herewegoagain

I spent some time

2008-07-18T12:16:00.000-07:00

under the fridge today.

Well, of course, there is a story to this.

It starts with two weekends ago, when Sweet Girl and Rowdy Son were at a friend's birthday party. Their pool and cabana were incredible...the "outdoor kitchen" has my indoor kitchen beat by a country mile or a stack of Better Homes and Gardens magazines, their "outdoor living room" outdoes even that...and the pool had a view of the hill country that people pay millions for.

Somehow, in the midst of all that opulence, and in the midst of all the opulent party guests, I opened my mouth to gripe about my all-time high electric bill. It was a topic that everyone latched on to (I guess even millionaires have their pet peeves) and we traded stories about usage, cost, how we are cutting back, etc... They asked me what my bill actually was. "$412.00" I gasped. One dad there said his was "over $500.00". I told him that made me feel better, at which time my friend (the party-giving mom) piped up, "Oh, but the herewegoagains have a tiny house". "Yes, and it's OLD" said party-giving dad. "You know, 70's". Everyone chimed in at that point and said, "Oh, well...our house is 4,000 square feet, and we have a pool, hot tub, outside guest house, and indoor gym, so that $500 a month isn't too bad". It got to the point (the discussion of all their electricity-using toys) that I wished I hadn't brought up the subject.

I stammered, "I have a pool, too." Um, yeah, well, sort of. Party-giving mom said, "It's nice, but you know...it's above-ground."

Hushed, horrified silence all around. (It reminded me of the time a neighbor asked how we liked our pool. Above-ground pools are the only kind you can really have in my neighborhood unless you dynamite. Anyway, we said we loved it. "I wish we could have one," she sighed, "But my husband said that is just too white trash for him." You know, that is a hard statement to respond to, do you simply say, "Well, it's just not too white trash for us"? or, "We like being white trash"? or, "Speaking of white trash, honey, is trash pick-up still scheduled for this 4th of July?....)

The party topic turned to all-inclusive Disney "deals" at only $10,000 a week. I tuned out.

SO, fast-forward to today. I guess that whole conversation tended to disgruntle me. I looked around here. I looked around with my glasses on. I got on the floor and really looked.

It was all pretty bad.

OK, so I don't live in 4,000 square feet and I don't have all the bells and whistles of wealthy-dom, but I think I could possibly manage to keep the place clean. SO I got out all the cleaners, got on the questionable floor, made the kids bring me new paper towels and scrubbies as I called for them (no way was I getting up again once I got down...until it was time for my nap).

Here's the thing: This house IS old. As in, built in 1977. As in over thirty. We bought it from my dad, who had lived in it as a bachelor with a number of dogs, cats (the number changed with deaths and new strays), and books. When he married again, he and his new wife sold the house to us "as is". "As is" was fine, and we were thrilled to get it, but it did come with "everything". By that I mean, furniture, pots, pans, books, magazines, appliances. All of which were a) old and b) dirty. I went through 34 years of my parental belongings and it has taken me over 10 years to sort-of/kind-of have a handle on it. (Remember, my birthday present last year was a garage clean-out/reorganization).

However, being married to Mr. herewegoagain means never having to say, "I'm sorry, but I want something new.".

The fridge is older than perfect daughter. It STILL WORKS. It has stood in that spot for over 16 years in this house and to move it requires actual day-laborers, so there it sits. (Unlike BFF's...who owns an oil company...fridge. She can move it with her little finger...vacuum under it, and be done with it. It's also the sixth fridge she has owned in the 13 years I have known her).

I was on the floor. Peering under the monstrosity. Sticking fingers trepidatiously under it (remember, this is the land of critters and they all sting). I poked a coat hanger under there and removed oh, several years worth of dog hair, 10-year-old dog food (I had to shoo the dumb mutts away from that), fridge magnets, and even a couple of recipes.

As I sat on the floor, it occurred to me that I WANT TO MOVE. I have my little Japanese house-guest due in a week and it's kind of like a diet where you want to lose 25 pounds in a week? I want to paint, re-model, re-floor and landscape. In a week. Or, MOVE.

I also need to hire some day-laborers once in awhile (who needs to eat anyway?) and move that fridge. Or, hint hint...buy a new one?

On Feet

2008-07-15T17:05:00.000-07:00

It's July. Summer time. Sandal time. Barefoot-in-the-park time.

So, let's talk feet.

Here's the thing. When you have gained a little, or a lot, (or as in my case, a whole whale of a lot) of weight, you tend to start thinking about your feet. Yes, you might do that because they hurt more, hauling your big ol' body around. Or you might tend to do that because well, they are still a size 7 1/2, even if the rest of your body (including your HEAD) passed that years ago. OR, you might tend to do that because, you're actually too fat to tie your own blasted shoes and now it really is all about flip-flops, and besides high heels make you dizzy.

Whatever the case, look around. Pedicure places are popping up like Starbucks. There is one at our Wal-Mart, one next to the Wal-Mart, one down the street from the Wal-Mart and several more as you head out of town. This is a town with a population around 6,000. That's 6,000 people, 12,000 feet and several hundred Asian immigrants to trim toenails.

I, personally, had never had a pedicure. The very thought of someone touching my feet and discussing them with me was enough to make me actually give Tom's Nails a wide berth as I exited Wal-Mart. In fact, I'm not one to really discuss toenails, but my very best friend in the world is. In fact, she has....

HAD THEM PERMANENTLY REMOVED.

Yes, it's true. I screamed when I heard it. Thinking of how it feels to stub a toe, I couldn't quite wrap my head around actively seeking out a doctor, making an appointment, pointing to the offending appendages and letting them be whacked off. Or, "dug out" as it were.

She is actually quite irritated with me. She says, in her oh-so-Southern drawl, "I am going to be annoyed with you in the nursing home when I have to clip your big ol' horny toenails. And they will be big and horny. I know, I have been there to visit Maw-Maw". We do intend to spend our golden years in some fabulous retirement center and by golly, she is right about some of the toenails there. So, she took the chicken way out. She just got rid of them.

I, however, bravely continue to maintain my toes. And one day a couple of weeks ago, this same best friend and I found ourselves getting a pedicure.

It was going to be fun. "Girl's day out". Spa pedi. Back massage. Calf massage. Heck, ankle massage. I did need to take two ibuprofens pre-"someone is going to touch my feet", but I was brave and up for the new experience.

Best Friend Forever was too. Oh, you might wonder...how do they give a pedicure to one without nails? No worries. According to her, she is one of many forward-thinking people. A pedicure means simply painting the nail bed and all is hidden. It's a perfect world after all.

"Tom's Nails" is run by "Tom" who might more accurately be called "Tham" or some Vietnamese version of that very American name. Tom is a nice guy, I'm sure, as are all the Vietnamese brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles who work there. We wandered in, were seated and before we knew what was happening, our toes were no longer our own. Unfortunately, a man came to work on me. I wanted a woman...preferably one of the adorably cute young girls with straight black hair and tiny hands. I got him. He grimaced at my toes. "You walk barefoot a lot?" he asked, shaking his head. He had to get some "special lotion" for me. There was a consultation between him and Tom. Probably over the price overage they would have to charge for "excess calluses".

Meanwhile, BFF had a cute little woman, possibly aged 65 or older. She grabbed BFF's feet and then started muttering. And muttering. And muttering. We couldn't understand her at alll, but we looked at each other in alarm as she started pummeling BFF's calves (as massages went, it was more Swedish than Asian). And then waving small gnarly hands over her feet, before exclaiming, "No toenails, missy?" in not-quite-horror. We quickly explained through Tom that BFF had chosen to remove them, that it wasn't a horrific accident, and really, hadn't they noticed that MANY people had given up on toenail-fungus removal cream and were simply ripping out their nails? She nodded, completely uncomprehending, then went to work on the "toes". BFF gripped the side of her back-massaging chair for dear life. There was poking and prodding and sanding and scaling. Meanwhile, my little man gently asked me if my "toes hurt", as he gingerly touched them. I had thought they weren't that bad...in fact, sadly, I had often called my feet my best feature. No more. He peered at them and grabbed more special oil. I missed out on the calf massage, but I got to explain at least ten times that my toes "felt fine, really."

This all took the better part of an hour. At the end of it, our feet were smooth, toes painted, girly and pretty. We paid and left.

ONE WEEK LATER.....

BFF called me in horror. "How are your feet doing?", she asked. I had to admit they were drier and scalier than ever, but that I was guiltily SURE it was "all my barefoot walking" and that really, I didn't even deserve to have nice feet. She said hers were also peeling, but that she NEVER went anywhere barefoot and besides, her feet had never been dry or scaly. But something even worse was happening...

Her toenails were growing back.

Neener, neener, neener. "Do you think it was something she said in Korean..an incantation of some sort?" BFF wailed. I pointed out she was Vietnamese. "Whatever," she snapped.

"Maybe it was the special cream?" I asked.

"Or the pounding of my calves?" she wondered.

Whatever it was, that little old lady had caused BFF to have new toenails. And not just any toenails...they were coming in...um...big and horny.

As long as I don't have to clip them in the "home", I'm so OK with it.

I Don't Do Ribs, Even If I Am A Texan

2008-06-28T19:56:00.000-07:00

We have a little Japanese girl (age eight) coming for a few weeks later this summer. She is only eight years old and her family wants her to "immerse in English". Staying with us seems like a good idea to them. I can guarantee she'll learn how to speak English fast, in semi-Southern accents and with her mouth full. 'Cuz that's how we speak around here.

Anyway, the topic of introducing her to "all-things Texas" came up and Perfect Daughter threw out "horseback riding". That sounded like so much fun and so "typically Texan" (I know, I know, most Texans have NOT ridden a horse, roped a steer or butchered their own beef), that before I knew it I was immersed in the world of dude ranches. There are actually several within 60 miles of the Herewegagain homestead which would be perfect because a) there would be no whiney eight-hours-in-the-car days and b) I could go home and check on the dogs. What a vacation, eh?

They all advertised bonfires, sing-a-longs, cowboy breakfasts and trail-rides. The food mentioned most often was ribs. Lots of barbequed ribs. The trail-rides mentioned weight limits. For the horses.

Oh man.

OK, I've written about my chubbiness. I've been up front and honest about my sometimes success in losing some weight, and my general non-success in losing much weight. I try to love the skin I'm in, especially when the body I live in is enjoying Hershey Kisses, Haagen Daz ice-cream bars, or Cherry Garcia by the pint. However, never, no never, not in a million years did I think I might not make the weigh-in for a TRAIL RIDE. (I have avoided small aircraft for that reason, but let's face it, if there is a weight limit that means you might actually CRASH AND BURN, it's easy to be more than honest about your weight...).

C'mon. I watched Bonanza. HOSS rode a horse. I'm smaller than Hoss. Really.

So, the dread of actually having some kid-cowboy size me up and drawl, "Ma'am, could you puh-leeze step on up to the scale" and wave me to some farm equipment for weighing hay bales, hogs and me, has done what no doctor, magazine article on BMI, and closet full of too-small clothes has done. It has actually made me determined to diet.

I stocked up on Lean Cuisine again. I also thought, after reading all the yummy stories of "beef on the range" that I would grill all our meat from now on. I started with beef ribs, of course. The plan was that I would make beef ribs tonight for my last "hurrah" and start on the Lean Cuisine tomorrow. That plan was solely due to the unbelievable deliciousness that I was sure the ribs would bring to the table.

Instead, they brought this:

Rowdy Son: "How do you find the meat on these?"

Sweet Girl: "Can I eat this? It's awfully red."

DH: "I can't eat it. Really."

Me: "But they were ON FIRE! How could they be rare?"

Rowdy Son: "Mine is black."

Sweet Girl: "Can I eat beef if it's raw? Will it kill me?"

DH: "I canNOT eat this."

Me: "But I put them on for TWENTY MORE MINUTES"

Rowdy Son: "Is there another plate of ribs somewhere that I can't see?"

Me: "Just EAT it."

Sweet Girl: "I'm getting a peanut butter sandwich."

Rowdy Son: " Dad can have mine."

DH: "Call me when it's black."

That was followed by a lovely little trip down memory lane of all my culinary disasters. I said, "I think most of my cooking mishaps involved the grill". My DH replied, "Well, don't forget, there was the green noodle episode, and that didn't involve a grill". Rowdy Son (truly trying to make me feel better but failing miserably) said, "You made a good turkey once." Sweet Girl, mumbling through her peanut butter sandwich said, "I thought the ribs were good. Well, the first bite was."

Later, DH reminded me of the time we heard the smoke alarm in the parking lot of our apartment complex and ran inside to find my pot roast burned to the size of a charcoal briquet. As I recall, he opened the front door, smoke billowed out and he did the "fireman crawl" to the oven. No fire, just no dinner. Oh, and we had guests coming. The place smelled like burned pot roast for weeks. I'm sure the neighbors appreciated it.

I will say one thing for the grilling tonight. It did help me on the way to weight loss. There wasn't much to eat and what there was, well, let's just leave it at there wasn't much to eat.

Tomorrow night I'm having Sesame Chicken courtesy of Lean Cuisine. They can have whatever-the-heck-they-want-to-cook. OR Rudy's.

Me too

2008-06-22T16:48:00.000-07:00

I guess growing old together has its advantages. My husband is obviously semi-senile if he still thinks I'm the most beautiful woman in the world, but then again...we are both stuck in 1982 when we first met each other. I still think he can lift anything, run anywhere, and stay up all night typing my papers.

Wait, he can.

Oh well, I think I have definitely been growing older and he seems to have freakishly stayed 30-something. It's really unfair because believe me when I say that he likes Hershey Kisses EVERY bit as much as I do. And frankly, HE'S the one who introduced me to the joys of late-night gnoshing in front of a rented movie. Of course, he still thinks a good day includes a run for a few miles, when my idea of perfection is napping in the sun by the pool.

But, I guess it doesn't matter much if he really has lost that part of his brain that can discern the reality that is me at this point in my late-40's life. So, to that end... my advice to anyone who fears aging...catch 'em while they and you are young. I will always be 21 to him.

Happy Anniversary, DH.

26 Years With the Wife of My Youth

2008-06-21T20:06:00.000-07:00

By Mr Herewegoagain

26 years ago on June 22 the most beautiful woman in the world married me. It's all good.

In the News....

2008-06-15T16:40:00.000-07:00

Today Perfect Daughter turned TWENTY-FOUR.

She says it's her first birthday with wrinkles. Um, no and no. First of all, her FIRST birthday was full of wrinkles. She needed to grow into her skin, so to speak. And now, at 24, she has nary a wrinkle and should hush about that when talking to her nearly-fifty-years-old mother...

And, of course, today is Father's Day.

We brought her home from the hospital on Father's Day in 1984 and, actually, she has never really enjoyed sharing "her" day with dear ol' dad. Fortunately, that has only happened now and again, calendars being what they are. I think she did like her 13th birthday where they celebrated together the first year of her teens and his special day by going to some favorite restaurant without me. I'm pretty sure after that it was more of a "what, he wants steak for dinner when my favorite is Chinese take-out?" reaction to sharing, but we have always gotten through it. And enjoyed it. And we miss her today, while she is eating week-old well-traveled brownie-cake from me, unwrapping mailed gifties from the kids, and enjoying summer life in Italy.

So, while she is probably not having Chinese take-out (gelato, anyone?), we ARE having steak. DH is many things in life and one of the best things he is, is a great dad. Our favorite phrase around here (well, by "our" I mean, the parents...not such a favorite of the kiddos)...is: "parenting is not for wimps". And he isn't one. He's a DAD. I truly appreciate that. And the kids do too (even if they don't know it yet).

So, it's time to heat up the grill, ready a toast to both of them...one well-missed, and one well-appreciated (and not only for his choice of favorite meal.)

Oh, and I have to post Sweet Girl's latest:

HE'S MY DAD

Brownie eater, Cookie lover
Kiss giver, Bear hugger
Lawn mower, Leaf raker
Joke teller, Smile maker
Treat thief, Story sayer
Piano listener, Soccer player
Song singer, Good friend
Always with me to the end
Always patient, Never mad
Kind, loving, special...He's my Dad!

Happy Father's Day to everyone!

Hot and Cold

2008-06-09T15:08:00.000-07:00

My husband and I have been married almost twenty-six years. In fact, in about 13 days, it will be 26 years exactly. I remember the day very well..June in Texas. Hot. Humid (in fact, it rained earlier in the day of our evening wedding)...I was young. And thin.

Quite thin, in fact. I weighed 124 the day we married and I am almost 5'10". I remember weighing myself and thinking "Wow, I'm getting fat". The hollow laughter that accompanies me when I tell that story to my kids speaks for itself.

DH was thin and fit too. Who isn't when they are 22 and 24, fresh out of (or almost fresh out of) college with their whole lives (and several pregnancies) ahead of them? We routinely finished off large pizzas, followed by--yes--powdered sugar donuts from the 7/11, all downed by some huge sugar-filled soft drink. (Married we might have been, mature we were not). That was dinner. Breakfast was...non-existent, followed by some huge burger-and-fries-filled-fest for lunch. Late night? Shakes of course, made in our wedding-gift blender from K-Mart.

And you know what? I don't remember being hot. Texas was hot. I felt hot after a couple of sets of tennis. Sometimes the junky car I drove with NO a/c made me sweat. A little. But mostly, I remember just feeling "fine". Or, actually... cold....(well, as Perfect Daughter would sarcastically put it..."Mom, those teeny strappy things you wore in 1980-something were bound to keep you chilly...").

Fast-forward 26 years. There is not not only much more of me to love (as opposed to maybe 10 more pounds of DH to love), there are hormones coursing through my body that make me my own little heater. Or, my own large heater. No matter how you put it, that cold feeling is long gone. I'm hot. I'm hot. I'm hot.

We just received the highest electric bill we've ever had. $350 for the privilege of hot water, , a stove, a few lights, a pool pump, and air-conditioning. Oh, and one more thing.

A HEATER.

My husband sits at this very computer with a little space heater blasting at him every night. In June. In July. In August. This is while I have the a/c cranked to within a degree of frost..just so I can breathe. Al Gore would SO not be happy with us. I open the freezer door to get out ice, and look longingly in. If only I could fit in there. For just five minutes? Of course, it would require eating some of the goodies that are frozen to make some space, but I could make that sacrifice for just five minutes of actic blast to soothe the savage pre-menopausal beast that lurks within.

I looked at the electric bill and told my husband (after taking another deep breath and plotting the demise of his stupid space heater in a million creative ways)..."I'll put the thermostat at 78 and I won't touch it ALL SUMMER. But you have GOT to turn OFF THE HEAT."

Puh-leese. He can put on a coat. Just how naked am I supposed to get? The strappy things from the 80's are not only not fashionable, they would be criminal on someone of my age and shape. And...I would still be hot. He can put on a blanket. HE can go for a run (that should warm him up...it's only 97 out there today). My only option is the a/c set at 65---which is not an option anymore--or that fantasy trip into the freezer. Oh, right, that's not an option either.

It does seem unfair on so many levels that I had to have the babies, gain the weight and now? Menopause? Hot flashes? Scary angry thoughts of breaking small ceramic heaters into a million pieces? All that happens to men is a little hair loss. And then, they get that convertible and feel better immediately. Because...they are not HOT!

Today's forecast? 97 with hot winds out of the south. I know I promised about the house thermostat, but I never said anything about not getting in my car and cranking the cold air. I wonder if he'll notice my gas bills? Nah, not with prices rising daily. Well, that's all my blogging for now. I have an appointment with a little station wagon that has cold air-conditioning. I might stop at the freezer on the way out.

June

2008-06-02T16:25:00.000-07:00

What? It's June? I'm averaging one blog per calendar month these days. I walk around with blogs in my head, I listen and take mental notes of funny things the kids say and things DH says that I can't blog but are really funny (only to me and not to him, if you get my drift), I think, "I should blog about that"...and then, well, I don't.

Things are buzzing along at the herewegoagain house these days and I don't mean just the bugs. I've written enough about all things creepy and crawly that live in South Texas, so I don't need to elaborate much on that except to say we have just killed the first scorpion of the season in my kitchen. And you thought summer started on June 21st. Not with the 100-plus temps, the drought and now...the bugs in the house. Or, more accurately, the arachnids in the house. And garden. And, sometimes..pool. Shudder. Yes, summer is here and it's only June 2.

But apart from the usual summer bugs and such, we are just plain ol' busy. Perfect Daughter is off in Italy on a JAG internship near Vicenza. Yes, we are beyond proud. And yes, it does keep us laughing as we picture her running at 5:30 a.m., learning military protocol and probably keeping her mouth shut way more than she is used to. She was very honored to receive this internship and she started jogging 2 miles as soon as she knew she was going to Italy. She really didn't realize that two miles on a treadmill in an air-conditioned gym does NOT equal 4-plus miles through the winding roads in northern Italy in the summer weather. I think she is dying. She thinks she is dying. DH says she is getting in shape. We'll see when she returns in July. Until then, yeah, bursting with pride here. Oh, and she does lawyerly stuff to.

Rowdy Son and Sweet Girl are settling down after a two-week vacation which included a week-long road trip to Arizona, the Grand Canyon and White Sands. Perfect Daughter and I helmed the trip, and DH wisely stayed home (I think the phrase he used most often was either "Wild horses couldn't drag me along" or "I would rather die" when confronted with my itinerary which included sharing a house for three days with my extended family). We, however, enjoyed every minute. White Sands was particularly breath-taking as we were there for the full moon. The park stayed open until 11 p.m. so that we could sit on the highest dune and watch the moon rise as the sun set. Spectacular. The kids liked all that awesome "stuff", but what they really liked was "sledding" on the dunes. I put the "surely this all so bright because of years of nuclear testing" thought out of my mind and slid right along with them. The Chihuahua enjoyed being in the Chihuahua desert and slid with us. Great fun.

So, we're home. Soccer tryouts took up most of last week and all of us are nervous at the thought of Sweet Girl (she really is aptly named) being a goalie in a select league, but they wanted her and she took them up on it. I guess my fall schedule has already been decided. It will include nail-biting, eye-closing and tongue-biting. All on the sidelines and all in dreadful weather ( either 10,000 degrees fahrenheit or biting freezing winds). Oh, how I love soccer.

For the rest of June, however, I have plans to a) sleep late and b) sleep later. Followed by dipping in the pool. Followed by a nap. Perfect Daughter, if you are reading this, be jealous. But just remember, I would really rather be in Italy.

Moms Are Cool

2008-05-11T12:30:00.000-07:00

by Mr Herewegoagain

It's not my fault...

2008-05-08T17:40:00.000-07:00

That I find it hard to blog anymore.

Well, not hard to blog. Hard to find the time to blog.

Well, not exactly that either. Not when I'm having such an amazing time playing solitaire at odd hours on the ol' computer.

Ok, it's not my fault.

It's HIS.

Censor-man.

You know, when you are a stay-at-home, homeschooling mom, life happens in sort of indelicate and sometimes even, dare I say...gross ways. I mean, no it's not terribly funny to write about what the animals and kids are up to 24/7 because frankly, they are indelicate and gross most of the time. But every now and then, they are REALLY funny. And DH just looks at me and shakes his head..."you are not blogging that".

And the next thing I know, it's been three weeks and nary a word has made it onto blogger. Sitemeter sent me my stats today...ONE READER PER DAY! And probably that is my daughter (after all, she's not Perfect for nothing). What can I say? To get readers, you have to be somewhat consistent...and I know my track record has been dismal.

I tried to write about the diet thing. The only problem with that is...well, it requires me to be on a, um, diet. I tried to write about the exercise thing. Ditto. Perfect Daughter is generally good for some laughs, but she has been oh-so-serious about this thing called law school. I feel guilty calling her a whiner over finals when apparently they really ARE hard in law school. And you thought "The Paper Chase" was just Hollywood.

Rowdy Son is always good blog fodder though. I've been on an organic binge around here lately (see: diet)...which doesn't mean I'm counting my calories, just that I'm paying WAY too much for them. I bought all-natural raspberry preserves. It is a tiny little jar, cost three times as much as something by Smuckers, and tastes divine. Yesterday at breakfast I finally caught him eating some (he eyes all things organic suspiciously and begs for squishy white bread). He said, and I quote (as always), "These preservatives are good". I don't know why, but that struck me as funny.

DH is the BEST fodder there is, but I'm strictly forbidden to write anything about his prowess with power tools, his plumbing skills, and his auto-mechanic abilities (and since he has forbidden the "cat hacked up something" storylines, he has crimped my style there as well). He is good at theology and you can check him out at his sheepwalking blog. However, he blogs even less frequently than I do. That's ok, because, um, it's theology.....

Well, a little censorship can be a good thing when you are the husband of me. Let's just say, I am the person who got a failing notice in study hall in 12th grade because "your voice carries and people are trying to study". Let's just say, I've had my share of "did I just say that?" moments...( like the time I told a new friend at length that we thought about a certain name for my son, but changed our mind at the last moment because, "Did you know what that name MEANS?" came out of my mouth...only to find, that yes, her husband had that name)--it does go on and on. I have a hard time laughing at the Lucy and Ethel scenes where they try to get back a letter from the mailbox (only, think "email"), because, well, it's happened to me.

So, I'll forgive the censor, and in fact thank him. And I'm going to really try to keep up with my blogging. We are off to Arizona next week. That should provide a LOT of fodder. Just me, three kids and a chihuahua in our little station wagon. DH is not only too smart to open his mouth foolishly, he is waaaaaayyyy too smart to join in that particular adventure. And this way? He won't be fodder at all!

On Control

2008-04-23T17:33:00.000-07:00

I've been called a control freak. I've been called worse. I try, I really try, to let go and let others "do for me", you know? But, I am a mom and it's just really hard.
Still, Rowdy Son is going for his cooking badge in Scouts and that means, well, it means...he has to cook. He has to cook for us, but more importantly, he is going to be in charge of the food for the next camp-out. Since this is occuring next week, we are in high gear to figure out a menu that a) tastes good and b) he can manage on his own. This requires me to "let go".
Argh.
He told me that he thought beef stew would be a good "one-pot" meal for the troop. I agreed and together we cubed beef, chopped veggies, browned the meat, added the seasons and got it "simmering". I explained very carefully that simmering meant "barely bubbling", put the pot on a low setting and headed off to soccer practice with Sweet Girl. I told my son to stir occasionally, keep an eye on things, don't let it burn. Did I say, "Don't let it burn"? Hmmm.
I even called from the soccer fields every 20 minutes. "How does the stew look?", I asked. "Great!" he enthusiastically replied. "Does it smell good?" "Yep!" "Have you been stirring?" "A lot!".
A warning bell went off in my brain when he said, "It did feel bumpy on the bottom, but not anymore", but I thought--hey, I left it on low, how could it possibly burn?
We got home an hour later. I could smell the burning in the driveway. I went into the house, smelled more burned stew and asked him, "Don't you smell the burning?"
(I really did ask, not yell...really).
He said,--I'm not kidding-- "I thought it smelled good." "And, it looked good, too!". I looked at the pot. Yes, it was simmering. Yes, it looked fine--but I dumped it into another pot and the evidence was on the bottom...ALL the potatoes, most of the carrots and some meat. Stuck and black.
Well, I have tried to rescue it. And frankly, my family kind of likes the taste of burned anything, so we do have something to eat tonight, but it just amazed me that he continued to stir so faithfully (thereby stirring up black crusty bits) while that smell was in the air.
It reminded me of his father, 20 years ago. He was in charge of my houseplants. He watered them every day while I was on an extended trip. When I came home, they were arranged so artfully and proudly in the living room of our little apt. Black and withered and deader than doornails. It looked like an Addams family still life. Apparently, there had been a freeze. Apparently, he thought watering black, dead plants was just fine. I had asked him to water them, and he did. I guess I forgot to say "don't leave them outside in a hard freeze". Or, "If they are black, dead, sticks, throw them away..."
Like father, like son. And really, this is why I need to control them both (and everyone else and everything else in my life). But I can't.
I think we'll have hot dogs on the camp-out......

Math

2008-03-25T13:54:00.000-07:00

I'm a homeschool mom. I feel pretty successful as one, given that my first graduate is now in law school, but there are always those moments in a day when I wonder, "Why am I doing this?"( as I pull out my hair, grey strand by grey strand....)

I had one five minutes ago. Being short on blog fodder these days (ya think? haven't blogged in over a month!), I ran in here to document what just happened:

Rowdy Son had to compare decimals in math today. He simply had to use the 'less than', 'greater than', or 'equal' sign to show which number was larger.

He got them ALL wrong.

I thought he didn't understand how to read decimals. I patiently started to show him how to look at the tenths place first, compare that and move on. He stopped me. "Oh, I know that number is bigger", he said.

"They why did you use the 'less than' symbol", I asked (still patient, but less so.)

"That means 'less than'?" he was truly astonished.

I was flabbergasted--how could he not know that? We have been using these signs since third grade.

"What did you think it meant", I asked (not patient now, teeth gritted)....

"I thought it meant the big number was eating the little one so you had to have the big mouth toward that little number".

He's such a boy. But, he does give me good stuff to blog about.

Bonding

2008-02-20T14:10:00.000-08:00

I had a bonding moment at the grocery store today.

Remember, I'm on a diet. Part of that plan was to cut out chocolate. I mean, cut out chocolate. Did you read that right? NO chocolate. I felt really guilty (not) on Valentine's Day when I scarfed down six chocolate turtles given to me by Perfect Daughter. The guilt came from the fact that mr. herewegoagain, who is fit and trim and actually COULD eat chocolate by the boatload if he wanted to, has decided not to eat chocolate either. I think this is either in support of me, or a defensive move against the moaning and groaning and carrying on that takes place when I try to fit into a pair of my favorite jeans. Not to mention the moaning and groaning and carrying on that takes place if someone takes a photo of me. So, he's onboard.

He looked truly disappointed when I told him I had "a little" chocolate on Valentine's Day, so I decided that if a "sweet fit" hits me, from now on, I'll skip the chocolate. But not the Gummy Bears. Not the vanilla cupcake at Starbucks. Not the Payday candy bar. It's not like I crave non-chocolate items, but they do the trick in a pinch when a "gimme something sweet to eat or I'll hurt you, badly" episode occurs. I've decided that my mantra of "Atkins would be a good diet, with a roll", needs to be changed to "Atkins would be a good diet, with a roll, and a dessert".

So, that brings me to today. I just wanted something sweet. Something that wasn't protein, or cheese, or cheesy protein. We were at the store. I spied a Russell Stover pecan roll. Pecans! Nuts! Healthy!!! I checked out the package...nope, not any chocolate at all. Looked yummy. I couldn't wait.

The young man who checked me out looked, um, chubby. Like, 400 pounds chubby. I liked him already. He rang up my groceries and then handed me the pecan log. "Theses are getting smaller all the time", he said.

"You are so right", I agreed, "And they cost more!"

We commiserated over the high cost of candy, remembered the good ol' times of larger, cheaper Hershey bars, and then he told me a long story about pecan rolls in general. I mean, in my life, frankly, there are very few people who even know where to find pecan rolls at the store (at our local grocery store, they are with the greeting cards. Go figure). Yet, he had gone to Mexico, found a local candy store, watched them make the rolls by hand with the freshest ingredients...and licked his lips and rolled his eyes in ecstasy as he described the taste.

I stood and listened with bated breath. There was a line of shoppers behind me, but who cared? They were skinny...they didn't get it.

Who else but two fatties would bond over a pecan roll?

It made my day.

Oh? and I'm still only down one pound. Wonder why?

The D Word

2008-02-11T10:30:00.000-08:00

I have terrible timing in my life. If I think it's a good time to buy stock, just get ready...the market will free-fall. If I decide to plant new, expensive landscaping...once again, hold tight...here comes the drought. Conversely, if I plan a pool party, that will most definitely break said drought...with torrential rains and flooding (washing away the expensive, now-dead landscaping).

So, of course, my timing to start my new diet is TERRIBLE. Three days before Valentine's Day! I know, I know. And I do have a bag of red and white Hershey kisses in the freezer...."just in case" a candy emergency arises. I have this idea that keeping chocolate, cookies, brownies and cake in the freezer will keep me from eating them, when, in fact, I can tell you with complete certainty that all of the above don't even need to be thawed completely to be quite tasty.

So, when I woke up this morning determined to diet yet again, I surprised even me. I actually got on the scale. Let's just say that out of the three numbers determining my weight, I was only happy with one of them. I also decided today would be the day that I would start my tremendous fitness program with a walk. This is a big step coming from the one spouse in this marriage who DIDN'T think getting a recumbant bike for Christmas was a "great joint gift". And the one who certainly didn't want it in the living room. And the one who ate ice cream while her DH triumphing pedaled "25 miles" and 135 calories away.

Yes, a walk. After all, I did buy Rowdy Son that way-cool walking stick at Big Bend (where we were planning to hike, really...but the signs warning us that mountain lions would eat our dog were a tad off-putting). I grabbbed the stick, grabbed the dogs, grabbed the kids and headed out.

Well, you know you haven't been on enough walks when the first obstacle was convincing the Chihuahua that we weren't walking, um, to the car. She has a flexi-lead that allows her 25 ft. of freedom before I yank her back to me. She used that 25 feet to her full advantage the whole way up the driveway, looking longingly back at the car. By the time our walk was over, I was thinking longingly of that same car, but no one was jerking me along by a leash. More's the pity.

The kids decided this was the perfect time to ride their bikes. We were a true dog and pony show as we headed up our rural street...the chihuahua stretching across the road, ready to trip any bike rider that came up close. Which they did, constantly. Then we had to cross the dam. It had water splashing over it. Ahem, not something Chihuahuas want on their dainty feet. At that point, I truly did want to go home, but we had gone an embarrassingly short 1/8 of a mile. In my "before and after" story that I intend to write about my fabulous success in losing weight and getting fit, I just don't want to write that "I started out walking for 100 yards". I was determined to get in 3/4 to 1 mile today, even if I had to carry the dratted dog. Maybe that could count as weight training?

The pony part of our dog and pony show happened when we, yes, came up to the pasture with the horse. HE was very interested in the dog. SHE was not so sure about him. I thought it was a grand time to take a breather, and anyway, who needed to walk so fast? Let the critters sniff each other, right? Meanwhile, the kids were zooming up and down the street on their bikes, coming perilously close to running over the cowering Chi. We headed home. The silly Chihuahua still wanted in the car. I wanted in a chair.

I am determing to lose 30 pounds by the summer. It was relatively easy this morning, bikers, critters and flooding not-withstanding, because it was an overcast 65 degrees. Let's see how I do in the almost certain 40 degree weather that is still ahead of us and the 100 percent certain 100 degree days that will comprise the weather from April through September.

I'm going to blog as much as I can about this...as much as I can painfully recount. For example, the silence that greeted my announcement that breakfast was going to be oatmeal. The crabbiness that my kids endure as I grit my teeth and eat a handful of almonds instead of divine frozen Hershey Kisses. The amounts and ways of preparing chicken and veggies, to more silence at the dinner table. And yes, the little victories. I'll weigh each Monday. If I don't lose anything, my own silence will be deafening.

It's music to my ears

2008-01-29T20:32:00.000-08:00

Sweet Girl is a poet. And she knows it. But, even though she writes poetry on every imaginable topic, from limericks about her sister to rhymes about her brother, to prose about trees, to songs about birds, she doesn't usually share them with me. I tend to stumble across them. I always get a kick out of them, and truly see talent there. (The spelling can make me laugh, too!)

So, the other day I was opening up Microsoft Word and in "my recent documents" I spied, "Mother". I personally didn't remember writing anything entitiled "Mother", so of course I opened it, because, "mine is not to reason why, mine is but to peek and pry". I found a poem to me. I had this brief fearful moment when I thought that she must had written it for me, printed it up, given it to me, and I had forgotten it. What sort of mother forgets a poem entitled "Mother" and written by her little daughter? (Well, me, but I didn't, and that's the point). I read it. For the first time. My eyes teared up. I thought, "She likes me, she really likes me". I called her into the room and pointed at the computer screen.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Oh, that", she shrugged. "I wrote that for you last year. For Mother's Day or your birthday. Can't remember which".

"But why haven't I seen it before?".

"Oh, I was going to type it and print it and frame it but the frame didn't fit and anyway, I bought you something else. That was way better. Remember?"

Kids don't get it. There is nothing she could have purchased for me that would have brought me greater joy than this:

MOTHER

Makes me giggle, and do a happy wiggle

Kiss and hugger, chocolate lover.

Candy buyer, makes me a tryer

Care-taker when I'm sick.

Always with me, thin or thick.

Homeschool teacher. High-up reacher

Goodie baker. Big breakfast maker. Movie taker

Main Street Walker. Fun plans talker.

Funny joke teller. Won't allow a yeller.

Won't let me be sad. Hard to make mad.

Soccer mom. Cookbook lover.

Out-loud reader. Gives me the beater.

Tea party planner. Teaches me manners.

Makes a garden. Shows a rainbow.

Tells me something good to know.

Who can it be? No one but my mommy!

As a herewegoagain sidenote to this wonderful little poem, I just have to say that there are not one or two or even three references to food...but, um, SEVEN. Yes, I love to eat candy. Make goodies. Have an egg or two or three (with bacon and potatoes) for breakfast. Read cookbooks. Plan tea parties. Share a beater full of cookie dough. Have I mentioned Hershey Kisses lately? That would be the chocolate lover part. They are sweet, but not as sweet as my little girl...who has got me pegged 100 percent.

Time

2008-01-25T15:42:00.000-08:00

Can it really be A MONTH since I have blogged? I remember back in the day (that day would be some day in 2005) I could sometimes blog twice in 24 hours. There is some blog term for that, akin to "stepping on one's toes" that DH used as he laughed at my enthusiasm. Anyway, here I am, 150 blog posts later, and it's like I've run out of time. Not out of stuff to write about, not with Rowdy Son at the dining room table, no way. Not out of stuff to read on the 'net, not with election coverage, Britney's breakdown and weather.com, no way. So it's not about the computer (well, maybe a teeny-weeny bit about dial-up connections) but it is just about of time.

I had two minutes, right now, so I decided to blog.

That two minutes was taken up by my complete and utter memory loss as to my password into "new blogger". Can I just say? I truly dislike the new blogger. Maybe because when Perfect Daughter visits, HER account information is what comes up at the dashboard. This requires me to sign her out and sign myself in. Which takes way more than two minutes. But I digress--the problem wasn't the slow computer, the problem was something else. I sat, stumped, thinking of the password. Thinking, "my life has too many passwords". Thinking, "if I have to come up with yet another password that has at least seven letters, some capitalized, two symbols and no hyphens, I'll scream....." Thinking, "I don't remember this password!". Lying my head on the keyboard and banging my hands on the desk because the "help" for the password was going to take way more than my two minutes.

I have a password for all our banking. I can't use that anywhere else (well, I thought I could but was pretty quickly told NO by my hubby--rather forcefully too...), so even though that is the one password I can usually manage to remember, I can't use it anywhere else. I have to have a password for the kids' soccer website. I tried "kidssoccer" but that was taken. I think I'm kidssoccer99 or something. I need a password for renting videos online. I need a password for my AgathaChristi fansite (once again, go figure, "agatha" was taken). I need one for blogger, of course, and now I have a Facebook...which needs one. I'm so passworded out, I just can't think straight. I telephoned the bank the other day to skip all this password nonsense required for online banking and the person actually said (really, I'm not kidding), "You will have to create a phone password."

A PHONE password? They already ask my date of birth, my kids' middle initials, my mother's maiden name and my husband's occupation. Now I need a password? I actually said, "No, I'm sorry, I refuse to come up with another password". Well, that didn't work. So, yes, now I have a telephone password.

I do think it's funny that one of our "memory" prompts is supposed to by my grandmother's name. My husband put in my grandfather's name, then told me to "remember it's the other one's name" in a conspiratorial whisper. Are you kidding????? Do we have enough money in the account that we have to trick the word prompts? Does anyone care that much?? I think not. I certainly don't.

I'm forty-seven, aged, tired, grey,overweight, befuddled years old. I can't do this anymore. NO MORE PASSWORDS.

But back to blogging--

Rowdy Son said something funny at dinner last night. For some reason we were talking about people who drank too much and that they were often called "alcoholics". He piped up,
"Then Daddy is a non-alcoholic, right?".

It's so much easier to just write what they say.

And I don't need a password to do it.

Christmas

2007-12-26T06:20:00.000-08:00

Christmas was really nice this year. We actually did not have the usual crowds of family and friends...just DH's sweet mom, and only for a short while. It felt more like a "day off" than a holiday (which are usually full of work, even if fun).

However, I did notice a few traditions survived, even when there were just six people.....well, OK, one tradition survived:

Eating. We spent Christmas Eve day in preparation for Christmas Eve night making cookies. And eating cookies. Christmas Eve night was going to a delightful, joy-filled church service followed by, um, eating. And decorating and, um, eating cookies. Followed by eating brownies with ice-cream, whipped cream and nuts. And eating sister-in-law's pralines. Then eating some more, before sending the kids off to bed so we could stuff stockings and um, eat.

You would think I wouldn't have been hungry just seven hours later when the kids were excitedly getting self-same stockings down from the mantle, but Hershey Kisses have long been a favorite breakfast of mine. I should say, "favorite early breakfast", because yes, the candy-fest was followed by a huge bacon and egg and potato spread. My mother-in-law then escaped the house of piggery, and we settled down for a game of Scrabble. Complete with cheese and crackers. Followed by chocolate.

Just a few hours later, and it was time for the Christmas meal. Followed by the Christmas dessert. Followed by candy in front of the T.V.

The good thing is that today is the day after Christmas. And guess what? There isn't a thing to eat in the house. Strangely enough, I'm not hungry.

Creativity

2007-12-11T11:17:00.000-08:00

One of the great things about homeschooling is that I'm not only the kids' mom, but I'm also their teacher. I should rephrase that as: "Sometimes, one of the great things about homeschooling is..." because, yes, there are days when I would like very much to only be Mom. Or only Teacher (which would actually be better because then I could send them on their merry way each day at 3:00 p.m.). But usually, homeschooling is wonderful on all counts--especially on days when we have something fun planned.

That's the thing...I try to make even the "fun" things educational.

For example: We have been immersed in the Civil War this week. It started when Rowdy son unearthed "Gods and Generals" and "Gettysburg" from the 1,000 videotapes we own, saw that they were war movies and begged to watch them with us. Those are long movies, by the way...and he failed to make it through either of them without falling asleep. That meant he missed the battle scenes, so of course I let him watch those the next day (if you are a 13-year-old boy, movies are all about the battle scenes, after all). After all the time invested, he developed quite an interest in Gettysburg especially. We did some extra research, including reading about several of the generals involved. Our family especially loves Joshua Chamberlain, but you can't forget the courageous charge of Pickett's brigades on that day in July, 1863.

I have been kind of excited at Rowdy Son's continued interest. I mean, this is history, after all...and this is Rowdy Son (the one who wanted us to study "Canadian" or "Australian" for our foreign language.)

Fast forward to "fun" in homeschool. We took off yesterday to make little houses with my sister and her children. By "make little houses", I mean, cover containers with royal frosting and every sort of candy and cracker you can think of. The kids were very creative...Sweet Girl had Santa on the roof and Teddy Grahams playing soccer in the back yard. Rowdy Son worked longer on his than he has ever done. It had a red twizzler roof, armed guards in the front with candy cane swords, and a snowball battle in the back. Hmmm. I was just thinking it was a bit warlike for Christmas, but still awfully cute as all the "warriors" were Teddy Grahams, when he said:

"Next week when we make houses again with Perfect Daughter, I want to do something different".

OK. I was picturing maybe two houses? Or maybe a street scene? But no, this is what he wants to make---

A scene depicting the Battle of Gettysburg. In royal icing with Teddy Grahams charging as Pickett's division over the open field on the cardboard cake board we use for the little houses. His eyes gleamed as he described to me how it would be..."I'll make the fence they had to climb over out of pretzels...and cannon with peppermint wheels...and the clump of trees on the hill out of sugar cones. I can see it all now."

I reacted with horror (are you serious? Gettysburg, one of the saddest days in our nation's history, depicted in candy and frosting as a Christmas decoration?) mixed with pride, (he remembered that infamous fence and the distant clump of trees! He likes history! He's my boy!)--but mostly, I just think it was funny.

At least it does combine my two favorite activities--learning and eating (sweets). Hershey Kisses will fit in nicely on the battlefield, I'm sure--possibly as Little Round Top, with Chamberlain leading the Teddy Graham charge.

Non-traditional

2007-12-08T13:37:00.000-08:00

Yes, it is that time of the year when we dust off the ol' nutcrackers and place them on the mantle. It's that time of the year when Hershey Kisses come in many colors (and flavors...but really, only the original is worth the weight gain), and that time of the year when usually prudent people spend money on things like plastic candy canes that light up and...even worse...stick them in their yard. (Drive by the herewegoagain house for a looksey). I usually am beyond stressed by December 10th, and you know why?

TRADITION.

No, it's not a tradition for me to get stressed out. Wait, yes it is. But that's not the one that the kids bring up as sure as making Christmas cookies and hanging stockings. AND, buying each child an ornament specifically for him/her (Perfect Daughter gets sparkly, Sweet Girl likes snowmen and Rowdy Son prefers fancy reindeer). AND, buying each child a new house for the Christmas town (Perfect daughter said our town is very religious already and we don't need any more churches--there are 15--Rowdy Son wants more people milling about and Sweet Girl likes the sleighs). AND having my sister over to make gingerbread houses, even if every kid has had the flu and is coughing and sneezing. IT'S TRADITION.

I'm just warning all you people starting out. Those books? You know, "Let's Make a Memory" by Shirley Dobson? Anything by Martha Stewart? Magazines with "Country" in the title? Step away from the books. When you have one precious, perfect daughter, making ornaments each year seems like a lovely tradition. And why not buy her a little ornament to commemorate each year? And if your little guy comes along and likes nutcrackers more than anything, what's one more? And when that baby girl you prayed for asks, 'Mommy, when are we going to make our special 10 kinds of cookies".....well, at that point, I usually start screaming.

This year I told the kids, "Look, you all have 100 ornaments each. When you leave, I will have a bare tree, which I will love and cherish because it means I can put it up and take it down in less than 12 hard hours. I'm not buying more ornaments". Silence, then..."But it's tradition!"

I didn't care. When Rowdy Son pointed out that nutcrackers are cheaper than ever, I told him, "You might want to buy your own, because I personally am not buying any more nutcrackers." WHAT? It's tradition. He actually did fork over his own $2.00 and they look very nice on the mantle.

Sweet girl took her hard-earned $40.00 to Wal-Mart and bought gifts for 20 people. Now there is a tradition I can get behind! I was so happy to see her in the giving, not getting mood. And truly she is like that....but she is NOT going to give up Christmas candy making and cookie baking. It's tradition. And unlike what I told Rowdy Son, I really don't want her to bake alone...the clean-up alone might make a whole new tradition of hiring Merry Maids the week before Christmas. I told her everyone we knew was on a diet. I told her the hot, humid, icky Texas weather right now isn't good for fudge-making. I told said, "OK, I'll make ONE kind of cookie this year"...but you know what? It's tradition. (And can I just add here, that no matter how many sugar cookies, shortbread logs dipped in chocolate, pecan tassies and mini-tarts I make, the favorite cookie at any gathering I go to is...chocolate chip.)

When we bought the borderline tacky lighted candy canes yesterday (Rowdy son HAD to have them, and after all, it has been a tradition to buy one new decoration for the house each year), I knew I was lost again. Today I bought ornaments. I have baking ingredients in the cupboard. My sister is coming on Monday with semi-sick kids and lots of candy for the gingerbread houses.

People tell me I'll miss this someday. I'll send them a postcard from the cruise ship that happy, non-traditional year.

They Played Better than the Turtles

2007-11-22T09:16:00.000-08:00

Another chihuahua cartoon
by Mr Herewegoagain

Armadillo by Morning

2007-11-18T22:00:00.000-08:00

Last night was typical in the herewegoagain household. A little too much chaos and a little too few hours of sleep.

Sweet Girl had her equally sweet cousin spending the night, and Rowdy Son had his equally rowdy best friend over. The girls were sequestered with the chihuahua in Sweet Girl's pink and yellow bedroom, while the boys were on couches in the living room. I had gone to bed early, with the admonition to my son to "lock up".

"Locking up", when you live in the country, isn't about staying safe from two-legged varmints. The crime rate is non-existent as far as we can tell, and frankly, keeping up with keys can be such a pain. And because of that, well, sometimes we are a bit lax.

I knew there was a problem with our front door latch just last week when I woke up to a blast of chilly air coming from the living room. I walked out in to the main room and found the door wide open, and our Aussie sitting comfortably on the front porch--enjoying the cool breezes and the fact that the couches were within quick reach if he wanted to go inside. I figured the door hadn't quite latched properly, obviously wasn't locked, and he had pushed it open. I called him in, made coffee and thought no more of it (except that he made a pretty sight enjoying the 40 degree temps while I shivered in the kitchen for the next hour).

Last night, however, was a different story.

I refer to it as last night, but in actuality, it was "4 a.m. in the morning" as my kids say about early hours. Not that anyone here has ever before seen "4 a.m. in the morning", but it's dark, it's cold, and it's NIGHT.

I woke up to dh getting out of bed to "go investigate a noise". I knew the boys were camping out in the living room, so I figured they were still up or something and needed a dad to make sure they hushed and went to sleep. Oh, they were up all right. And this is the first thing my husband heard when he went out into the living room:

"Dad! There is something alive in this room", hissed Rowdy Son.

"Hissed" is a good word choice, because what was "alive" in the room was definitely hissing. I was still happily oblivious in our bedroom while my husband turned on the kitchen light to see a) a wide-open front door and b) an armadillo scurrying most unhappily through the living room with c) a very awake Australian Shepherd hot on his tail.

Both boys were sitting on their respective couches, feet off the ground, yelling to my husband to "get the armadillo". Meanwhile, the girls woke up. My husband hollered for them to "stay in your room", which had them and the chihuahuah shaking--well, shaking like a chihauahua. The Aussie was sent to my bedroom to get him away from the armadillo. Because frankly, the only thing worse than a live armadillo in your house is a dead one.

When Pip was tossed unceremoniously into our room I sat up, wondering what all the commotion was about. Finally I got out of bed. Good thing too, because apparently I really am the only true Texan in this family, birth certificates notwithstanding. I got to the hallway leading to the girls' bedroom just in time to hear, "He's digging up the carpet!"

Now, I'm not a fan of our ugly old carpet, and there was a brief moment when I thought of going back to bed and hoping he WOULD rip it all up so we would be forced to replace it, but the look on my husband's face made me step up to the challenge. He had a stick, of all things, and he thought poking that little armored shell would make it stop? He obviously didn't know armadillos like I do.. native-born Texan or not.

"Pick it up", I suggested. "Just pick it up".

"WHAT?????"

"Well, that's what they do at the armadillo races...they just pick them up. Do you want me to?".

That got my dh feeling protective again...no, he would pick it up---he just needed gloves, nerves of steel and a clear path to the front door with the critter. He bent over, grabbed the frantically digging mini-dinosaur and took him outside. I have never seen anything move that fast (not just my hubby, but also the armadillo).

The girls, whose room he had been trying to burrow into, emerged...shaken, but OK. The chi started to bravely bark--when any danger has passed, she is very brave. The boys got off the couches to regale us with the story of scary sounds and creepy critters in the night THEY also are much braver when the danger has passed. All was well with the world.

We turned to Rowdy Son in one, well-coordinated parental movement....not exactly angry--more like exasperated....

"We thought you were going to lock up". He looked down. "ANYTHING could have gotten in"...he looked worse...."A skunk!" horrors. "A porcupine" worse. "A snake"--he'll never do it again.

We all headed to bed at 5 a.m. I kidded my husband about trying to prod an armadillo toward the door with a stick and he reminded me that it took me a good while to even join the fracas with all my good advice. What can I say? tThe bed was warm.

Tonight, I need my sleep. The sleepover guests are gone, the chi is in my room, and the front door is locked. Life is good.

Literally

2007-11-16T17:02:00.000-08:00

I do love how kids think. And the things they say. I'm old enough (barely) to remember Art Linkletter bending over to talk to three-year-olds and get their comments on that big fuzzy microphone. A whole TV show revolved around those "darndest things" and it was a hit!

My kids would be stars.

Yesterday we were at the grocery store. We meandered past the floral section, which also has all the helium-filled mylar balloons floating above the vases of roses and gerbera daisies. I was concentrating on trying to find a tomato that might taste like a tomato, and was only vaguely listening while they read off the balloons to each other...

"Oh, look! It's Garfield saying, "Get Well Soon"."

"And there is a pretty one with flowers saying "Get Well Soon"."

"I like this one with Snoopy..."Get Well Soon"."

"There are a lot of "Get Well Soon" ones."

Suddenly, silence.

Then, together, "MOM! WHY would a balloon say that?"

"Say what?" I looked up quickly, worried that some Simpson's phrase had made it onto a kid's birthday balloon.

"We'll miss you", they shrieked in unison. Rowdy Son continued in horror, "Do people really bring that to the hospital? That's just mean."

I guess I need to tell that store to not put the "We'll Miss You" next to the "Get Well Soon" balloons--there is a logical jump that can be made there and it's not always about retirement or moving to a new state. Kids are just too literally-minded to see them together. Although, it was pretty funny.

Lawn Care

2007-11-04T08:26:00.000-08:00

A few days ago Rowdy Son was mowing the front lawn for me. I've been pretty excited since he became old enough to drive the riding mower, because my aim has always been to attain the ranks of those with "manicured lawns". In fact, it has been a very lofty goal of mine ever since DH and I were househunting in a very nice neighborhood several years ago. After checking out a particularly nice home in a cul-de-sac, he said, "We can't live here". "Why on earth not?" I asked...I mean, it was in our price range, close to work, had a community pool and a Walmart close by. Perfect. "Because we would have to keep the lawn nice". Oh, yeah. Check that one off the list.

In the country, there are no neighbors, and the defining reason to keep the grass "low" is to be able to see snakes. So, while we do have a fairly mowed yard, it is not manicured. Now that Rowdy Son is entering the teen years, I'm absolutely salivating at the thought of teenage yard work done on a twice-weekly basis. Manicure, here I come!

However, manicure is not the word for what Rowdy Son accomplished the other day. "Scalped" is more like it. He didn't mean to. He came in, eyes downcast.

"Um, mom?"

"Yes", I answered, irritated that I wasn't hearing the soothing-to-me sound of the mower's engine.

"I think the blade slipped down a notch and I might have cut the grass too short".

Well, yes, he did. In fact, the pattern that he managed to create is very reminiscent of crop circles. Anyone google-earthing us should have a field day trying to figure out who we are trying to contact in outer space.

But really, it wasn't his fault. That night, he was discussing the whole situation with his dad. I interrupted the conversation with, "How on earth could the blade just slip?"

DH: "Well, it broke a while ago..."

Rowdy Son: "And there was a rope holding it."

DH: "I thought we used duct tape?"

Rowdy Son: "Actually, there was both...old rope and duct tape."

DH: "Well, I'm just going to have to use an old coat hanger this time".

Rowdy Son: "Yeah, that'll work".

Me: SPEECHLESS.

Somehow, right then, right there, I gave up my manicured lawn dream. Oh well, then what on earth would the deer and armadillo eat? It's all good.

Freshlaw

2007-10-21T19:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Parents Day at UT. Having never participated in one before for Perfect Daughter's undergrad, we felt bound and determined to go and cheer her on in law school. That, and the fact they were going to feed us twice. (Remember, advice from my dad--1) there is no such thing as a free lunch and 2) never turn down a free lunch). Lunch wasn't free, but it was a good deal, and anyway, I did want to get that burnt-orange T-shirt from the University Co-op. All good reasons to get up at 5:45 and head two hours north.

We enjoyed breakfast, very much enjoyed Dean Sager's welcome speech (isn't he cute?), and then got ready to enjoy Perfect Daughter's perfect tour of the library.

Here's the thing: I went to UT 25 years ago. I have some fond memories of going there, yes, but I also have that recurring nightmare that so many graduates have...not the naked in public one, no, but the "I have a MATH final in a building I've never been to and a class I've never attended and I'm late and I'm lost and I know nothing". It's always math with me-- which could have something to do with my being a film major and shunning all things number-related...but, still. Cold sweats. I have a hard time even typing this because the dream is so very, very real.

All this to say, Perfect Daughter took us on a tour of the law library. It's six floors of books. Many, many books. The kind of books people call "tomes". Tomes, tomes, tomes. Interspersed with more tomes and studious lawyerly types reading them. Not the sort of place a lowly film major would have hung out (we were very into free movies at the Union). As Perfect Daughter took down a tome to show us the cases she had been studying (briefing?) and happily flipped through to explain how very exciting it was to have all this information at her fingertips, I literally felt dizzy. Oh, man, the dream. Only now it was some sort of tome-y law class that I had no idea about, it was the final and I was lost.

Suddenly I realized just why it was I never did go to grad school. The work. The hard, hard work of being a student.

Meanwhile, Rowdy Son was about as dizzy as I was, and later told his grandma about the towers and towers and floors and floors of books his sister had to use. He looked like he might be headed for a film major himself. Oh joy.

After the tour, we definitely needed to remember the real reason we came to UT. It was burnt orange and it was called "shopping at the school bookstore". Better known as the Co-op. We headed across the street to see what sort of souvenirs UT might sell. More like, what don't they sell? There were longhorn-logoed grill covers, flip-flops, socks, shirts, neckties, beanbag chairs, doggie sweaters, golf bags, candies and more (including a Vince Young action figure, along with "Hornopoly"---honestly, who thinks of these things?). I, of course, needed a shirt that proclaimed "Texas Law". Perfect Daughter and I had just started to pick out something that would make me look less like a hot air (orange) balloon and more like a mom, when a very nice man came up to talk to us. "Are you a 1L at the law school?", he asked. We smiled broadly and said that Perfect Daughter was, and I mentioned how proud I was of her. We could not believe he just "knew" we were there for the law school. After all, UT has 50,000 students and lots of parents were in town. Was it our articulate conversation? Was it how we spoke so confidently of her college career? Was it the overall great impression we tend to exude when out and about? He was an attorney in Austin (an alum of the school), so we chatted pleasantly about con-law and litigating and all things lawyer, and then he went his way and we went back to the shirts. It was only after the entire herewegoagain family was back out on the sidewalk, happily perusing our purchases in the sunlight that I realized we all were wearing our "Hello, I'm Family Member Herewegoagain" name tags with University of Texas Law School all over them. And we thought we just LOOKED like the law school types. Oh yes.

Camping

2007-10-17T16:33:00.000-07:00

Rowdy Son has decided to be a boy scout. Seriously. Not as in, "Oh, wouldn't it be fun to go scouting, earn badges and help little old ladies cross the street?", but as in, "I want to be an Eagle Scout. How do we do that?"

"We" means me. Because we homeschool, we joined a nice troop of homeschooled boys. Because we homeschool, they wanted to camp during the week to take advantage of "no crowds". Because we homeschool, mr. herewegoagain was totally off the hook on this one. Not to mention, he was off the hook anyway since his reaction to our new-found avocation was "Are you serious?" followed by "You must be crazy". This is not a dissing of scouting. Far from it. This is a look-me-up-and-down-and-know-my-every-thought from a husband to a wife. He was right. I was crazy.

I guess I thought boy scouting would be making moccasins out of leather-working kits, serving cookies at troop meetings and strugging with sewing on the many, many badges we would earn as a hard-working homeschooling family who takes things seriously.

I didn't know that scouting is, um, camping. LOTS of camping. Camping primitively. Camping in snow. Camping in heat. Camping when there is really no good reason to camp. Camping for the sole purpose of canoeing for four hours at a time. Camping for the absolutely crazy purpose of hiking 20 miles at a time. All of the above requiring a parent (me!) to tag along for "the fun".

The great thing about our little troop is that it is family friendly. That means that Sweet Girl and the chihuahua were welcome. That actually meant that Sweet Girl added her two cents to the camping plea...when Rowdy Son asked if we could go, she plaintively mentioned..."I've never been camping".

(Time out here to mention we live on three acres surrounded by fifty acres of nothing on one side, 20 on the other, no one for miles across the street...lots of deer. Stars at night. Bonfires when we want them. Who NEEDS CAMPING?????).

They do.

So, I said, "Sure". I was such a trooper. Pun intended. We planned for days. I made Rowdy Son get out our 20-year-old tent and put it up three times by himself. I shopped at Walmart for all the necessities...cool telescooping hot dog/marshmallow skewers, lanterns that needed expensive batteries, bug spray, clothesline, wet wipes, and more. Let's just say, after I left Walmart I was $200.00 poorer (about the cost of a lovely night in a luxury hotel, but nooooooo, I was headed to the woods).

We set up the tent, we checked out our site, we swam, we kayaked, we canoed. We were in our swimsuit with every dry item of clothing we owned in our tent when the skies opened. And I mean OPENED. It was at that point that I asked what was covering everyone else's tent. "You mean the rain fly?". Um, yeah. We didn't have one. After 45 minutes of a non-stop deluge, the rain stopped to a drizzle and I left our not-so-dry shelter to go to our very-not-so-dry tent. EVERYTHING was wet. I was wearing a wet swimsuit and had my pick of two pairs of wet jeans, an assortment of wet shirts and absolutely no dry bedding to choose from for the long night ahead. The kids had a play tent in the car, and we took that out so they could be sort of dry. I had the family tent, the dog, a wet sheet for covers and wet towels for a pillow. The chihuahua was a nice heater, except for the fact that she emitted a low growl at every rustle. Do you know how many rustles there are in the woods at night? Do you know how LONG that night was? Oh, I forgot to mention one thing. I was ASSURED that we would be near "the facilities". I was PROMISED that we would be a short walk from running water. Apparently to scouts and middle-aged women short walks are very different things. I spent the better part of early morning (from 4 to 6 am) debating whether I was brave enough to walk to the restroom. In the end, I took my fearless chihuahua with me, who basically shivered in fear and cold all for the entire 1/2 mile hike. Or, maybe that was me.

The next morning, Sweet Girl greeted me with shining eyes. "Mom," she exclaimed, "This is the best time of my life. Can we camp every month?" I just stared at her.