It's Never The Right Thing To Say To A Naked Woman

"You look like a football player."




Even with my clothes on I don't want to hear that sentence, unless it's a comment on the hugeness of the many diamonds I'm wearing or on the speed and grace I have while running. Since I've already got a bit of the "wide shoulder" thing happening with my frame anyway, AND since I've often used the term "football player" to describe myself in jest, you can imagine how much I welcomed this comment. Naked.

Fear not. Eddie came into the bathroom while I was taking a bath and had just splashed water on my made-up face. The mascara was running and THAT is where he got "football player..." From those black thingys they wear under their eyes. It was all laughs after that.

But those 2 seconds before he could explain, I was trying to figure out just how he would fit in the toilet and how much I could get for all his clothes and musical equipment.

If A Group Of Lions Is Called A Pride...

Then what do you call just one lion?

Proud.

While on vacation, we visited the Brownsville Zoo. In almost every city we've lived in or visited, we've been to the zoo. Eddie loves the zoo. Loves it. That is something I find so endearing about him. He's got a genuine, innocent glow when he's watching the animals. I like to see him there and witness the child-like joy.

If he can watch those stinky animals...in the heat... and find a smile, then I know he's going to make an exceptional father.

Pillow Talk

"I went ahead and bought one of those fluorescent lanterns while I was at the store today seeing as how last year, just before the hurricanes, they were all sold out."

"Good call."

"It takes 8-double D batteries."

"What?"

"It takes a lot of batteries, so we should make sure we're stocked up on those too."

"Did you say, 'double-D'?"

"Yes, double-D."

"I don't think they make double-D batteries. It's just D."

"They make AA batteries."

"But that's not how that works."

"I was going according to breast-size. You know they have Es and Fs now too."

"Batteries?"

"No. Breasts."

"When do you think they'll start naming them after planets? Size Jupiter."

What's The Date?

June 30th. That's 1..2..3...42 days since my last post. After the first few days it was hard not to bow my head in shame when I went to check my e-mail and didn't go to my blog. After the first week it was like I was forgetting something... like I KNEW there was SOMETHING I didn't do, but the dog was fed, the cell phone bill was paid, everything was done. It was the second week when the guilt set in. Then I had to wait for something monumental to come back with, something that was worthy of the extended absence I had taken, but every story built on what I hadn't reported the day before or the week before and explaining it all seemed too overwhelming. It wasn't even that I didn't want to sit down and write, I didn't want to sit down and THINK about any of it. I had lived it and that was enough. I had pictures to edit, events to document and it didn't seem fun anymore, it seemed like work.

So I avoided it.

There was always something else to be done, something else that couldn't be left undone to set time aside for this. I admit that I have missed it.

My last entry was on my 30th birthday. This decade is going to be one for the blogs.

(For those of you who missed out on my skating birthday party, I highly recommend renting out the rink for your friends sometime. I left there with one burning question..."What if the Hokey-Pokey really is what it's all about?")

They Say It's The New 20

I used to worry a lot. I remember specifically when I was in the third grade, I worried about everything so much so that I had trouble sleeping. I worried myself right into success in things like school and friendships because I was so afraid of being bad at something, like I would end up in a pit of hungry tigers or worse if I failed. Luckily during the school years, there are things like grades and parents and peers to measure up against and to tell you whether or not you're doing a good job in life. I usually got the 'thumbs up.' I never saw a tiger (except at LSU and the zoo).

I liked being graded. It was concrete evidence that I was a success, or more importantly, proof that I wasn't a failure. Even with all of that positive feedback, I wasn't really concerned with being great, I just wanted to know I wasn't awful. I guess you could call it, "perfectionistic minimalism." I had to be perfect just so I could know I wasn't a failure, but I didn't quite want to succeed because that would be too much stress, too much pressure...more things to worry about.

Classic ktm story:

I was in the first part of elementary school when they tested me for Gifted and Talented classes. I remember the speech therapist, Ms. Polk, brought me into a little office/closet and asked me a bunch of questions like, "Who was Abraham Lincoln?" (I still don't know how knowing who Abraham Lincoln was had to do with my ability to do advanced math for my age, but whatever...) I remember thinking that if I answered all of these questions correctly, things would change and I might have to leave some of my friends. I also struggled with the instinct of trying to please all of the adults around me that I didn't want to throw the ENTIRE thing, so I compromised and answered about half of the questions right. I got what I wanted and didn't wind up having to leave all of my friends. Surprisingly, I was the only kid in the advanced reading group and the advanced math group NOT in Gifted and Talented classes.

I'm 30. Today. I don't worry about most things like I used to. Failure isn't as scary anymore, I suppose because now I've got 30 years of not-failing to back me up. When I was younger, I'd just look forward and see I had more time to mess up. Now that I'm this far through life, at least I've got all of that to fall back on.

It's harder to find a measuring stick for success or happiness once you're out of school. I don't get graded on my job or on my ability to be a good wife or daughter or friend. For the first few years of our marriage, I was trying to figure out how to measure our happiness. I knew that I was happy and that I loved my husband, but how did you measure that? Where was the grade that TOLD you you were doing a good job? A happy husband? No, that couldn't be it. A satisfying love life? No. I needed a stamp, a certificate or finally someone to tell me, lovingly, that I was insane. Thankfully I had Eddie. He helped me to measure our happiness by forcing me to answer the question, "Are you happy?" over and over again until my answer, "Yes." finally rung in my own ears.

He's never really been concerned about how to measure it. He just knew. I envy that.

I do worry a little...I guess that's how I'm built. Now that I'm 30, I feel a bit rushed. We don't have any children, not even any on the way, not even any time soon. I look ahead at that magic number 35, which just leapt closer because there's no longer a 2 in the front of my age. 35 is that scary number in my head when it's too late to have children. It's SO close and we haven't even started.

I just ran into a friend that I haven't seen in years. She's pregnant with her third. Her third. We're the same age. I don't like that measuring stick. I AM insane. Do I want three right now? No. Do I want one someday? Yes. Do I still feel rushed? Yes.

I think it's time for Eddie to ask me that question again.

Our Little Experiment

Three weeks ago, Eddie and I were talking, tossing around the idea of at least 1 TV-free night a week. After very little discussion, we decided to implement it the very next day, a Tuesday. Every Tuesday since then, including this one, has been Tv-free.

In a strange way it feels like a night off, like we've been given a free evening. I expected to feel deprived of the luxury of escape. Maybe I did feel that way...for the first 5 minutes. Then Eddie and I started to talk. About everything. We talked for hours, sat with Cody on the couch, prepared dinner together and I fell in love with my husband all over again once upon a Tuesday night.


However, this is still my favorite t-shirt.

We Drug Our Dog. Will That Make Us Bad Parents?

We live in an older home, one that was built in the early 50's. It has hardwood floors that creak,(which I love) plaster walls, some beadboard and is set up, off of the ground about a foot and a half. All of this history and charm is lost on Cody when it rains or when the wind blows faster than 10 miles an hour. He is inconsolable when it thunders, or when a particularly loud car drives by. He shakes and cries and pants. It isn't the shaking or the crying or the panting that bothers us, it's the fact that he has to shake and cry and pant ON us. Not NEAR us, but ON us.

It is all our fault. Eddie and I are big softies and always cave to a cute face. We let the dog sleep with us about two weeks after we got him, making that $100 crate suddenly useless. After that first night in the bed, when we asked him to kindly return to the crate the next evening he looked at us like we'd offered him some imitation Greenies. He refused the crate, turned on the cuteness and we caved.

When it rains, he shakes and cries and pants IN THE BED. You know, where we're trying to sleep. He can't be comforted and we can't sleep, so I begin to think about any way possible to end this hell. When I discern that uncharacteristic violence is the only way out, (and scare Eddie a little in the process) it's time to explore other options during waking hours when I am not so quick to kill anything in the way of a good night's sleep.

Upon advice from our Vet, when we know it's going to thunder and rain, we give Cody a healthy dose of Benadryl. It works like a charm. All of us can sleep through the rain for the entire night. With hurricane season approaching, I would advise all of my 3 readers to buy stock in Pfizer.

Happy Anniversary To The Man Who Brought Me Those Sweet Smelling Flowers

Happy Anniversary. I'm lovin' every minute of it.

The Day That Everything Fell

It was a lazy Saturday around here. I went to bed a little early for me for a Friday night; my head hit the pillow at 10pm. I woke up early, well rested and ready to face the laundry and dishes that tend to pile up during the week. Once I got out of bed, I rounded the corner and went into the bathroom. This is an important part of my morning ritual in more ways than one (or two. hee hee). I take a magic pill in the morning. This magic pill is extremely difficult to pry out of its safe little package with my mere mortal finger, so I use a highly specialized tool for such a job. My toothbrush. I use the end to gently push the pill from the package onto my palm. Only people trained in this method should attempt such a task. I should have been trained.

As soon as the pill fell safely into my hand, my TOOTHBRUSH jumped from my grip, did a few gravity-defying turns in front of my face and flung itself directly into the TOILET. THE TOILET. My toothbrush was in the toilet. Not only was my toothbrush in the toilet, I had to extract my toothbrush from the toilet. I quickly built a make-shift extraction device, got the toothbrush out and threw it away.


I went directly into the bedroom because I couldn't live another moment without telling Eddie what had happened. When he heard me tell the story, it would be instantly funny. It was.

About 20 minutes later, I was concentrating on a task when I hear, "Oh No!" coming from the bathroom.

I ran to the bathroom door to see my half-naked husband getting ready to shower. He was holding something in a towel, cringing and smiling at the same time.

"I dropped it."

"What?"

"I dropped it in the toilet."

"WHAT did you drop in the toilet?"

"The manual for the D50."


Our toilet is the center of the gravity. Beware.

Spring Has Sprung

This? This is my dog, or half of my dog. The storm door is closed and on the inside there's a definable doggie nose moisture line straight across. In the background there, that's a sock. Probably one of Eddie's socks, but all socks in the house serve double duty, once they're off the foot or out of the drawer, as Cody's play things. He drags them about the house and we find them in kitchen, outside, in the hall and there, near the front door.

I love that dog.

More signs of spring. The shoes that pile up near the armoire in the living room are a little skimpier.

Teen Years

My friend and I were talking this afternoon and we wandered onto the subject of teen angst. I am increasingly aware of how each day brings me farther away from that time in my life. I can remember it fondly as enough time has now passed.

We talked about (made fun) how her sister-in-law deals with it and how we used to cope. We both wrote sad, sad little poems.

I dug some little treats out.

ktm, circa 16 yrs:

I got bored so
I painted my left hand grey and pretended it was dead.
I couldn't feel my book anymore and I couldn't drive to the grocery store with that hand.
People apologized. I got cards. I held a funeral.
They sent flowers.
I had to tell them it was just a joke.
So I did.
And they laughed.
So I hit them.
With my dead hand.

___________________

ktm, circa 17 yrs:

I struggle so much.
I fight inside my head with that little girl who will have no one touch her. I hate her.
She always wins.

I want to be loved
I want to love

Sometimes I pull my knees to my lips when I'm cold. I can imagine kisses so wonderful between me and another. I can share so much.

I want to share
I want to love

I want to be involved in the night.

I'm scared.
I don't want my heart to skip a beat again. I might like it again. It might want to skip more. Maybe 2 or 5...skipping into the sunset or sunrise, leaving my body lifeless in the absence of its booms.

___________________

ktm, circa 19 yrs:

When the shadow touches the pen, he will know that I have lived. Not just that I have practiced the elementary business of breathing, but that I have envied and feared. He will know that I made the shadow dance forming "E."

Isn't She Lovely

This afternoon at around 5:30 I was taking Cody for his afternoon walk. I suited him up, harness and all, and started out. I didn't make it too far down the driveway before I decided we would go opposite our normal route. I could sense that Cody needed new things to smell (and tinkle on). This took us past Mr. Ivan's house, our neighbor. He's a sweet, old man who takes care of all the neighborhood cats. They hang out at his house during the day to keep him company as he watches over the neighborhood, and hope to get the occasional head scratch. In the evenings they go home to their respective families. I've seen it happen. When he goes inside for the evening, they scatter to different houses on the street. It's like a cartoon. He's the Snow White of our little Drive.

Cody and I pass Mr. Ivan and the cats on our way down the street. I wave and Cody goes bonkers at the possibility of catching one of the cats, so much so that he almost chokes himself on the harness, which was bought to prevent exactly that, so we hurried on.

On our way back home, I decided we'd stop and say, "Good Evening" to Mr. Ivan, no matter Cody's behavior problems with the cats. So we stop and talk. Just when I can't contain Cody anymore and am on my way home next door, Mr. Ivan stops me and says, "I want to thank you for being lovely today. I think it is so lovely when women wear skirts."

I had worn a skirt shopping earlier in the day. It wasn't anything special, I had a T-shirt paired with it and some flip-flops. Hardly glamorous, but he said I was LOVELY. Lovely is probably the perfect word. It wasn't "sexy" or "beautiful" or "pretty." It was lovely. It was a wholesome compliment. Today I have come to the conclusion that every woman should be called "lovely" at least once in her life. It feels lovely.

To My Dearest

To My Dearest, Who Sends Things Like This To Me At Work

I'm in the mood to thank you for loving me. I know that almost four years ago you promised that you would, you even volunteered to do it in front of 400 people. But then, I only had a glimpse of how you would love me. I had no idea.

I always feel considered in your world (except when you turn off the light in the room I'm still in when you leave it...unintentionally).
Thank you for sharing laughs with me everyday (even if most of them are AT, not WITH).
Thank you for cleaning the house when you know I've had a frustrating day.
Thank you for always greeting me first while resisting the cutest dog ever, making him wait his turn.
Thank you for hurting when I hurt and listening to me vent about said hurts endlessly without complaint (and holding my hand while you listen).
Thank you for letting me know that you love me in a new way everyday. (I like the hair brushing and the back scratching, so feel free to repeat a day or two.)
Thank you for breaking into my car that time, just to leave a Valentine's present (even if I returned it for a different one).
Thank you for trying to propose on that one Valentine's day, when I was unconscious because of that emergency dental surgery and all those Percocets, even though you couldn't because I was unconscious...with all the Percocets.
Thank you for waiting for me.

Sometimes I can't believe you love me, especially when I come up with such revelations like, "There is no 'almost fat'," while continuing to pester the dog once he's found his most comfortable spot after I've just eaten half a pint of sorbet and complained that I'm cold...then hot.

Thank you for always getting me a blanket and turning on the fan. That's true love.

At the Car Wash

Wash

Yeah. We TOTALLY made out in the deluxe wash.

One Heapin' Helpin'

After finishing my dinner this evening, I needed something sweet (this is not new). I went into the kitchen to prepare my dessert. I gathered the necessary elements then went back into the living room to sit next to Eddie on the couch and enjoy my creation-o-decadence.

When Eddie looks to his left, where I am seated, I get a head tossed back in laughter. He almost lost his breath. The dog was scared and leapt off of the couch. I'm still sitting there, dessert in hand, wondering WHAT his problem could be.

"Chocolate Frosting. On a Spoon?"

"Yeah."

"You know I almost did that a couple of times, but I held back in fear that you would laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing. I'm eating my frosting."

He doesn't have any sisters. He's obviously never lived with girls.

Another One of Those Times Where I've Burned Off More Than a Few Calories Laughing

Eddie and I were driving home Wednesday evening, just about to turn into the driveway, when I look at my gas gauge and make a proud declaration:

"I got gas on my way home from work."

You see, I HATE getting gas. I HATE stopping for anything when I'm driving. I am usually running late whenever I leave wherever I' m coming from to get wherever I'm going. Not only do I hate to stop, I don't have time to stop. I'm not stopping. This never-leave-on-time habit (attitude) I've developed, I know, is not a healthy one as it often necessitates that I speed.

I've tried to leave early, early enough to have some spare time when I arrive. That time doesn't exist if you don't leave early ENOUGH. How early is that? You could keep pushing your departure time back and back until all of a sudden you've left TOO early. I'm not into too early. I don't like it. When you're too early, what do you have to do? WAIT. What is waiting? It's stopping. That's what it is. Stopping. I HATE stopping. I want to do, go, be, get, walk, run, act.

I suppose it could be a control issue. Being late (or almost late) is all on my terms. Being early is having to contort myself to fit someone else's schedule. Or maybe I'm just late. I haven't decided.

Pointing out to my husband that I have gotten gas that day is code for begging for praise for doing something that I shouldn't need praise for doing. He usually abides and offers a "That's good, Sparky." or an "Excellent.", but not this time. This time his response was an unusual:

"Aw."

I did a double take. I didn't understand what he didn't understand. Then it registered. In his boy world, I had gotten gas on my way home from work. Uncomfortable, stinky gas, not expensive, stinky gas. When we both realized what had happened, I got my affirmation and we both got a great laugh. I love stopping to laugh with my husband. He rocks.

Really.

Overheard:

Her: Why do men like boobs?

Him: Maybe it has something to do with sports. After all, they are soft, round balls. And you can squeeze them.

Admissions of Guilt

1. I took 4 when I should have taken 1.

2. Yesterday on the drive home from work, I was totally speeding and rocking out to Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive." I had Big Hair Attitude.

3. I ordered more hangers. They came in today.

Cody's Routine

6:30-7:00am: Rustle and bustle about in the bed until he gets himself kicked out.

7:10am: Says goodbye to ktm leaving for work; Eddie walks him.

8:25am: Says goodbye to Eddie leaving for work.

8:26-11:29am: Nap.

11:30am: Greet Eddie coming home for lunch.

11:35-12:15pm: Beg for Eddie's lunch / Play outside.

12:25pm: Says goodbye to Eddie going back to work.

12:26-4:37pm: Nap.

4:38pm: Greet Eddie coming home from work.

5:10pm: Bark loudly at the mailman until he vanishes from sight.

5:11pm: Continue barking loudly at what WAS the mail man, just in case he's hiding from immediate view.

5:30pm: Greet ktm as she comes home from work.

5:31-5:45pm: Begs ktm to walk him.

5:46-6:00pm: ktm walks him.

6:01pm: Gets and eats a Greenie for being a "good boy" on his evening walk.

6:05pm: Begs for whatever is being cooked/heated up for dinner.

6:30-7:30pm: Begs while ktm and Eddie eat dinner.

7:31pm: Begins growling at either ktm or Eddie to relinquish whatever is left on their plates or in their bowls because they obviously no longer want it.

7:40pm: Watches hopelessly as the left-over food is put away.

7:45pm: Sleeps on the couch (in the middle) with ktm and Eddie and will growl if interrupted.

9:00pm: Begins to eat dinner.

9:15pm: Play time. Presents any of his toys for a game of tug of war/catch in the living room. Any hints of being ignored are met with a persistence that remains unmatched.

10:30pm: Bed Time.

10:31-10:40pm: Hunts for the "perfect spot" underneath the covers, making sure to take over just enough of both sides of the bed so he's forcibly removed from aforementioned "perfect spot."

10:50pm: Sleep.

Somewhere between 11:00pm-5:00am: Gets up and steals whatever food has been left on the coffee table, drinks some water and comes back to bed.

6:30am: The rustling begins again.

I Saw, I Ordered, I Became One Of THEM

This picture is evidence that I have ordered and received my Huggable Hangers. This is not the result of sitting up on a sleepless night transfixed and mesmerized by infomercials. (Although that does happen on occasion.) I resist the urge to order just anything that I think could improve our daily lives. We DO NOT own The Little Giant, the Ab Roller, the Magic Bullet, the Power Juicer or any Winsor Pilates tapes. To date I have only ordered a shredder and some dryer lint brush thingy (to prevent house fires with my new lint-free dryer).

However.

The impact of an actual closet organizational system on one's life cannot be denied. This kind of product is any neat freak's realization of a twisted wet dream. All the hangers are the same size, the same color, and the clothes hang the same distance from the rod. I can now hang 14 sweaters in the same space that 7 hung before. Living in a home that was built way back when people apparently had NO CLOTHES (my closets are small), these are an incredible space-saver. That logic makes it easier to justify this purchase. My husband goes along with this gleefully because I do the laundry and the ironing. If I want new hangers, he knows good enough to nod and smile and get out of the way.

See. This is my closet - on neato steriods.




Tell me you don't want them.