Weekend Excursion

The Check Engine light came on in my car again. At least this time it had the charity to not come on right as the inspection sticker expired (like it did last year). So I had the opportunity to wait a couple weeks before I took in it for an oil change. It was the same problem as last time: a faulty oxygen sensor. Luckily the one we just replaced was under warranty so we didn't have to fork over another large chunk of change to have them replace it. Which really ticks me off because the freaking most expensive sensor costs a little over a hundred bucks online. Maybe I ought to take an auto mechanics course, then I can rip people off for hundreds of dollars in labor.

Next time that light comes on I'm going to disconnect it.

Maggie called and told me that she and Beth and all the kids were going to Mom and Dad's on Saturday and there was going to be a potluck cookout there as well. Happily the car got fixed in the nick of time so we were able to go. Papaw's house is Henry's absolute favorite place. They have a pond with ducks and kayaks, a giant tree with enough swings in it for every grandkid, trails through the woods, and best of all, cousins right down the road. After the cookout Ben and I set up a tent and we spent the night with Henry beside the pond.

Before we left I asked Henry if he needed to use the bathroom. He said no. Then after we got settled in our sleeping bags came the inevitable, "I have to pee."

"Go outside and pee in the woods."

Henry took about two steps from the tent.

"No, over by the woods."

Finally Ben shined the flashlight on a spot far enough away from the tent and told him to pee on the light.

Then as he's peeing he asks, "What's that smoke?"

"It's steam," Ben answers.

For at least a half hour after we laid down Henry kept asking a million questions.

"What's that sound?"

"Frogs."

"What's that sound?"

"Bullfrogs."

"What's that sound?"

"Crickets."

"What's that sound?"

"Barking dogs."

"What's that sound?"

"An owl."

"What's that sound?"

"Daddy snoring."

After Henry fell asleep I laid awake awhile. It seemed the frogs and crickets and dogs and owl were going to keep it up all night. Especially the dogs. I figured that some puppies must have gotten stolen or something because the twilight bark went on and on and on. Either that or a raccoon was taunting them from a tree. Finally I fell asleep and woke at dawn to an alarm of a million chirping birds, frogs, bull frogs, and the twelve dozen roosters at the chicken farm across the road.

I love camping. It's so easy for me to get up in the morning. I went back to the house with Henry for breakfast. Then we all got ready and then went to church. At church there was a family who used to be in our ward in Cary. I asked Mom if they had moved into the ward but she didn't know. Turns out they were just visiting. They told us they'd just seen a couple that reminded them of us, a tall guy and a short dark haired chick (we actually met that couple at the cookout) and said to each other, "Wow, they look like the Tilleys," and then we walked in right after. It is weird finding out you have doppelgangers out there. I have a feeling we're the evil version, though.

Henry, true to form, screeched bloody murder when it was time to go home. The good side to having to listen to Henry scream, "I don't want to go!" four million times is that it wears him out so well he sleeps for the rest of the ride home. Unfortunately when he woke upon our arrival home, he remembered quite well that he hadn't wanted to leave Papaw's house and commenced pitching another fit.

Good times.

Return of the Little Brown Bat

Last year while perusing the attic for some item or another, I happened to look up at the screen that covers the gable and noticed a tiny resident nestled up under a ventilation slat. A Little Brown Bat, from what I could tell from pictures on the internet. This photo is from the internet; I have never had even the slightest interest in touching it, let alone get my picture taken with it. I pretty much left it alone because it couldn't get into the attic because of the screen and I figured maybe it would help keep down the mosquitoes and other undesirable bugs that plague this area. Then that winter he took off and I forgot about him. Today as I was fetching a tape measure off the shelf next to the attic gable, I saw that the little bat was back. Henry came in behind me and I showed him the bat but didn't let him get near it. I pointed it out with a screwdriver because he was a little hard to see. I gently poked the screen with the screwdriver to see if the bat would move and it peed it little bit. I'm not sure if it was a coincidence or if I scared the pee out of it. At any rate, I was grossed out and got the tape measure and left.

When Ben got home I remembered the bat and reported it's return to the attic and described the peeing incident. Then Ben got dead serious and said I can catch rabies from it's pee. That made me laugh out loud big time. Then Ben got on the internet and found evidence that called his theory bunk, thank goodness. Not that the pee even got near me or the screwdriver. We looked in the attic but the bat was gone, so hopefully it really did get scared and won't be coming back. I guess we could stick a fan up there and that'd do the trick. Maggie told me one time that Dad found a bat hanging around the porch and laced into it with a can of Raid bug spray and then squashed it with a rock. Even though I was horrified by the brutality of its death, it still made me laugh to think of Dad hosing a bat with a can of Raid. He's very resourceful.

Yesterday I had fun chopping weeds and saplings with hedge clippers. The neighbors next door are selling their house and I didn't want prospective buyers to think we're slobs. It may be true, but they don't really need to know that just yet. The side of our yard slopes down really bad towards the neighbor's property such that you can't safely mow it, hence it's allowed to go natural, being full of trees and bushes so there are always saplings and stuff coming up all over the place. As I was grooming the jungle between our houses I happened to look up and came face to face with a huge poison ivy vine hanging down from the tree. I backed away and went inside and washed up. Last thing I need is a poison ivy rash.

Now that I think of it, I have taken a few crazy risks this week. I mean, I was cutting weeds in shorts, right next to a pile of sticks and tree limbs that could've been full of snakes, I poked a bat, well a screen next to a bat, I taught Henry the rules of Uno. I guess that last one wasn't so risky, but it did try my patience.

Revolting Saga

Here's a nauseating tale:

Ben's been battling an on and off again sore throat for like three weeks now. Ignoring my advice, he decided to forgo a doctor's visit in the name of saving a buck.

"What if you have strep?" I ask.

He looks at me dismissively. His classic line of thinking, "The doctor will look at me and say it's a virus and charge a hundred bucks, while I can sit at home and wait out the illness for free."

Even though this had already been going on for two weeks, he kept up his stubborn stance until Wednesday at work when it really started hurting. The doctor gave him a prescription for some stuff people take for allergies, which I thought was weird because every throat problem I've had has been quickly taken care of by an antibiotic. Anyway, to make a long story short, I had to take Ben to an Ear Nose and Throat specialist today, mainly because his esophagus quit working and he started coughing up pus, and oh yes, blood. Yum. The ENT doctor had to run a tube down Ben's nose into his throat. Diagnosis: Acute Trachyitis. He got two shots in his butt and has to take four massive horse pills a day to kill the infection. Poor Ben. It doesn't help that the medicine the first doctor prescribed gave him a rash.

Hopefully this disgusting/painful experience will convince Ben to take his health more seriously in the future.

My Kid, the Comedian

Last time I had to teach Joy School the kids and I sat around the dining room table eating our "unique" snack to go along with the lesson, which consisted of a last minute scrounge of cheerios, raisins, goldfish crackers, chocolate chips and a bag of microwave popcorn. The kids, all six of them including Henry, as they are often inclined to do during moments of calm, engaged in telling knock-knock jokes:

Knock, Knock.

Who's there?

Tommy.

Tommy who?

Tommy Chocolate Chip.

Hahhhh hah hah haaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

I smile indulgently. "You guys are funny."

You gotta love kids.

Henry has decided that he really likes the movie "Tommy Boy." Chris Farley cracks him up. The other night while Ben was out with the missionaries Henry asked to watch it so I put it on and started on a crossword. Then a while later Henry said he was hungry and asked for a slice of bread. I said okay and he brought the bread sack for me to undo the twist tie for him. As I was opening the bag a sudden premonition struck me and I handed him the end piece, which almost never gets eaten in this household unless we're completely out of everything else.

"Eat this at the table," I said. "You have to eat it all gone."

Sure enough, about two seconds later I hear Henry in the dining room, "Oohhh! I killed it! I killed my little friend!" He comes triumphantly into the living room with his ripped up bread, grinning like he knows he's the funniest kid on the planet.

This after he sang the Darth Vader/Imperial march for the Joy School talent show. I should have sent him to Joy School that morning with a piece of bread and he could have done the Tommy Boy impression instead.

Retraction

All right, I've been called down for saying I never saw my dad do housework when I was a kid. I really should have said I didn't remember seeing my dad do housework.

Mom asked me, "Don't you remember that time when I was in Gatlinburg for a month and you stayed home with your dad?"

Um, apparently not.

My sister called and said Dad had just finished doing a load of laundry when he sat down and read my blog. In my own defense, I never said Dad didn't do housework.

Sorry, Dad. You're awesome!

But don't think this is going to make me want to run to the kitchen and do the dishes.

Bored Ramblings

I have a copy of a photo on the shelf above my computer that I got from my mom of my great-great grandfather, Charlie Gale, and his mother, Sarah Hoak, taken in Indiana sometime around 1870 when Charlie was a year or two old. It's a cute photo, a cheek to cheek pose, Charlie sitting on the arm of Sarah's chair, her arm wrapped protectively around him (presumably to keep him from falling off). I would post it here, but my stupid scanner broke-- well, stupid me, that's what I get for not paying attention and plugging in the wrong power cord... Anyway, It's the typical old-timey photo where no one smiles. Charlie took it to the extreme with a big pouting frown. It's really cute because he had such chubby cheeks.

Henry saw it one day and asked me why the baby was sad.

"Because his mommy made him get all cleaned up and dressed up in a suit and made him be quiet and sit very still so they could get their picture taken together."

I like this photo a lot. Not just because I'm named after these people (I'm a Sarah, too, and my middle name is Gale: my grandma's maiden name). I like its clarity, that you can see the little details of their homemade clothes, the buttons and tassels on Sarah's dress, Charlie's stripy socks and beat up shoes. I look at the photo and wonder how long it took Charlie to sit still, whether or not he pitched at fit, what they did after the picture was taken. I wonder a lot about Charlie's father. I have no photo of him, just a name on Charlie's death certificate.

I have two other photos of Charlie, one as a young man, bald and mustachioed, and as an old man, a little chubbier, sans mustache, even more bald. The young man photo looks eerily like my uncle Doug.

I like photos because I can stare at the people in them without them getting frightened and starting to think I'm a psycho.

Henry just asked me, "What's die-able sores?"

It took me just a moment. Usually I have to run a mental review of everything Henry's seen or heard over the past week to figure out what he's talking about. But I remembered this one pretty quick. Because Henry likes to watch a certain Power Puff Girls DVD over and over again.

"You mean 'diabological spores', Henry."

"Yeah, die-able sores."

I had to remind him that the evil broccoloid army invaded earth and were surprised when the kids didn't get hypno-zapped like their parents and Blossom says, "Cause we didn't eat none of your diabological spores!"

I had hoped that that episode would help Henry eat his vegetables, but no luck so far.

Finally a Beautiful Weekend

Yes, it's finally a sunny, beautiful Saturday morning. After weeks of beautiful week days followed by rainy weekends (not complaining, we really need the rain) . Ben's been complaining about that lately since he's stuck at work when it's nice and then when he's not it's raining. Well, he's sick today, so I guess that's what he gets for complaining.

I ought to realize how futile it is to complain. Because I already know in advance that things are going to snag, my expectations will not be met, something will go wrong, and I'll feel guilty because I read a book instead of folding laundry. But that's okay. The little snags in life keep me on my toes and help me build up patience, which I'm running low on. Like when I try on a pair of jeans at the mall and everything appears great and I buy them, only to have them magically grow a size too large after I've washed them and can't return them.

Henry surprised me by being nice for my dental appointment, yesterday. The last time Ben was in for a cleaning we took Henry along, so he'll be acclimated when it's time for him to get a real check up. I gave him a good talking to yesterday before I took him with me to the dentist's, hoping he'd remember the lecture and behave. Which he did for the most part. I only had to tell him to stop touching the x-ray machine twice. The hygienist and dentist are both really cool, which made things easier for a lone mom with a very active little boy. Then of course, he picked out a toy with lip gloss inside and promptly applied it all over his body.

Then that night, because I was letting my happiness at his good behavior overcome all rational thought, I let Henry drink a root beer when we ate out. Yes, I'm a moron. Soda, or "liquid candy" as I like to call it, has a similar effect upon Henry as gasoline does on a grease fire. Under normal circumstances he's revving up into hyper psycho mode by seven thirty every night; it's a completely normal event to have him bouncing off the walls right before bed time. Last night, he went into overdrive and switched on his nitro boosters. I did not pick him up by his head and hurl him into bed like a football, but he was so high on sugar I'm not sure he would have noticed if I had.

This morning I awoke happily untainted by Ben's plague. I hooked Henry up with breakfast, video games and cartoons, and left him with his sick father while I went to the doctors for some lab work. I'd been there a few times before but never on a weekend. Apparently on the weekends you get completely ignored after following proper procedure. According to the sign posted on the wall you sign in, press the button and sit down, and a person will call for you "shortly". I sat and killed time reading a newspaper and looked at my watch and it had been like forty five minutes. I knew I wasn't overlooked because an office worker looked at me like ten times and confirmed I was in for lab work. A sign on the wall told me not to get pissy if every person in the room, including those who came in a half an hour later than I, was seen before me because a lot of different testing took place at that facility. But I was pissy anyway and went up to the counter and made my presence known to a woman occupied with paperwork.

Me: "Hey, I've been sitting her for forty five minutes and haven't been seen yet. What's your definition of 'shortly'?"

Her: "You haven't been seen yet?"

Me: "I'm still standing here, ain't I?"

Of course, being the complete wimp I am, I was really much more polite. And to credit them, it was only about ten more seconds before I was seen. Then my freaking veins wouldn't cooperate. They're dinky and like to roll around a lot, so the guy missed on the first stab. Got to love those fruitless punctures. Then he switched to my other arm and my arm jerked because it for some reason hurt like hell and in consequence the needle pulled out of the vein and he spent a few minutes getting it to stop bleeding. He flunked out apparently, and another nurse had to have a go at it. Luckily she, using a smaller needle, was successful on the first stab back on the elusive vein because I was starting to get a little queasy. Then I got to drive myself home with two sore arms instead of one.

Life. Don't talk to me about life. Hey, Marvin, I feel for ya.

Ben, not so grizzly anymore. As the first buds of spring open and blossom, Ben sheds his woolly cocoon and emerges a full five years younger. Too bad shaving my head would only make me look like a freak.

I have nothing to say so I'm posting this photo instead. I kind of like this one. For one, it's rife with symbolism. Check out the whole maternal love theme: mom smiling with love/triumph as she subdues her crazy little kid (you can tell he's evil by the red eye effect). Plus there's the scratched up arm of the sofa, indelible evidence of my failure to properly discipline the cat. The scriptures seemingly balanced atop my knee, with the little Spanish dictionary perched on top, a constant reminder that I have to study and pray otherwise I'll never learn Spanish before we get released back to the English ward. Yeah, stuff like that. And another thing: the carpet looks fairly clean.
Okay, I need an outside opinion: do I have dog elbows? Ben says I do. I guess because my forearms are freakishly hairy, we're talking Esau goat fur hairy, and my elbows are are these naked bony protrusions poking out from the fur. It makes me laugh to think about it because somebody else once told me I had bizarre elbows, too.

Easter and Thereabouts

The past few weekends have been fairly busy ones. I had plans for a relatively sedate Easter (i.e., relatively sedate meaning no relatives, just Ben, Henry and me sitting around doing nothing). Of course we all know what happens when I make plans. I know where half my laziness comes from-- being busy and then not wanting to do anything, then getting bored and then doing too much again. It's a sad cycle. Oh, well.
My sister had her baby on the 14th. Mom called that morning to inform me, since Maggie was busily occupied at the time. Ben got home early, so I was able to get to the hospital before dark (it's an hour and a half drive to my sister's neck of the woods). That was nice because the stupid mapquest directions to the hospital were craptastic. I never would have found the place in the dark. No matter, the baby wasn't born until nearly midnight. It was nice catching up with my mom and an old friend, commiserating on our own childbearing stories. All three of us had c-sections, mostly because we're all petite. Mom had it the easiest (if there's anything easy about it) because she never had to go through labor, but then again, she got saddled with twins... one of them being me... The nurse told Maggie the stale old, "you get no points for pain" line, nudging her towards an epidural. Yeah, but the hospital and anesthesiologist gets plenty of $,$$$. It's hard to think about that at the time, though. If the nurse had told me each pill was like sixty bucks I think I would've gone a little easy on 'em. Yeah, right.
The next Friday I hosted book club. Since the book was about Welsh people, I found a recipe online for bara brith, a kind of raisin bread. It called for tea, but I used apple juice instead. Other than being dense and having a crust that resembled a leather wrapped brick, it wasn't too bad. Everyone's kids but mine actually liked it. Don't think I'll be making it again, though.
Anyway, Easter was okay. At the last minute, well the day before, Ben's aunt and uncle invited everyone over for dinner. Henry got lots of junk food and I had to eat all the easter eggs because no one else in the family will eat eggs.

Embarrassed Sloth

This morning I was especially lazy, but knowing that Henry had Joy School in about an hour, I got up and fixed breakfast. I left the phone sitting within reach while I was in the shower in anticipation of its inevitable ring, and of course it did, a confirmation that Henry's ride would shortly arrive. I got Henry dressed and ready to go and figured I had just enough time to dry my hair. Just as I was finishing up, there was suddenly a person, an adult, standing in my room, which of course, surprised the crap out of me. Henry's ride had arrived a little early and hearing my hair dryer, had popped in to let me know they were leaving. After they left I had a brief moment to assess the situation. The first thought was crap, she saw my horrible house. My bed wasn't made, there was a huge pile of dirty laundry on the floor, not to mention the piles and piles of pack rat junk cluttering every available space. And she had to have seen the living room, littered with toys, papers, books, Ben's dirty socks, the occasional cheerio, etc. I can only hope she didn't get a gander at the state of the kitchen. There are basically two reasons why I was mortified, one, although I freely admit to all that I am a slob, out of common courtesy I will always clean up before an expected guest arrives and I feel like a jerk when I don't. And two, let's face it, I hate a messy house and hate how horribly I've surrendered against the tide of two messy males and let my lazy slob nature reign supreme. This led me to the sad truth of my disorganized life, my complete and utter lack of self discipline. Slothfulness is a sin and leads down a slippery slope to degradation, and here I am, teetering on the brink with my arms pinwheeling and everything. I guess while I still have a shred of dignity I ought to clean house, literally and figuratively.

That said, I have two hours before I have to go pick up Henry, so I better get started.

Secret Confessions

Ok, it's time for my secret confessions blog. Not that I feel a deep need to confess stuff, just bored and can't think of anything better to write about. Other than I still have this stupid cough! After two weeks!! Rahh!!

Confession one: I hate cleaning up. The only thing that keeps the whole house from filling with trash and caving in on itself is guilt. Growing up we had daily chores which was fine with me, except for the kitchen-- I hated it and still do. My dad was very strict about keeping the house clean, which is amazing since I never in my life have ever seen him lift a finger in the house. Sure, he'd bust tail keeping the yard clean, but never, never did I ever witness him washing a plate or scrubbing a toilet. Still he has an amazing work ethic, which I unfortunately did not inherit. Being a lazy slob, I am burdened by the knowledge that I shouldn't be a lazy slob, hence the guilt. It doesn't help that I'm the only one around here that does anything in the way of straightening up, cleaning, laundry, not to mention I do most of the cooking, which I also pretty much hate, only because of the cleaning that must be done afterwards. So I guess the motivation is guilt and resentment. I know, I volunteered for the job, so I should just suck it up and shut up.

Confession two: I'm a miserable coward three feet off the ground. My deepest lamest phobia is my pathetic fear of heights. It really is pathetic. I can be standing on a ladder to change a light bulb and get the willies. In fact last time I changed the light bulb on the front porch I nearly hyperventilated even though I was barely five feet off the ground. I'm perfectly aware of how stupid it is, I know that I couldn't possibly be hurt even if I fell and landed on my head. The stupidest I've ever felt was when I went to the Blue Ridge Parkway with my sister and got so freaked out from driving on the edge of cliffs that when we got to the top of the mountain I couldn't even get out of the car because the wind was blowing. Today I visited my sister who's nine months pregnant and needed some help getting stuff into her attic. There's only a small access panel in the hallway ceiling and I was standing on a ladder propped against the wall trying to get the stupid panel open but was too scared to climb any higher because I'd have to let go of the ladder and Maggie got so disgusted with me she climbed up there herself, huge baby belly and all, and made me hand stuff up to her. I always said the reason I never reached five feet (I'm four feet ten and a half inches) was because I'd be too scared to stand up.

Confession three: I'm sensitive sometimes-- but don't tell anyone!! There are probably only about ten people in the world who have ever seen me cry, and if you're one of them, feel lucky. I'm not the heartless jerk I pretend to be; there are times when I get teary, but I'd rather be bludgeoned with a rotting walrus carcass than have anyone witness it when I do. Like the other day when I was finishing up "How Green Was My Valley" and the narrator gets all nostalgic and starts talking about how all his dead loved ones are still alive in his mind. Of course I was recovering from the flu and in a weakened state-- luckily everyone else was downstairs watching tv so I could wipe my eyes with my sleeves in privacy.

Last confession (and the lamest one by far): I wish I could sing like Karen Carpenter. Not that I'd ever sing in public if I could. Just the satisfaction of knowing I could would be enough. It's embarrassing enough that I have a Carpenters CD and that I listen to it enough in the car that Henry will ask me to put something else on (He's not really a fan, except for that "sing a song" one they did for Sesame Street).

Well, that's it. Hope you had a good laugh at my expense. I set myself up for it anyway.

Longest/Shortest Week Ever

Today is Monday, right? Right. Yes, Monday, finally. I've just emerged from the week long hell known as the flu. Ok I have to say that I haven't had a bout with influenza for something like twenty years at least so when I got slammed with it last week I was in complete shock. For some reason I had it in my head that the flu was like a 24 hour virus and then you were on your way. I started coughing on Tuesday morning and by that evening I was shivering and felt like I've been pummeled in the back with a baseball bat. I went to bed in the guest room to save Ben a sleepless night and a wrassle with my germs, singing, "crap, crap, crap," all the way upstairs. And got no sleep because of stupid fever-induced freak dreams. Ah the joys of catering to a little boy all week whilst trying not to touch him in any way lest germs rub off and get him sick, too. My favorite phrase was, "mommy can't, mommy's sick," to just about every one of Henry's millions of trivial requests, though I did refrain when I had to help him wipe his butt. As I lay dying in the bed upstairs my sad little son kept begging me to help him play video games or play legos or anything and I weakly responded that I was really really sick and that he needed to stay away from me, he yelled back, "Then go to the doctor!" What an excellent idea! Will you drive me? Never mind that when I tell them what I have they'll drop kick me out the door and tell me to go home and quit shedding germs on everybody. That was only day two. By day three the random drill bits to my head and ears had started up, Henry was playing video games and watching movies on an all day streak and I didn't even care. Ben stayed home from work Friday so I got my first chance to sleep all day and completely ignore everyone. Then Henry got a fever and Ben wasn't feeling too hot and I wanted very seriously to smack Ben for playing video games with Henry in the same room with me while I was coughing and rolling around in a fever bed of filthy flu germs. Sunday I got up feeling well enough to make breakfast and noticed as I was about to place a pot on the stove a rather large pile of debris including but not limited to a large clump of several day old frozen pizza cheese/sauce smeared across the stove top, dessicated macaroni and cheese bits, crumbs, and please don't let me know what that sticky stuff was... Not only was Ben not ashamed of the state of the kitchen, he was unconcerned.

"I cleaned up," he said.

"Oh, really? Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?"

"No. The dishwasher's not full."

"Then why are both sinks full of dirty dishes?"

That's when he tells me I must be feeling better. I tried reminding him about the commercial where the sick mom finally emerges from the sickroom and her family goes, "Uh, oh, mom's feeling better," and the mom looks like she wants to throw herself down the stairs because the house is a complete hellhole. Feeling any empathy? Ben just said it was funny because it was based on reality. Then I wanted to punch his teeth in. I felt so great I cleaned the kitchen, fixed Henry and myself some oatmeal and went back to bed. Damnation, I wish I could escape to work for ten hours a day away from a sick spouse and kid and then come home and do jack squat after I make huge messes and have the huevos to not even blink when the whole house goes to hell.

Now Ben's completely laid up and I'm not even done with the stupid cough.

Yeah, see if I do the dishes tonight.

I'm posting this photo because I can. Hee!

My Life's So Freakin' Exciting I don't Know What to Do

Ben finally trimmed his beard. I think it was mostly because it was getting in his mouth while he was trying to sleep. He won't let me cut his hair yet, though. I have trimmed it around the ears and in back to help stave off the Chevy Chase look, but he wouldn't let me touch the top. I'm not horrible at cutting hair, but it definitely looks a lot better when I use the clippers. I begged him to go to a professional, for once, just this once, but he was satisfied with the crap job I did. I'm telling you, Ben hasn't been to a barber in over eight years. I honestly think that if something were to happen to me, say my arms fell off or I went quadriplegic or something, he would cut his own hair just to keep from going.

I used to go to the barber college in town because they only charged five bucks. The peon trainees all wear white and the supervisors wear black, so I always mentally refer to them as storm troopers and Darth Vader. They usually do okay, even though they take forever and I nearly ready to explode out of the chair by the time Darth Vader comes to make sure they did a decent job. But the last time I went the guy cut my hair crooked where the hair on the left side of my face was longer than that on my right. I pointed it out to Darth Vader after she approved the obviously botched job. She quickly snipped a few strands of hair until she was satisfied and still managed to not fix it. So I swore them off, never to return. Now I pay an extra six bucks for the privilege of not going insane whilst suppressing the urge to smack someone.

Today I woke up early and really really wanted to stay in bed. But it was my turn to teach joy school, so that meant I had to get all my crap together since I was lazy last night and didn't get finished with everything. It's not that big a deal, they're only three and four year olds, they don't know I suck at teaching. But then there's the whole guilt thing. I've been really lucky so far, as each time it was my turn to teach there was a field trip or we had to practice for the Christmas thingy, so I've always had at least one other parent there. Today was my first solo job. Six little kids all by myself. It went well and I didn't even have to bribe them with candy or anything.

Henry's been playing a lot of Lego Star Wars to the point where it's like pulling teeth getting him to stop. We're talking wrestling the controller from his sweaty little hands and carrying him bodily out of the room. While he's kicking and screaming at the top of his lungs. I'm very grateful that we've got the game machines in the spare room, which remains locked at all times when he's not in there playing games. I remembered a few days ago that I had some Legos in a box somewhere so I fetched them (a feat accomplished by quite a bit of rummaging through tons of jumbled boxes and crap crammed in the attic) and introduced them to Henry. He loved them at first sight and instead of me having to yank him off the Nintendo to eat dinner, I had to forcefully separate him from the Legos. This afternoon he bugged the crap out of me demanding that I help him build stuff, so I casually asked him if he'd like to play the game instead (I'm a horrible rotten mother) and he said no. Although I was thoroughly sick and tired of playing with Legos by that point, I recognized a miracle when I saw it, and figured I'd better sacrifice for the better good.

Henry gazing rapturously at his new Legos Star Wars game.

Henry's Birthday

Henry turned four today. I'd been coaching him for a week now and was gratified this morning when after I asked him how old he was, he was able to respond correctly. Now if I could just get him to hold a crayon for more that two seconds I'd have him writing his name in no time.

There was a Valentine's Day play group at church this morning. Henry ate two frosting crusted cookies studded with various candies and sprinkles. Being the pig that I am, I was unable to resist eating one myself. Then when we got home, I confiscated the cookies and candy from his Valentines bag, knowing he'd eat them all given half a chance. I made his birthday cake and of course he had to sample the cake batter, and yes, I did, too. Then I had to ice the cake and Henry had a lick or two, and yet again, I indulged myself. After the momentous candle extinguishing ceremony we all had some cake. Now Henry's playing video games and I'm sitting here trying to think about not barfing.

Certain video games, for some reason, nauseate me. I like the picture to be as steady as possible. I used to play a lot of video games back in high school and was astonished one day when playing Wolfenstine made me sick as a dog. If it's in first person perspective it only take a minute or so before I have to walk away. I can't even watch home movies for more than five minutes at a stretch or I'll be so sick... Ugh. Henry got three games for his birthday. Two "Monkey Ball" games and "Lego Star Wars." Of course he had to play them as soon as he ripped off the wrapping paper. And I had to watch/participate. It's not so bad, the first twenty minutes or so, but then there's a fast paced racing part whereupon my brain and stomach immediately conspired against me and I had to hand the controller over to Ben and extricate myself from the room. It doesn't help that I've already hit my sugar saturation point. Even hearing the stupid video game music makes me want to hurl.

Ben says this weakness is one of my few flaws. I see it as a simple solution to what would otherwise be a lifetime of playing first person perspective shooting games with him.

While we were hauling the old dryer to the basement a large bird flew down and snatched up a mole. This was taken from the upstairs bathroom window. Ben made me screech like an idiot so that it'd look our way. Maybe he'll hang around and eat that copperhead the neighbors saw last summer.

Adventures in Dryer Shopping

So I got online to dryer shop, since I decided it wasn't worth the hassle of repairing the old one and then have something else break a short time later, as this thing came used with the house and we've been here four years already. I found one pretty cheap at Home Depot, so Saturday we went to check it out. We decided to buy it and found out it'd be after February before they could deliver it to us. Then they said we could buy one at the store and rent a truck from them and take it home ourselves. We opted for that, seeing how we were running low on underwear. Then when we finally got the dryer to the counter to rent the truck, they told us the truck was in the shop. I'm standing there, irritated beyond belief, trying very hard not to roll my eyes. It can't be easy. You just can't walk into a store, find what you want, buy it and actually get it home in one day. I went ahead and paid for it and had them hold it for me, being the optimist of the family, I figured someone would loan us a truck. Ben was pissed, of course. He can't stand paying for something and not having it in his possession, but not having voiced his concerns at the time of purchase (he was, after all, standing right there when I whipped out the debit card), I had no way of knowing that. So Ben's griping about paying for something we can't get home and I'm getting irritated because to me it's no big deal. I told him to ask the neighbor if he could borrow his truck, but Ben didn't want to because he thinks the neighbor will hate him or something because he only goes over there when he needs a favor, etc. To make a long story short, he finally slunk out of the house when I wasn't looking and went over there and came back meekly with the key to the neighbor's truck. I gave him a kiss and sent him off for the dryer.

After we had the old dryer on the curb and the new one in place we cranked it up for a test run. And it wouldn't start. Then Ben thought for a moment asked me if I flipped the breaker after the old dryer sparked up and died.

Do what now?

Okay, so flipping the breaker magically made the new dryer work and we looked at each other, neither of us daring to ask the all important question: was the old dryer really dead. Then I insisted, "There were sparks! I saw them!"

We went outside and carried the old dryer from the curb down to the basement. For just in case.

The Southern Dialect

I grew up here in North Carolina but I've lost most of my southern accent since serving a mission in Utah and moving to _______, a town renowned for it's abundance of Yankee transplants, so even though I live in the south I don't hear the southern accent much unless I go visit my parents and sisters. Monday I went to my sister's and Henry played all day with his cousins. The next day he asked me what something was except he said, "what's tha-yut?" I felt duty bound to correct him and told him that the "a" in "that" was not a dipthong (a double vowel sound) no matter how his cousins pronounced it. Yes, this went over well with a three year old, but I had fun saying it. It was funny though. If we lived an hour in any direction we'd sound just as redneck as everyone else.

Don't think I hold any disdain for the southern accent. I have a special place in my heart for y'all and ain't and all that. I think it's hilarious that my nieces and nephews sound more southern than their mother, and she's way more southern than me. I have a feeling once they get older and start watching more TV they'll lose a lot of that accent. I don't see it as necessarily a good thing, or a bad. That's just the way it is. In a couple years they will probably sound just like the kids on those teenybopper shows on the Disney channel. The homogenization of the American dialect. Oh, well.

Ah yes, I almost forgot to mention that Book Club was canceled. My first thought was that it was because of the "inclement" weather we had Saturday. North Carolina occasionally has some snow and when that happens it brings this whole place to it knees, simply because there's never enough trucks to sand and deice the roads because no one can justify the expense of maintaining all that stuff for winter weather that rarely occurs. Anyway, the snow we got was pathetic and barely stuck to anything, so that wasn't it. And it obviously wasn't because the book club host was embarrassed about the book. Turns out her kids were sick. I was really disappointed, mainly because I wanted to trash the book a little. I guess I wouldn't have gotten much entertainment from it anyway, since romance novels by definition are flimsy, predictable, and chock full of stock characters. Since this was the only "smut novel" I've actually read all the way through (Maggie tried in vain many years ago to get me interested in Romances), I turned to my sister to determine if the ending was typical, which she said it was, having read it a long time ago, and remembered it being not one of her better reads-- she does have pretty low standards, I have to admit. I could write one, granted it would really suck, but it'd have all the right elements down to the gruff male love interest who, after a chaotic climax, takes the heroine in arms and barks, "Kiss me, you hussy!"