We'll Always Remember

Tennis has been heavily on my mind the past few days. Well, actually, it has been on my mind heavily for the past week or so. I'm trying my hardest, without even holding my racket, much less being on a court with another human being, to figure out what my USTA rating would be. I want it to be 3.5. I hope it would be 3.5. 3.5 sounds like fun, it sounds challenging, it sounds like a nice skill set to be working in, and it sounds like I wouldn't be badly beaten every single time. 4.0 sounds on paper like where I might be (hey, I could even make a case for a 4.5...on paper, that is!), but I don't believe in paper. Paper doesn't play matches with real live opponents. So unless forced to do otherwise by someone with more experience identifying placement, I'm going to call myself a 3.5. I've settled on this idea that a pro is going to have to tell me what to do based upon watching me.

So while I've been on this tennis kick, I went to my closet and pulled out my high school yearbooks in hopes of seeing what my season records were my junior and senior year. Unfortunately, that information wasn't available, but I was able to pretty much mesh what information was there with what my brain remembers, which is that when I started, I lost two, and that seems correct--the team's season record was 7-2 that year. I also couldn't remember the names of all six starters that year. As I recalled, our only losses were to the usual suspects, Cox and First Colonial.

But meanwhile, I got lost in the voluminous writing on the back and front pages of my yearbook. I don't know if everyone's high school yearbook is similar, but I had at least one person, sometimes two, claim entire blank two page spreads for themselves. Donna's entry is a cacophony of text, drawing, a combination of the two (her name upside down and backwards written in words), and just sheer insanity. I laughed so hard reading it, although I can't say that I've read the entire thing because it is so non-linear. And here's the kicker: I can't remember what about half of this stuff she wrote means! What I do remember reading her entry and many of the others is that obviously my life in high school was comprised of one personal joke or reference after another with just about anyone I knew. We must have sounded like we were talking or writing in a secret code, because I sure as heck don't know what we were talking about! Here are some of the things that I can't remember:

* Nightmare on ice skates, Part 1 Bobby-obby-obby
* Hey, guess what? I played in the park, but I didn't hear Freddy in the bushes. (although I think I have a guess on this one...)
* Party at J-Man's House! Stay all night--Maki and Mary Frances did! (I don't know who J-Man, Maki, or Mary Frances are)
* The Mystic Order of the Holy Ham (this rings a bell, but what does it mean?)
* Bossy Cow Jokes
* something about SQUIDS from AP English class?
* Lichens. Several people mentioned something about lichens.
* Bitte klopfen and the sacred caterpillar (this was from creative writing class, it seems)
* More than one person asked if I was "naked or was I nude"

There are these hysterical pictures, too, including "A Rare Photo of HELL The Day You Graduated," drawings of Donna and I in our pickle costumes (we honestly had professional photos done with us wearing John Lennon sunglasses and wearing posterboard pickles), and a drawing of me waving my nose hairs at someone. Then there's the occasional totally "out there" comment from someone I knew very well, but I can't imagine making the particular comment they made. There's Joe Kennedy, with his odd little half-calligraphy blurb about incredible person blah, blah, blah stuff, and than at the end adds a "P.S. You really look good in a formal." What's that supposed to mean?! Then there was some joke about "Let me know when you get those sex-improvement video tapes you ordered," coming from Jason Bair. Huh?

Then my very amazing tennis partner, Kalpana, had all kinds of little gems that I can barely attach any meaning to. "Be a Woman." I definitely remember saying that, but not the context. And it seems I had a big thing about "Hit her where it hurts!"

Finally, Tricia left this entire treatise on silence. With a big blank space for it. Obviously, silence seems to have been a big problem between us. Why do I always end up spending time with people with whom this silence thing becomes an issue?

Other notable comments about high school based on my yearbook: I had longish hair, and it was still very naturally blonde. Trish Goodwin is on probably every other page. I seem to have missed getting in the picture for half of the activities I was in. I still picture everyone looking just as they did then.

Back to the present, Frances was fully recovered today. By the time she got up this morning, she was doing running flips onto the mattress in Rutledge's room and she was eating waffles. She tested negative for strep, which is not quite what I wanted to hear, since it means that this was probably a virus, but looking on the bright side of things, at least it was very short-lived. The vomiting phase lasted only 1.5 hours, even if it was a bit intense. And although she had an intermittent tummy ache all day, it didn't exactly slow her down. So I'm hoping that if I am similarly cursed with the illness that it will be as quick for me.

Ollie lost three of four matches today at the wrestling tournament. He was pinned in under 30 seconds by the first opponent, but steadily imrproved as the morning went on. The bye in the second round affected his momentum, I heard; too much time between his first and second match made him lose interest. And his nemesis from last year broke his arm today and will be out for the rest of the season. Not that it makes a difference to Ollie's season, since Ollie has moved on to Midget and Trey is still a Bantam. Since this is the tournament where Ollie broke someone's arm last year, it seems pretty clear that the referees need to be a little more on top of things as far as making it clear when the time is up so that no one shoots an unsuspecting person.

I suppose between not having approrpriate BRAT diet items in our house during a possible stomach virus and just needing food in general, we somehow ended up overdoing the grocery shopping today. We went three separate places, spending a rather large amount at each, resulting in an even more staggering grand total. But now we have so much food that our fridge can barely hold it, and even the garage fridge is feeling the pain. Both Frances and I are highly interested in protein, so we have many nuts and trail mixes and cheeses. Hopefully this will help both of us stay on a more even keel. And I engaged in a rather naughty clandestine shopping expedition of my own, which was probably not the best idea on a day of major grocery shopping and when I haven't checked the balance in our checking account recently. The truth is going to come out sooner or later (I vote sooner), so I hope that my lovely new tennis clothes make Kerry smile as much as they made me. I never did find my missing white skirt, so I had to do something, right?! Now I just have to figure out the answer to this burning question of tennis etiquette: if my skirt is orange/salmon, what color should my shorts/bloomers or whatever you call them be? I hope that white is an appropriate answer!

What Do You Do All Day?

Amazing...I skipped an entire day of blogging, didn't even write part of a post to finish on another day. It's the first time since probably the very beginning of September, and possibly before. The world did not come to an end.

Yesterday's sinus headache was finally eradicated with a shot of espresso and three more ibuprofen, and perhaps an improvement in weather. I really got around yesterday. Home in the morning, out to Ashland and the park in the early afternoon (though I forgot skateboards when we were going to the skate park, and by the time I realized it we were too far along to turn around), back to Midlothian to gymnastics, out to Target, around the bend to refuel the car, back to gymnastics for a while, out to run three more errands, then to tennis out in the other direction again. Overall, though, it was an invigorating day. Way too much equipment and special clothing to keep track of, though, considering we had to leave the house around noon and cover three sports with special needs.

I should probably spare both any potential readers and myself any extended tennis rapture. Suffice it to say that although I am physically very out of shape and I counted myself fortunate to still be standing up and not lying flat on my back staring at the lights as I came to with the smelling salts, I had a great time. Running is okay in my book, and I suppose it has some purpose to someone at some time, but I just like to hit the ball. A lot. I think I need some special alone time with the ball machine. I may have completely lost my edge, but it's still as much fun as ever, and just like any of the last few times I've played, I can't stop thinking about how I'm going to make this a regular thing again. Embarrassing confession: I laboriously wrapped the grip of my racket while I was at the park, and I couldn't figure out which side of the tape was supposed to face the outside. I made the best choice I could, and at the end there was this sticky piece of adhesive something on a little point, and it was the wrong side out. I ignored it and stuck tape right over top of it. Hmmm....

I just had the funniest conversation with Rutledge. He doesn't speak a lick of English, which is a lot of why it is amusing to chat with him. He has so very much to say, and it's not difficult to figure out what he means, but you can go back and forth for ten minutes with him and not notice a single, recognizable word. He was pleased with himself for coming up with a play on words with the way he pronounces "no" and "nurse." He couldn't stop laughing about that. Then the wind started blowing while the windows were open, and he had shut the bedroom door, and the door started rattling. At first he was concerned about what was happening. I told him about the wind, and he chattered at me for a while about it, then got off the bed, went to the door, and started shaking it and saying the same gibberish there, then laughing. He just can't get enough of his own jokes. And it's always interesting to be having these odd little discussions with someone in nothing but a Christmas t-shirt, a diaper, his massive, chunky thighs and ankles, and pink Care Bears slippers.

Walter is playing Timez Attack, which is the math game that I have been dreaming about and describing as my ideal for reinforcing math facts--enough appearance like a familiar video game, but no excess narrative to wade through and plenty of practice. Many, many thanks to Christi M. for sharing the link. Since it's Friday, we're going to call this math for today. He even asked on the way home from wrestling tonight whether he could play it again at home. Definitely! Ollie and I are catching up on the GeoBee challenges that we have gotten behind on this week. And a couple of minutes ago I came downstairs to hear some woman moaning on the television, Ollie about three inches away from it (he needs those glasses!), and then a very slimy-looking baby. Of course, this woman was draped from head to toe, as was everyone else in the room, in scrub green, and the commentator said something afterwards like, "There was little injury." Can I say how much I just hate shows like A Baby Story or that other one that is even more medical-disaster oriented? All of those shows give me flashbacks to how no one would leave me alone when I was pregnant with the twins, everything signified impending doom and necessitated a trip to some medical office halfway across town or some invasive diagnostic test that needed to repeated at two or three different locations. Do you know how many types of ultrasound wands there are?!

Frances is shirtless, painting on a piece of wood that she has pierced little stars into with the tip of a philips head screwdriver. Rutledge was eating yogurt, and while I was putting a different color of paint into a pot for Frances, he took the yogurt into another room and dropped it all over the floor and then it seems to have exploded forward about four feet in blobs all over a sisal rug. Nice. And of course his body is covered in yogurt, and then he proceeded to scream for ten minutes because I took the yogurt away from him. Frances has just wiped brown and yellow paint down her chest because she couldn't find a paper towel fast enough. And when I told her to go into the downstairs bathroom to wash her hands now that she is done, she became belligerant in saying, "But we ARE downstairs." Yes, I said, that's why I said use the downstairs bathroom. "But we already ARE downstairs." Just go into the bathroom and wash your hands! Don't touch anything on the way! I'm waiting for the third load of laundry to finish up, managed to fold two other loads from last night, put away toys in Rutledge's room, including tossing a bunch in a bag to take to the attic. And I have been irritatingly single-minded about searching for the missing tennis skirt. I remember where I was last time I had it--it was right before that poop disaster in the hallway last Saturday, and I thought I was going to be playing tennis at any minute and was ready; then I decided that this white skirt was not the appropriate attire for this level of cleaning. Now I've been through all of my drawers, my closet, all of the clean laundry, sorted the dirty laundry, and now I'm on to searching in other poeple's dressers, their dress-up bins. I am rather frustrated. I need it.


Frances is talking to me now about whether she is ever an "orphalin," which I think is an orphan. It is not a very comforting conversation. I think she wants to be a partial orphalin, like when Kerry and I both aren't home and she is with a sitter or great grandmother, but when I said that orphan usually means that your parents are not coming back, she got that furrowed brow look of hers and walked away.

Because we had slipped into a spiral of mess-making with Frances painting, Rutledge getting too close to her, Rutledge eating lots of messy food and carrying it around with him (spaghetti, yogurt, drinks in open cups) and I could see us breaking down into naptime, I figured we might as well descend on someone else's house and take our madness elsewhere. Sure enough, Rutledge stayed asleep for about an hour and half, and the other kids played together for once without major incident. Frances is SUCH a girl now--everything is about holding hands, going to the bathroom with a friend along for company, trying on other people's clothes. Ugh. Not, of course, that I was being terribly much better, sitting on the floor in this friend's upstairs hallway fluffing out Christmas wreaths and attaching bows, climbing out the window onto her roof or manning the 9-1-1 phone just in case she fell off, and sharing my most recent outrageous a-bit-too-personal story, and how I should turn this into a book, which we unanimously agreed must be written under a pseudonym. And then worse yet, it was on to trying on formal dresses, not that I have any reason to wear one or would normally care, but by the time I left I was trying to figure out where I might go dressed like this. I was reminded that I have no concrete New Years Eve plans, too, which was either a comforting or appalling prospect, depending on how I was looking at it from minute to minute. Anyway, this dress trying-on was its own little comic session. There was the blue dress we both tried on (okay, I only held it up to me and some glob of skin fell out of this part cut out of the front and it was obvious this was one kind of dress that would never happen for me...) and we both had plenty of commentary about what is wrong with us post-children. Then there was the dress that was working, but which I got trapped in the sleeves of while I was taking it off and ended up stuck sitting shirtless with no bra on for about five minutes trying to undo very difficult buttons while a large number of children were passing in and out of the room. And of course there's the mortifying fact that if I were to wear it, some serious alteration would have to happen because I am facing the truth that I have, without question now, dropped two cups sizes in as many months. And that this is going to be the state...forever. Of course, I don't want to remedy the situation, really. Which led to my favorite recent discussion topic: Should I get an IUD? No one is saying what I want to hear. No one. The responses have ranged from, "Why would YOU need one of those?!" to "What do you mean? You don't want to have my dark-haired babies?!" Sigh....

But on to more appropriate topics.... Today was weigh-in for the Richmond Rumble, and not only did we manage to get extremely lost after being forced to take a detour at the River/Cary intersection, but Ollie weighed under the minimum for Midget, which doesn't bode well. Perhaps we should have kept his fingernails on. This was one serious weigh-in. He was in his singlet, but before getting on the scale three people strip-searched him for signs of fungus and lingered a bit too long on the burn scar on his arm (which admittedly does look a little suspicious for recovery from ringworm), then declared that he could not be weighed until his fingernails were cut and shoved a nail clipper at us. Even more foreboding is the fact that as we were slowly making our way through the parking lot, Trey, his underweight nemesis pulled up. If only Ollie could have made 50 pounds, he might have had a fighting chance of wrestling against someone else. It seems that Kerry and Debbie and Mark have a deal with Ollie that when he beats Trey, we will have a big pizza party for him. So Ollie asked, "Will both Marks be there?" Yes. "Could Trace and Zane come?" Sure. "What about Marty and Peter?" Yes. Then Frances asks about Lainey. Sure. Unfortunately, the reality of this happening is incredibly slim. So we might as well invite everyone we know!

Okay, bad end to the day. Frances threw up while we were watching The Polar Express, and four times again before the movie was over. Hey, it's only 5 or so times this year she has had something like this :( And most of the rest of us usually come along for the ride, eventually. Out of character for myself, I'm almost hoping that my turns comes quickly so that I know it's over with and I can move on with my life. This is so very much not fun, and one of the bad times for having a large family.

I am always amazed that I can remember the various passwords I have everywhere. My heart flutters a bit every time something asks for either my user name or password because there are so very many. There are the places that want something longer than 6 characters. The ones that positively require some numbers. And I feel like a fool beyond all foolishness when I can't accurately fill in something that asks for my "name." I've been so many names--NancyCl2001 (yes, that's one that insisted I have some numeric figures in there), nantwins, my real name, my name with an underscore, my email handle, some past email handle. It's frustrating. I'm stunned I'm actually on this site and able to compose something after not remembering my own identity.

Today was one of those relatively lovely days, made all the more lovely by the fact that the phone rang early and I was out of bed and functional at 8 a.m., something I wish I was every morning but that doesn't always work out the way I planned because I stay up too late or sleep poorly and try to make up for it by sleeping late in the morning. Such is the luxury of my life. But the very best days, to me, are the ones spent lingering at the park. Especially after having productive schoolwork done. We were on a roll this morning. Everything intended was covered. Cheerfully, even. I'm not sure when we turned that corner to not having the struggle or groans when I say it's time to get our work done. Now if only I could get them to pay attention to whether there is a plus or a minus sign in the problem, we'd be cruising right along with everything done in about 45 minutes or fewer. How does a person spend four hours at the park, though?! But it was charming. Relaxing.

Quantity time has been on my mind lately. Whatever that means. I'm into quantity time at the moment, maybe because I'm too lazy to move around doing a bunch of different things. With the twins, I'm trying to figure out how I can combine some quality and quantity with them while not bumping into that continual frustration of where Rutledge is. I badmouth poor Mr. Rutty all the time lately, and I'm ignoring the fact that increasingly he is playing with Frances or better yet, by himself in his bedroom. Count the blessings of the later child, right? Walter and Ollie couldn't do anything without me being right in sight; Rutty probably craves the occasional quiet, alone spot.

Our cat is rather sweet. It's a shame that I never, ever think about her. I forget we even have a cat most of the time. She has been my good buddy for the past few nights, although I can't seem to get through to her that watching her licking herself makes my skin crawl. Right now she is curled up in a rather strange manner on her back with her legs in the air and is sleeping against me. I had never been a cat person before we found Minou, and I'm still probably never going to truly be a cat person (all that licking! Those nasty dead moles!). Which reminds me that tonight I will, no matter what, get out of the Tiki Room. It's like a magnet for me. I have a million excuses why I'm here. Not the least tonight because I have an intimidating mountain of laundry in my bedroom; I can't relax or sleep when there is clutter in my space.

I finished the book I was reading last night, the one April recommended. It was chick lit, for sure, but there's most certainly a time and place for it, and this one was better than most. The ending was so-so, as I guess was the book. What is it lately with books tying up so very neatly at the end? The Kite Runner did this is a major and rather annoying way. This book also did it, but because it was so much lighter in tone and was goofy for the most part anyway, it was less bothersome. And the protagonist was some combination of really funny and freaky--in that sense that she made me think, please tell me I'm not as insane as her. No one I share this crazy idea of mine with agrees with me at all, and forgive me if I've written it in this venue before (do we ever really think any new thoughts?), but my belief is that true friendship is predicated on a belief that your friend is crazier than you are. And that the feeling has to be mutual: "I'm the normal one, and you are not!" I know, that's awful! And worse than awful was that I kept thinking, oh my, this character in this book is so much like Donna (down to the red hair...). I am a bad, bad girl. It is perhaps time for a Jane Austen fix.

When, oh when, is this odd throat thing at night going to end? Could I be developing an allergy to the Tiki Room? I hate to repeat my favorite line lately, but maybe this is another case of "Here's your sign."

Now it's morning, and wow, what a sinus headache. My normal attack plan is to sleep it off, but that's a little out the winsow when you wake up with the problem. On to caffeine, methamsudafed (the kind you need to show I.D. for now...sigh), and it's still there. Starbucks might be the next plan. Or crazy amounts of water, though that sounds like a questionable plan seeing as we're going to be at a park with nothing but a Porta-John for the better part of today.

Mission accomplished with school again, too, today. Now the remains of the day can take shape, with no guilt. Plans: continue systematic cleaning (I'm doing the ADD version right now...), mop kitchen floor, remember to feed the children lunch today, Pufferbelly Park, get to gymnastics on time for once, try not to spend any money while I wait during gymnastics, wrestling, and bed. And make the headache go away.

I had an interesting email today from someone saying that the reasons I gave for not wanting to blog any more might be reasons to actually continue. That's some seriously screwy logic, but it's right up my alley. Kerry asks me, "Does it make you happy?" Well, yes, it does. And he admitted that I've been more fun to be around/happier in his opinion since I started writing. I tried to explain my reasoning, which I didn't post anywhere but wrote out for myself in a very brief 15 minute kind of way last night, and I think it made no sense to him. So I had to leave it at the jerking off metaphor. It's funny, but I don't mind it so much with the people who are far distant, but it's uncomfortable to me to see this one-way medium mediating, if not often replacing my contact with the people I see more frequently. At any rate, it makes absolutely no sense to say something like "I'm not sure how I feel about this one-way conversation, I'm not sure how I feel about sharing my rambly thoughts," when I'm the one who is willingly doing it night after night. I could write about other things, for example, than myself and my children and my nutso theories on this or that. I could just stop writing. So I opted for the temporary "Just Stop Writing" approach. And there it is.

So I'm doing this for myself and adhering to a 30 minute rule. Writing makes me feel happy. It's easier for me to write here than to write thinking that I'm writing this article for possible publication. I'd rather rough draft it here than face the dreaded blank screen of writer's block. Here I don't feel that. What comes out is much more raw, it would need a lot of editing to turn it into anything other than what you see here, but there's a higher chance of that happening than the blank white paper turning into that. And so I plug on.

Today was co-op. For once I was unenthused. There were a lot of reasons. Myriad, if I dare use my most-hated word. I felt unprepared. I was still feeling physically irritated by my throat. I was irritable in general with noise, my children's crying/bickering/losing things, and my own disorganization. I feel like a slacker and a choas-bringer when compared with other people there. I still feel like my gang is the trouble element in a group--the factor that makes things unravel, the factor that sends children outside the fence, toward the streets, out of bounds. I still feel like the weak link--the one who doesn't do enough, can't be counted on, is totally distracted (which I am). I feel like it's obvious that other people want something different than I originally had wanted, and yet I'm holding them back. And then I realized that maybe I wanted the same things, too. The multiple recent breaks haven't helped matters. And today it was so hard for me to be on top of Rutledge. I abandoned him with other people, then felt bad about it, but obviously not bad enough to not do it. And I said that I wanted more homework again. Which I think just pissed people off, because I had been the one earlier saying that the homework was a drag (which it was). But I think it's necessary. I've changed my tune. I'm wanting the structure now. I need the connection to what my children are doing that we had been missing. I need the feeling that co-op is more than a big, fun playdate for all involved. And I definitely need the feeling that I'm not wrecking it for the people to whom it matters most. Me, I have friends, I have places to get out my socialist (had to use that word!) energy. Socializing. If I'm going to bother to prepare for co-op, then I want my children to prepare, and I want them and others to get the most they can out of it, especially the older ones. I realized that we don't have a lot of spaces in our schedule that are bona fide learning activities with cohesiveness, continuity, organized knowledge being imparted. And we all know that what I do at home is sketchy at best! So if this is our One Big Thing for the week, I care enough about it to want it to do a better job of what it intends. Well, at least as well as that can happen when the Clendenons are involved ;) The best part of today was making bridges out of straws and masking tape, as on Zoom. Even Frances was able to engage fully with this activity and made a very interesting version of a triangulated support, which given infinite time and straws she might have been able to use to full advantage in supporting this cup full of 100 pennies. It was neat to see the kids working together, maybe even better to see them presenting their stuff to the group and telling what each member of the team had done. We had four teams and four different bridges. I'd post a picture if I understood this particular client a little better. We also made the cranberry bread from "Cranberry Thanksgiving," an interesting little book that Frances adores and has memorized a large part of. I never did get to sample the final product because we left it on-site when we went to art. And I dare not ask what it was like; it appeared as though it would make a very fine doorstop. The batter/dough itself was just plain wrong-looking, even allowing some space for cranberries to release juices during cooking. It didn't look like other cranberry bread I've seen, that's all I can say. There were a lot of cooks in the kitchen, though. Who knows if anything happened while my back was turned!

This weekend is the Richmond Rumble. This is a pretty big regional tournament at St. Christopher's, and Ollie is going to wrestle. We're not sure Walter is ready for this much competition at such a low weight. Last year I want to say it was almost snowy the night that we went for weigh-in, so maybe we'll have that type of luck this year. Going out there twice in two days is a bit of a tiring exercise, and I think there's also a Cub Scout Pack Meeting that evening where they are supposed to have their space derby rockets (which we haven't even bought, much less done anything with). I wouldn't normally care this much, but they missed the last meeting, and they could get their Bobcat Badge if they went, but I think weigh-in is going to conflict, unless we can go very early. Now that wrestling season has started, Cub Scouts has totally gone by the wayside. At any rate, this particular wrestling event is good experience for Ollie. Last night at practice they had a take-down tourney within the club, and he made it through about four guys who were bigger than him, up to 15 pounds or so heavier. So he's really making progress. I think he is more enthusiastic now that two of his friends are there with him. Tonight I was talking with someone's husband about "head, heart, and hands" as components for all optimal learning, and we were talking about this other club lacking the heart element. It has made me stop and wonder about whether there's heart in our other learning. Like our math book, for instance. Does Math-U-See have a heart? I don't think we should answer that question.

*#&$(*&^Q)$_$&&!!!!

Yes, I'm back in Blogger after one day because the &$&^@#)^^%)!!@ Macbook suddenly sprouted the white screen of death barely more than 24 hours after it was returned to me. In a bizarre turn of events, I actually did not check my email at all after 9:00 this morning, so I can't explain it. But I want to scream. So maybe I just will. My new set of demands: All new computer with all of MY stuff on it exactly where it belongs just as it is now; instantaneous service (no more 5 day waits); no more goddamn trips to the West End this week! I've been looking at Dell and some other places for alternate options. This is such bs.

Juli, if you are reading, it's Miranda. Miranda. Speak of the devil, while I was trying to get Rutledge down (as yet unsuccessful...), Sex and the City was on, and there she was. I can see the resemblance, but I wouldn't mob you in the Gloucester Wal-Mart and ask for your autograph; it's not that close. And besides, you aren't her character anyway ;)

I fear that I am getting a very bad reputation these days. First I abandon a child at a large "Fashion Park," while I have another mother's child in my charge. Then I admit that I had contemplated going home instead of picking up my three children from a friend's house, because I suddenly was not feeling well (but let me add, my dh had already been called and wouldn't have let them stay too long...). I mean really, would you want me to come and die in your house? I didn't think so. So note to all those who might be reading: please let me drop off my children again some day!!! I promise to return!!! I've never really left a child overnight!!! And for anyone contemplating letting one of your dear ones in my vehicle on an excursion, I've never left behind any children but those who passed through my loins.

Which leads back to my little health issue. I consulted a lovely but highly unqualified friend today, who provided a kind, reflectively listening ear ("you are feeling very distressed!") as I poured out my tale of woe, and then told me that I must seek competent medical advice. This precipitated a half dozen phonecalls to offices that I hate (prickly Physicians of Family Medicine Clover Hill, whatever the nasty surgeon's office was that forced me to call my primary care doctor from a pay phone to get a referral faxed over) to figure out how to get my gallbladder scan pictures transferred to the new doctor. Now I have to go to St. Francis Medical Center tomorrow morning to sign a release, and given the snotty attitude of large practices these days, it will probably take a week for them to actually send what I want (several places have had rude signs saying something like, "Don't come asking us for referrals or record transfers that you need right away unless you are going to drop dead in our office this minute, in which case you are to proceed to the nearest E.R."). And then it's on to making an appointment and trying to cover the childcare issue. And of course the basic fear that someone is going to want to do some kind of invasive test that involves drinking odd semi-liquids. But something must be done to assure myself that I am do not have some dread disease.

I have been so loud lately. I've always had this voice modulation problem, made all the worse if I have been drinking. One glass of wine is all it takes lately to make my head spin, though I dare say there are SOME PEOPLE lately who make me look pretty stable. Saturday night it was the inadvertently practically shouted comment about sexual frequency (prefaced, ironically, by the phrase, "You're the only one I can talk to about things like this!"), right as we were walking through Michael's, causing wild laughter from total strangers (hey, a stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet...). Then it was bizarre and just over the top snarky conversations with my new neighbor, about whom I really know nothing, about how my other neighbors hate me. Then a perhaps too free conversation with two lovely friends I don't know all that well yet (but I was *not* the first to show my belly...). Then a rehashing of the most intimate of topics from Saturday night at a child's 5th birthday party to someone who I had not seen in months and who didn't need *that much* information from me. Today I was way too mean and goofy at co-op. All I can say is I hope I behaved at the birthday party tonight. I seem to be on a bad roll. I used to be a pretty reserved person, but maybe that Republican comment from Kerry really got to me. Now if I could just get my kids to stop talking about that bra I crocheted....

AND WHY DOESN'T ANYONE WANT TO MAKE THOSE 6 MAGIC CABIN DOLLS WITH ME!!!!


My daughter cried tonight. I was gone for what, two hours?, and she was sobbing uncontrollably, dramatically pitching wadded up Kleenex over her shoulder (I found them all over the floor and stuffed back into the tissue box...eww). So Kerry felt he simply must call me during dinner so that she could hear my voice, and then he said I was mean to her! Mean! I wasn't mean. I had listened to her crying for hours today. Walter used to do this kind of thing, even up through last year. I should be very flattered, and they seem to adore me despite my Mommy Dearest moments (today I was not exactly the kind and gentle Mama), but sheesh. Can't a person go out during normal evening hours without the homefront completely falling apart? What a sweet little girl, though. She was waiting patiently for me when I came home, with her _Pair of Red Clogs_ in hand for me, giggling over her favorite parts of the story. And if I may boast, I did a darn good job of reading this book tonight--my voice is definitely back now (finally), and maybe it was absence making the heart grow fonder again, but all three kids were enthralled and wanted me to do it again. It's rare that I get asked to do an encore of the same book these days. She just loves her own special vocabulary word "murmur," and the crazy voice for the sound that the shoes make after they are broken. It's funny which books hit a kid when you wouldn't expect it.

I received some very sad news tonight. One of my very good friends is back on yet another tour in Iraq. I thought he was transferred to Texas so that he would be in some position where this wouldn't happen again. Maybe such a thing doesn't exist. We should be proud that the U.S. is represented by someone as wonderful as Jack, but for God's sake, this is not worth losing someone like him over.

I am a Republican

Alright, TWICE in the past three days I have been called a Republican. I refuse to elaborate on accusation #1 (Rebecca, shut up--you know what I'm talking about!). The old me would have laughed, then justified or hurled comments right back. But the new me is saying, there may well be viable explanation, but I'm not going to take offense and I'm going to explore and remedy if needed. 'Nuff said here. The second instance was at this crazy quiz someone posted on another blog I read (and she discovered, alas, that she is a Republican, too!). http://applebeesamerica.com/quiz.


I'm probably not allowed to do this, stealing someone else's quotation without prior permission, but I ran across it again tonight, and I have to save it for myself somewhere, so here it is (BTW, It's from Celeste on the blog http://lifewithoutschool.typepad.com/):

"A few years ago, several friends of mine discovered an amazing new reading curriculum which worked wonders with their “late readers”. It was extremely effective, transforming illiterate children into proficient readers seemingly overnight. The new curriculum was colorful, attractive, and especially appealing to boys, who begged to use it constantly. Many parents were delighted to find that the curriculum also simultaneously taught valuable arithmetic skills and fostered interpersonal communications. And the price was surprisingly affordable, putting it within reach of most families.

But you won’t find this curriculum in the pages of any homeschooling catalog on the market. Why not? Because this amazing reading curriculum consisted of….a deck of Pokemon cards."

How very true that is. This morning, though, Ollie finished another book, _The Riot Brothers_. I dare say we are turning a corner, moving beyond just Calvin and Hobbes and reading captions in the margins about Greek Gods. He has been picked on a lot lately by the adults around him for his obvious desire to be one of the grown-ups. At lunch today, he was asking me, "What is your favorite brand of wine?" and coming back with his own responses. In beer, of course it's Sam Adams (but "Those German beers, are they stronger than American beers? What makes some beers dark?"). In harder liquor, it's bourbon for him ("Don't you like a good single-malt, though, Ollie?"). He is concerned about Iran's nuclear threat. He does not support further U.S. engagement in Iraq. And did you vote for George W. Bush? If he's such an idiot, then why did more people vote for him than voted for that other guy--what was his name? The one with the same name as my Dad? Why do you have to be 18 to vote? Why do you have to be 16 to drive a car ("Well, Ollie, it would help if you were over 4 feet tall...")? I'm constantly having to tell him, "Ollie, go away and play with the other kids!"

The Apex of Degradation

I have become enamoured, maybe you'd say, with this phrase today. It's nearly as good, though not quite, since it wasn't aimed directly at me, as "nefarious agendas," which I promise to say more about someday.

There's something fundamentally wrong to me about the phrase "The apex of price degradation," which I read today in the WSJ with regard to PC prices this coming holiday season. I could *so* write for them; I just eat up this verbal fancifulness. I suggested "nadir" as the appropriate term, Kerry prefers "trough" as the economist's choice ("We economists don't use dem dare fancy big words."). Whichever term you prefer, Kerry is experiencing some jealousy of my now highly developed relationship with the Macbook, and he is already developing plans for dispensing with a theoretical surplus resulting from overtime hours when the December lows come. And can you believe that we are in fact a mere two weeks or so away from Thanksgiving? And thus barely more than that away for us from a Christmas tree? To say this is off my radar at the moment would be to state the obvious. I typically do not embrace the winter season since having children--it's nothing but an endless string of sickness, house arrest, and lack of essential daylight hours--and I'm not anticipating the impending one any more than I have the past few years.

Meanwhile, as I'm typing here on this PC, accessing my accounts through a very slow and clunky webmail, fighting for equal time on the machine with numerous family members (I was just informed I had lost all media privileges because I brought cereal into the playroom and was shoving it in my mouth while using the computer), I'm contemplating my own return from the Dark Side soon. Now that I'm finishing up full day #4 of not having the Macbook and having no idea when it will return, I'm becoming increasingly frustrated by the unreliability of this system and wishing for something less sleek but more, well...here with me. Joel, who bought his Mac at the same time we did, has already forced Apple to take his back after his third major failure with it. Both Joel and Kerry secretly confided to one another that despite multiple MCP professional designations, they longed for the cross-generational compatibility, the more stable OS of the Other Team. What a joke! My PCs have always had problems, don't get me wrong, but they've always been problems that we just adapt to and muddle through until we can take no more (usually 2 or 3 years later). When the Mac goes down, it goes down hard.

Speaking of the WSJ, and speaking of yesterday's Volvo moment (despite the fact that I'm talking about it again, I'm really over it, really!), the XC-90 did not get good dependability ratings (the Siena did, the Odyssey was unrated), and sales are not where they should be overall for Volvo. I have to say, I wasn't wholly impressed. Maybe if we go back to the 'two kids and a Volvo' world, things might seem sunnier, but it would still need to be two kids with a very compactly folding double stroller and a mother who never bought anything in a large box. Oh, and there was also an article that, roughly paraphrased by me, said that if we drink more than 300 glasses of red wine a day, we just might live 20% longer despite eating fatty food and saying Super Size Me. Is that a fact? And here I was thinking it was all about diet and exercise.

And speaking of diet, I got into a conversation today about the dreaded Feingold Stage One, an episode from our past that I had totally repressed. Now that I recall it, we embarked on that particular journey in the height of berry season, and we staunchly stuck by our pineapples and quinces and whatever other two fruits were permitted. We shunned all tomato sauce. We single-handedly raised the stock prices of Frito-Lay by our Fritos consumption alone. I am ashamed to admit that it is hard for me to choose between dealing with hyperactive children and dealing with the resistance to never being able to eat anything that--this one's for you, Hilary--NORMAL people eat. It was so much easier when they were three is all I can say.

I hate to get all whiny again about missing my computer, but I MISS MY COMPUTER. I had said a while back that I was exploring other blog clients, and the new beta of blogger is not in the running. It is making me miserable. I am seeing some benefits for myself (can't speak for others) in such features in .mac as composing on a template that appears exactly like the final product. I like my template, however limiting it might be. I like composing on a background. I like never seeing HTML code. It doesn't take much to make me happy. I like composing without going online. I like that my blog address is very mysterious and impossible to remember. I miss feeling like anyone is reading this (and I miss the automatic spell-check--I was going to exclaim, "The narcissism!" but I don't know how to spell it and I don't want to embarrass myself.). Most of all, I miss the aimless web surfing, my bookmarked sites, how everyone's address automatically pops up by the time I type the second letter of their name, and, well...sleeping with the machine. I'm starting to think that Kerry may well have a point about being replaced....

For some reason, today I thought I was going to fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon at this party. Maybe it was the 299th glass of red wine (see, I'm feeling healthier already! At least 6 months added to my life!). Just kidding. But I thought I might tip over and take a nap right on Jessica's dining room floor. Obviously the night with Mr. Rutledge was not so restful. Even Rebecca's embarrassing recollections to way too many people! of the many hilarious conversation topics last night was not enough to keep me functioning. A few minutes out in the blustery, brisk storm outside, though, was enough to knock some consciousness into me. I came to my senses enough so that I now am the proud owner of a brand new non-disgusting, white plastic round Kohler toilet seat. And tile adhesive. And grout. Overall, a productive day.

We are still trying to figure out the logistics of the upcoming holidays. For whatever reason--don't ask me because I don't know--the ILs feel that the 1.45 hour trip to our house is just too burdensome to do twice in 30 days (because, you know, they've been up a grand total of one time this calendar year so far). So now they have dropped out of celebrating Christmas. Anyone who knows me well knows about our checkered past. Thanksgiving traditionally had been held in Lynchburg, and there are some notorious memories. The one where Kerry and I marched out before dinner was served because our dogs were outside in 20 degree weather and weren't allowed in, where we bought our own turkey on the way home and had a late and very alone holiday. There was the one where I was accidentally overheard calling his mother an unpleasant epithet while she was standing on the screen porch above me and nobody spoke to me through dinner. There were the years when we were intentionally uninvited to the family gathering. My personal favorite, though, was when the twins were not quite four months old and we were moving from Oakton to Roanoke. If I remember correctly, the new company paid little to no moving expenses, so I had done 100% of the box acquiring and packing by myself with no help, not a nanosecond of a babysitter, on about 30 cumulative minutes of sleep a day and with the tape gun out on the balcony so I would not wake any potentially sleeping babies with the ripping sound as I assembled boxes. All of our belongings were taken away on the afternoon before Thanksgiving, so we spent that night on the floor of our apartment. Because this was one of the disinvited years for Thanksgiving dinner, when it was made very clear that we and our irresponsible ways of making people into grandparents before their time were not welcome in Lynchburg, we had a charming Thanksgiving dinner at Boston Market, along with two homeless men and the unfortunate souls who picked the short straw and had to work the holiday, followed by a night in a hotel. This November was followed by the Nuclear Family Christmas, the first either of us had ever spent without any extended family at all, in our brand new house with our boxes barely unpacked and infants who had barely been seen yet by their grandparents. And of course, lest we forget my family, there was the year where my Dad appeared right before dinner, ate with us, then immediately hit the road for a second dinner with his significant other. Peppered in there are the more positive memories of Annie's amazing mac and cheese, her sweet potato casserole, Wanda's chess pies. But by and large, when I think of a Clendenon Thanksgiving, I think of being starved all morning and until late afternoon, to a point where my blood sugar is so low I'm not sure how I could not turn into a raging monster (while meanwhile Kerry and Tim manage to sneak out and go on the sly to 7-11 and get hotdogs to hold them over), and then feeling so ill by the time a meal finally is served that I can barely eat. Because, you know, you might not be able to overeat if you did something as foolish as have breakfast or lunch.... Since moving to Richmond, we have become the central location (fewer than 2 hours from any participant), and the past two years have been largely without incident. I truly should not complain. I realize many families have much worse situations than my own. But I cling desperately to this belief that one day, just once, it will snow on some major holiday, friends and loved ones will gather around a warm fire and treat each other with kindness and will then share a lovingly prepared meal. Believe it or not, I've actually met people that this has happened to at least once!

Not only have I not thought a bit about Thanksgiving, but I feel rather lazy lately. I was thinking today about this other topic that I refer to in my head as, "If it's not one thing, it's something else." What are the things that I'm dropping by the wayside or mentally shutting out in order to do the things that I am doing? It's a version of "You can have it all, but not all at once." What are the things I'm doing lately? Blogging, for one. Having my life sucked away by supervising a toddler. Surfing the web too much. Going to the park. Shuttling children to activities. Standing out in the street with my neighbors. Picking acorns in other people's yards. What am I blocking out completely? Television. Radio/NPR. Anything at all having to do with politics, current events, news. Keeping up with many other people that I should be (R. and I were discussing, it is possible to have so many friends/acquaintances that you just don't have time for any more? This was as I was talking her out of going to her neighborhood bunco night, which had been on the calendar for two months). And to a large extent, reading. April, I said I was going to mention you by name, so here you go: Thank you, April, for suggesting a book to me tonight. I've been reading this book _Best Friends_ for three weeks or so now. I'm about 300 pages in, which feels too far to drop it, but there's so much left to go. I can't figure out how I feel about it. Is the problem that I have no concentration, I'm too tired, I'm reading too late when I get started, or is it that I just don't like this book enough to give it my time? I'm finding it entertaining/interesting at some moments, but then others I think, I don't like this protagonist very much, her 'best friend' is so unbelievably stupid that I don't believe her character should even exist. And the men in this book are exaggeratedly awful. I had been a good place with books--if, as Flylady would say, they weren't blessing me, I'd toss them to the side and start another. And maybe I need to cut my losses right now, or stop writing here and go finish the damn thing. But now I have something next on my list, which maybe will be the fire I need to wrap this one up.

And while we're on reading, Ollie read an entire novel to himself. 102 pages of it yesterday afternoon alone. This is a breakthrough for him. And it wasn't Captain Underpants. And it had no pictures. Perhaps he will start reading for pleasure after all. So maybe my Dreaded Monday activity (please let my primary activity be going to Short Pump because I have received a call!) will be going to the library.