballet outfit.

A few minutes later and we were ready. But I still had time to analyze the paint swatches I had picked up at Home Depot. Even though I really like all the colors I painted my house, I'm ready for a change. I'm just not sure if I will be able to find three complementary colors that flow as you walk through the house the way my current colors do.

While we were getting the paint samples, we also picked up some little paint booklets that were next to the Disney paint colors. The kids have decided they want to re-do their rooms, as well. But they don't seem to realize that part of the reason the rooms in those photos look so good is because they don't have any candy wrappers, Lego pieces or dirty underwear strewn across the rooms.

They also think that because the pictures show a bathroom in each bedroom that if we paint their rooms those colors, they also will get a bathroom in their rooms. I have tried explaining this to them about five times.

"People, we don't even have space in your room for your Lincoln Logs! How do you think we are going to fit a bathtub and toilet in there?!?"

They listen for about five seconds, and then they say, "What color do you think we should paint the sink?"

Yeah, LOST. I really did like the Season Finale. I just thought the end was kind of hokey. And I'm kind of OK with the fact that everyone blew up. It helps my mind rest until the fall.

And if by some strange chance anyone reads this rambling babble, let me say, "thanks for listening."

if you aren't lost, please come back

Yeah, yeah... I know. For all of you who don't watch Lost, those Thursday posts get really boring.

All that time travel, yada yada, Smoke monster, blah, blah, blah, Jack, Hurley and Kate nonsense is definitely more than one can handle IF by some chance you actually bother to read it.

But I realized today after reading the blog of a non-Lost viewer, that I feel a little bit sad for those of you who don't watch. You see, Lost isn't just a TV show. It's more of a hobby... no, no... It's kind of a part-time job... no... let's see. It's actually a lifestyle.

It probably seems like just another 60 minutes of mindless entertainment to fill a void on Wednesday nights. Turn it on. Turn it off. Go on with your life.

If ONLY!

You see, watching Lost requires dedication, research, commitment and hours of hard-core thinking! The show itself is only a small part of being a Lostaholic. Once an episode is over, that's when the real fun begins.

True addicts lose sleep on Wednesday nights searching the message boards and blogs for clues, hints and theories. I've heard of people missing work on Thursdays to make more time for their research.

Viewers have to learn about time travel, world religions, ancient history and even quantum physics. They have to decipher the meanings of strings of numbers and review past episodes for tiny references that were missed the first time.

For those who are over the top, they can join Lost book clubs and read other works that might give clues to the storyline.

When a friend recommended I watch Lost about a year and a half ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. She loaned me the complete Season 1 on DVD and I watched it in a matter of weeks. I missed an entire week of my life in a mind-numbing blur my husband and I now lovingly refer to as "Season 2".

At that point, there was no turning back. I was starting to realize that this was quite possibly the best TV series in the history of mankind, and Season 3 was definitely offering proof.

Now, being a Lost junkie has added a whole new dimension to my life.

My husband and I have a standing date every Wednesday night in front of the TV. We both look forward to this time to kick back and hang out. When I meet a new mom in the park, I can casually ask her if she watches Lost. If she says yes, we suddenly have made a connection that gives us HOURS of conversation. It's like we've known each other our whole lives.

Oh yes. We've had to give up a few things. But really?!? Do the kids actually NEED me to pack their lunches on Thursday mornings when I am busy reading message boards? Is it SO BAD if I forget to cook dinner one day a week? I realize I have forgotten it was my turn to drive the carpool ONCE in a WHILE because I was so preoccupied with leaving comments on other blogs about Lost.

People, I never said this was an easy life. But when you are committed, you CHOOSE to ignore the tension headaches and carpal tunnel.

Besides, with only a few episodes left in Season 5, we are near the finish line now. We only have one more season after this one and then it's back to the life we once knew.

Nothing to look forward to on Wednesday nights. Boring Thursdays. No more countless hours spent trying to understand the Time Loop Theory. No more searching the blogs for clues.

Sure there are other shows. I've heard people talk about them. The Office. The Bachelor. The Biggest Loser. But do any of THOSE have a BOOK CLUB?!?!

So, I must ask you, my dear Bloggy Friends who don't watch Lost. Will you consider getting on board before the end? You still have a chance to join the fun! I hate leaving you out every Thursday morning. Will you just rent Season 1 and give it a try? Please?

If you won't do it for me, consider doing it for the Smoke Monster.

alligators under the bed, varmints in the garage

You might be wondering why I've been writing posts lately about opossums. Then again, maybe it didn't even seem odd to you, which is a really scary thought.

I was just kidding around last week when I wrote that it's my husband's "job" around our house to take care of varmints, rodents and vermin. Little did I know that the next day we would have a real varmint of our own to care for.

My husband had been telling me that he suspected something was living in our garage for about a week. I chose to ignore the ripped garbage bags on the floor. I also chose not to think about the sleeping bag that "fell" from the shelf at the top of the garage where we store our camping equipment.

Maybe the house was shifting and causing things to fall? At worst, a cat? I hoped.

When we got home Wednesday evening, we opened the garage door and saw the furry striped tail slip under the kids' big green motorized jeep.

Being the seasoned southern Illinois hunter boy that he is, my husband announced immediately that it was an opossum.

The thought really didn't even bother me that much at first. Until I looked at a picture of one on the Internet. Did you see those teeth?!

The next morning, we called Animal Control, and a lady in a blue uniform brought over a trap we set up in the garage.

I had known for a week that an animal might be living in the garage. But now that I saw WHO it was, I was scared to even open the door. We kept the door from the garage to the house locked tight, as if it was going to reach up and turn the knob. The bags of garbage started piling up in the kitchen. What if it was hanging from the rafter, waiting for a new batch of scraps, ready to pounce on my face?

The kids had the opposite reaction. Their persistent pleas to go hunting with dad had finally been answered... in a way! They were just steps away from trapping their very first varmint!

That night, I could barely sleep. I dreamed a falcon was caught in the garage. A family of mice was living under the chair in the living room. Worms and spiders were crawling through the carpet.

"It's not MY JOB! My husband is in charge of vermin!" I tried to scream out of my dreamy state.

The next morning, I slowly opened the door to the garage and peeked around the corner.

There he was.

He looked sad and cold, snuggled up in his new cage.

He didn't hiss or snarl at me. He didn't even move. He was just a baby. Just an over-sized baby RAT with a hideous tail! Just a nasty garbage-eating rodent, with sharp teeth that have probably been gnawing into every box and riding toy packed into the garage. Just an animal who has been trapped IN our garage for more than a week, probably leaving trails of his refuse all over our stuff!

I wondered what the Animal Control lady would do when she came back to retrieve the cage. I assumed they had an animal prison somewhere for garbage thieves. Or at least a special spot in the woods where they would drop him off with all the other raccoons, skunks and muskrats they had pulled out of homes, cars and garages around town.

"Better close your garage door," she said. Then she walked five steps to our lawn, opened the cage and turned it upside down.

He wrapped his tail around the bars of the cage and held on tight. She poked him in the butt, gave the trap three hard shakes, and he finally relented.

Then, he ran for freedom.

Well, not exactly. He waddled over to the nearest tree at the edge of our lawn and stood there. For several hours. By evening, he had moved just over our property line into the neighbor's yard.

I assume that he is sitting somewhere now with a good view of the garage waiting for the door to open so he can dash in and reclaim his spot on the shelf by the tent.

It's funny that just a day before the opossum drama began, my friend, Sarah, had been telling me how disturbed she was that they had found a mouse in the basement. It wasn't that I didn't take her plight seriously. But I guess I needed my own rodent problem to truly feel her pain.

We started joking around our house that the Opossum in the Garage reminded us of the book, "There's an Alligator Under My Bed", and that's what got my crazy little brain writing opossum poetry. Now, if only other people thought I was even HALF as funny as I do! I could bring smiles to possum victims worldwide!

**
Postscript: We had moved the garbage cans outside for a few days while the possum was in the garage. When my husband went to take out the garbage today, there he was... sitting in the bottom of the garbage can next to our house. Looks like we have a new pet.

The Opossum's Rebuttal

This strange note was left by our front door around 5:23 this evening. It was scrawled in very messy handwriting:

Oh, I'm not cute like a puppy
I don't cuddle like a kitten
But I still need some love
Even though I might chew your mitten

Did you have to put me out
Just dump me in the cold?
Not even a goodbye
Or some fruit covered in mold?

I heard her pull up in her van
The lady dressed in blue
Ms. Animal Control
The one who brought the cage to you

She carried me outside
Upside down she shook the trap
I tried to hang on tight
But she poked me in the back

I walked to a tree
I sat there for a spell
I couldn't find an apple
An orange or anything with a smell

No Fritos out here
No Cheetos, Ritz or Lays
No Frosted Flakes or Coke
No carrots, cookies or cheese

Please let me back in
I beg you, Mrs. Neal
I'm just a baby opposum
Can I have just one more meal?

It's cold in the lawn
I can't find a sleeping bag
Not a tent or a blanket
Like those cozy ones you had!

I know that I'm ugly
And my teeth are really sharp
But I'll make a great pet
Don't you have a heart?

I won't poop on your toys
I won't pee on your stuff
Just give me one more chance
Life out here is rough!




(Emily with hands held over ears: Lalalalala... It's not working!!!)

Ode to Mr. Possum

There's a possum in the garage
And he's making lots of noise
There's a possum in the garage
And he's chomping on our toys

He has sharp, scary teeth
And a long, pointy nose
He has a striped furry tail
We don't know where he goes

He sleeps way up high
On the shelf by the tent
We never saw a possum
When a-campin' we all went

We don't see him in the day
He walks around at night
He pees on the mower
And he poops on the bikes

He eats all our scraps
He rips open the garbage
Oh, please, Mr. Possum
Won't you get out of our garage?

Just walk into the trap
And close the little door
We'll take you to the forest
You don't have to live indoors

There's a possum in the garage
He's making me lose sleep
But now that he's in the cage
He looks kind of sweet

(What can I say? The possum has made me so crazy that I'm writing poetry about him!)

little things make me laugh

There's just something about our first born.

He and I have a way of being brutally honest with each other. We make each other laugh. And cry. And sometimes we just connect.

Like the other day when he told me: "Mom, remember back in first grade when I really didn't like you that much?"

Um... no... I didn't realize that you didn't like me.

"Well, I'm really starting to like you now!"

Great!... I think??...

Then, there was last night. On Friday and Saturday I worked a Discovery Toys booth, which required me to lug about 10 huge bags of toys into a convention center, get up at 5 a.m. two days in a row and then stand on my feet for 12 hours straight each day, before tearing it all down and loading it back in my van. By the time I got home, my wimpy little bird-like body was pooped.

"I've got to get in better shape," I moaned as I plopped down on the bed.

"You do, Mom! I'll get your shoes!" little Mr. Always Energetic said. Moments later, he ran back with my running shoes.

I lifted one eyelid and laughed before falling asleep.

Today, we have been working on finishing the five days of homework that we missed while on vacation. This is our punishment for daring to leave the tundra and selflessly enjoying ourselves while visiting another country. Nevermind that we actually got to SEE Mexico, we need to STUDY the countries of Asia. (Just ignore my sarcasm.)

I try to use my best teacher sing-song voice when I'm helping him with the homework.

"OK, class! Let's all sit in a circle!" I chirp, reading from the teacher notes.

He obliges by sitting in a one-person circle on the floor. At least, I think it was a circle. Might have been a square. Or a triangle.

"Guess what, Second Graders?!? Your teacher hates phonics! You get to take a break while I go take a nap!"

Yipee!

He gets me.

how is your lego looking?

I love learning about what makes people tick.

To kick off a women's Bible study that I'm in, I asked the women to tell the group their love language, temperament and birth order. If you haven't ever studied these different elements that can affect how people relate to each other, it's fascinating.

I think the ladies thought I was a little crazy at first, but it turned out to be really fun to find out who was the oldest of five or the only child until her mom had another when she was 7. It was cool to learn who loves words of affirmation, versus quality time; who was a laid-back creative type, versus an out-going leader.

But the next day, I learned about another defining quality that I had not previously thought about. How big is your LEGO?

It was actually my pastor who gave me the LEGO theory.

You see, we are all like a piece of LEGO. Think about all of the little nubs, or bumps or whatever you call the part of the LEGO that sticks up on the top.

Those are how the LEGO pieces connect to other pieces of LEGO. And that's kind of how people are. Some people have a big LEGO. Others have a small piece.

I think my LEGO is one of the big long pieces that you would use to build the base of a building or the roof. I have tons of those little nubs, because I want to connect with tons of people. The more the better. Bring 'em on.

If I meet someone new, I want to get to know her. If I'm in a group, I ask people obnoxious questions like, "So, what's your love language? Are you a first born? What's your hobby?" I just want to learn more about them and make connections. This can be a little much for some people, so I do my best to make my interrogations non-threatening.

And, oh, my... If someone goes out of her way to connect with me, I am the happiest girl in the world. Ask me a question. Invite me to coffee. I just want to connect!

But my pastor filled me in on the truth of the matter. A lot of people have a small piece of LEGO. Or (gasp!, sigh!) their LEGO is already full!

I've been feeling like a big LEGO in a world of full LEGOs lately and it was kind of bumming me out. But his explanation helped me understand.

If only people would post a little sign on their shirts. "Sorry, my LEGO is full." Or, "Three connections available."

Of course, the big LEGO people like me would be jumping all over the poor people advertising an open spot on their LEGO.

I've also noticed though, that what I love most is to have a couple of people in my life who just plant themselves over about 10 of the connectors on my LEGO. I love it when I just naturally connect with someone. You can give her a call to laugh, cry or just talk about the most mundane events of the day. One great girlfriend is better than 10 casual acquaintances, in my book.

Well, I'm learning to control my urge to try to plant my big honkin' piece of LEGO right on top of every other LEGO that comes my way. But if I'm blessed enough to make a new connection, that's a happy day for me.

And if this idea is too much for you, then maybe your Play-Doh is dried out. Or perhaps one of the rings on your Spirograph is broken. We'll have more on that next week. =]

join the cause, add an insult

Over the weekend, I was confronted by someone who was really annoyed with me because of my attitude... my positive attitude.

"What is wrong with me?!"

"How can I be so accepting of other people... their views... their appearance?!?"

I have to admit that I was pretty bugged by this at first. I don't mind if someone wants to debate me on my beliefs. In fact, I kind of enjoy it. But I don't take personal attacks quite so easily.

But then I started to think about what this guy had to say and I realized he is right.

What the world needs is more nastiness. People are really way too kind to each other. Let's hurl some insults! We need more sarcasm!

If you see someone out on the street and she looks funny, let her know! Don't just walk on by! Maybe you notice a baby who isn't the cutest on the block, tell the mom!

I really don't know what I was thinking all of this time. I actually was born into the world as a glass-half-empty kind of girl. But I have done what I can to change my attitude. Now I realize I am moving in the wrong direction. Negativity, people! That's what we need!

So, take it from my new friend. Spread the nastiness. Honk at a driver. Heck, throw a snowball. Will you join me? Let's get out there and see how many people we can insult today!