On Being Paralyzed

I am paralyzed.

No matter how hard I focus my brain, no matter how hard I will my fingers to type,  no matter how hard I try to breathe and relax, I still feel like I've got nothing.

Nothing.

I am a writer, and clearly, I am blocked.

I wish there was some sort of laxative that I could take that would make the words spill from my heart. I would even consider breaking my gas station cappuccino habit in order to buy the magic pill to unlock the phrases. That's how badly I need a fix.

Instead, I try to appease myself with the fact that this happens to everyone.

Every.single.writer.

All writers at some time or another become stuck and mired with their wheels spinning.  All writers have to dig and fight their way out of the sand pit.  And even though I know this, and more importantly that I understand this,  I am not comforted. 

Because when it happens to you, and you are a writer, it sucks.

Sucks.

But today?

I am taking my first baby steps, and it feels fabulous.

I am walking . . . even if it is only one step at a time.

When There Are No Words . . .

As our friend Kelly spoke about her son, I clutched Paul's hand and tried to focus on holding myself together.

She spoke about his belly laughs and his love of uniforms. She even laughed as she detailed how he had dressed as a cowboy or a policeman to pretend and to play grown up.  She related his love of sports and of the outdoors.  Finally, she finished with the simple words, "Tommy, you will always be my baby boy."

And, I lost it.

I sobbed. 

I cried for my friends, Kelly and Randy, who had lost their 20 year old son and were now speaking at his funeral.  It is a reality that I am sure that they had never prepared for or conceived.  And even though both Kelly and Randy were composed and spoke beautifully, I could only imagine the pain that they would feel when they went back to their home without their baby boy, Tommy.

I cried for all the red eyed young adults that sat zombie-like in the church pews.  And, even though they weren't kids anymore, when I looked at them, I pictured them as they used to be when they were my students.  I could remember this one's braces and crooked smile and that one's penchant for wearing his ball cap backwards.  They were adults today, but they were also still babies when it came to life's lessons, and their shocked eyes gave away their very raw grief.  They were stunned that one of them, one of their own, was gone.

And despite the fact that I knew it was selfish, I cried at the thought that I could lose my son.  My baby boy.

It was just too much to hold inside.

My tears spilled down my cheeks, unchecked.  My mascara made rivers that tracked down my face and dripped off my chin.  With one hand, I dabbed at them with my ball of wadded up tissues, and with the other hand, I clung to Paul in a vise-like grip.

I am hanging on.

I am hanging on.
______________________________________________________________

If you are of the praying sort, please keep this family in your hearts.  They need lots of love and support. 
~Annie

The Answers I Wish I Said Out Loud

"Mom? Why are we using paper plates?"

Because I can not stand the sight of another dirty plate.



"Mom? Why are we eating the long noodles and not the twisty ones?"

Because I am an idiot and forgot about the fact that long noodles= slurping spaghetti = a hot, saucy mess.



"Mom? I think that the dog likes my black beans and rice!"

Seriously? I will spit twice and crawl under my blankie to hide if that dog gets the black bean runs.



"Mom? I helped you! I painted my own closet with the leftover paint!

Sweet Mary mother of God . . . did Jesus ever do this to you?



"Mom?  I just watched the dog poop on the floor!"

Really?  You watched him?  Why didn't you STOP him?



"Mom?  I don't think that I have taken a bath in a week."

Oh lord . . . I hope no one has called children services because my kid smells.



"Mom? Why is the bathroom door locked?"

Because I am trying to believe that Calgon can really truly take me away.



"Mom?  I love you."

"Me too kid.  Me too."



This time I answer loud and clear.

I'm the Kind of Girl . . .

I'm the kind of girl  . . .
that will give you the extra .79 cents you are short to purchase your grocery order
but
will also glare at you if you dare poke in front of me in the never ending deli line.

I'm the kind of girl. . .
that will that will give you great recommendations for a babysitter
but
will also curse you up and down if you dare to steal that babysitter from me.

I'm the kind of girl. . .
that will order a salad and sensible grilled chicken for dinner
only
to ruin that goodness by then ordering a chocolate lava mountain for dessert.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will share said chocolate lava mountain with no problems
only if
you promise to take only one or two bites.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will gladly get in the pool
only if
the pool water temperature resembles warm bath water.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will run around her home for 42 minutes looking for her car keys
only
to find them still in the car's ignition from the night before.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will send out all of her bills on time
but
inadvertently pay Lowe's twice instead of Lowe's once and Home Depot once.

I'm the kind of girl . . .
that will wear a hat
if
it means that I can sleep 5 more minutes and not do my hair.

I'm that kind of girl.

What kind of girl (guy) are you?

*********Join me on twitter . . . @annieinsanity   *******************

Sam's I Am . . . An Idiot

"Uhhhh ma'am?" the teenage clerk would not meet my gaze. "There ummm seems to be a problem ummmm with your card?"

My heart sank.

"Well, " I glanced toward the growing line of 4th of July shoppers behind me. "What's the problem? It's a membership card after all, not a credit card,"  I joked.

The clerk did not laugh.  He just replied, "Ma'am, I do not know why your membership card won't work," his emphasis on the word membership did not go unnoticed.  "I just know that you will have to go to the service desk to figure it out."  He handed me back the card, and silently pointed to the customer service desk.

Great.

I watched as he reloaded all of my groceries back into the cart as I wrangled the kiddies over to the service desk.  I didn't get it.  What could possibly be wrong with my Sam's membership card?  It still had my name on it.  It still had my picture on it.  For what possible reason would my card not work?

I sheepishly handed over my card to the customer service "expert" that appeared to be no more than 17 years old and watched helplessly as she first scanned my card and then typed aimlessly at her terminal's kiosk. 

"Oh, Mrs. S, I see what is wrong!" she exclaimed.

"Well... what is it?"

"It looks like this card is invalid.  It looks like you reported this card as lost and then we issued another membership card in its place invalidating this one."  She smiled.

I groaned.

Instantly, I remembered the whole situation. I had lost my Sam's card, and  I did get it replaced.  But recently I found the lost Sam's card in the laundry room.  When I put it in my Sam's file, the next time I went to use the card, there were 2 cards there. So, I promptly pulled out one card, cut it up ceremoniously, and placed the other card in my wallet.

Problem is  . . . I had cut up the good card.

Yep.

Fail.

******Don't leave me hanging!  Leave your shopping "fails" in the comments!*****************

I Want . . .

I want to wear dark sunglasses, hop on a plane, and arrive at some exotic destination.

I want to sip fruity cocktails while I lounge sea side in a cabana and read a trashy novel just for fun.

I want to drift off to sleep in the sun, napping the afternoon away, waking up only in time to get ready for a yummy dinner.


Instead, I don layers of sunscreen and arrive at the community pool with dozens of other women and children.  I navigate through a sea of swim diapered bottoms and melted popsicles to find a pool chair that has one slat missing and that allows my ass to sink through it.  I pass the afternoon away doling out snacks, reapplying sunscreen, and fending off the yawns with caffeinated Diet Coke.


I want to wake up at 10 am and have my morning coffee at a leisurely pace while perched on my shady back deck.

I want to eat chocolate croissants, get my fingers dirty, and lick them off one by one.

I want to spend the morning in my pajamas while I write and write and write. . . with no interruptions.


Instead, I wake at the crack of dawn to watch the puppy poop.  I start at least 4 cups of coffee and then leave them all over the house to get cold as I get kids ready for the last days of school.  I manuever around the Direct TV men that have their plumber's butts assalting my eyes in full force.  I wolf down a cherry pop tart- cold- and then load up the car to start the day's errands.



I want to get dressed up in a pretty frock, put on make-up and fancy, girly shoes.

I want to walk down the stairs in my gorgeous get up and have hubs be speechless.

I want to go out to dinner and dancing and drinks. 

And I want to laugh and laugh and laugh.



Instead,  I slap down a pizza on the counter for the family.  We hurriedly chomp it down, and then we load up the car.  Once there, we pop the trunk, get out the snacks and sleeping bags, and hubs and I snuggle with three loves to watch the drive-in movie.


And, we laugh and laugh and laugh.



All is good.


All is good.

*********************Today I am Pouring My Heart out at Shell's.************************

When Blessings Come in Disguise

A shot of whiskey would have been great last night.

While the kids and I were at the ball field,  a line of low angry clouds marched boldly toward us from the west.  I cautiously kept one eye on my iPhone weather application while my other eye was shooting the umpire silent messages to call the game.  Hearing a low rumble of thunder, I ordered the girls to the car and was just about to don my crazy mom mask to run out on the field and bodily remove Ethan from the game when the umps called the game. 



This is an actual picture of the sky from our area posted to a friends FB page.

 The entire mile and a half home the wind rocked my car from different directions, while the radio steadily beeped weather warnings.  When I heard the kids actually begin to whimper from the back, I turned off the radio and spoke calmly.

"Guys.  It's OK.  When I stop the car and open the side door, just run for the house.  I will grab Ellerie."
Then, I stopped the car, turned around, and gave them my best smile, "Ok?  It will be fun."

The kiddies didn't smile back, and when I opened that side door and the wind rushed in . . .  the car noticeably rocked and the panic set in.

"OK!  GO!"

And we ran.  As sheets of rain came at us sideways, we ran the 50 feet to the house and made it inside safely.

I herded the kids into the basement with flashlights in tow, started the kids on a game, and turned on the TV.

Then I called hubs.

He was on the highway on his way home from golf. 

"I'm OK hon.  I have never seen the sky so black though.  It is eerie.  I am by the mall. I should be home in 20 minutes . . ." his voice trailed off.

"Paul? Are you still there? "

Silence.

I had lost the call.

Phone in hand, I turned my attention back to the TV, and there on the news was the weather man showing pictures of the weather camera at the mall.


Talking about the roof being blow off the  hamburger joint at the mall.

Talking about the roof being blow off the Penney's store.

Talking about the traffic on the highway being stopped.


I clutched at my throat because suddenly, my necklace felt 3 inches too tight.  I turned my phone over in my hand and dialed hubs' number.

Riiiiinnnnng.

Riiiiinnnnng.


Riiiiinnnnng.


And then I heard hubs' voice on his voice mail.

"Shit," I whispered.  I turned off the TV.

"Mom?  Are you OK?"  Abs questioned.

I smiled weakly.  "Yep.  I'll be right back."

I crept up the stairs, walked to the dark dining room, sat down and dialed again.

Riiiiinnnnng.


Riiiiinnnnng.

Riiiiinnnnng.

With shaking hands, I pushed the end call button.

And then I sat in the dark  . . . and cried.

My thoughts went to all those dark places that thoughts should never go.  What ifs marched through my thoughts as my heart raced and my hands shook. 

And I cried.



And as I cried, I prayed. 

I prayed for Paul and his safety. 

I prayed for everyone in the storm's path.

I prayed for strength.



Finally, my hand shook with vibrations from my phone, and on the other end was the sweetest voice I have ever heard.

"Babe? I'm OK," hubs said.

And I cried.

With big heaving gulps, I cried.

Rainbow after the storm.

I am blessed.

Truly.


**************End note . . . we are all OK and damages are minor in our area.  Today, I feel incredibly blessed, and I continue to pray for those that have been affected by these storms.*********************








I am linking to Shell's Things I Can't Say . . . because although I could write this, I could not speak this or explain this without losing it.

Starbucks! Stat!!

Why do I need coffee?

Oh . . . let me count the ways . . .

How about . . .
1. It has been raining for days (and days and days) and to reach my washer and dryer in the basement I need to use a rowboat.  If I knew Noah, I would borrow his ark, so that I could save all of my off season shoes, in pairs, two by two.

2. Last night we had another line of severe storms go through our area that came complete with hail, damaging winds, and tornadoes.

3. The crazy storm caused all 3 of the kiddies to wake up in a frenzy.

4.The crazy storm also caused me to be in a frenzy, and I moved all three kiddies downstairs to the couches in order to prepare for a possible tornado.

5. After finally falling asleep at 2:15 am, hubs' alarm woke me up at 545 am. (Seriously, if it is still dark one should not be waking for the day.  And furthermore, if it is dark and raining, one should immediately be able to call in sick.  Because truthfully, I am sick.  Sick. of. the. rain.)

6.  A basement swimming pool and continued rain outside mean that there is no place to send the kiddies to get their energy out.  We have built tents.  We have played board games.  We have danced to the Wii Dance Party.  We are sick of each other.

7.  Today I have to chaperon the monthly Girl Scout meeting.  8 girls, cupcakes, and duct tape fashion. (Aside: Lord, help me not to use the duct tape to cover their mouths.  Amen.)

8.  I have to tutor 4 students from 530 to 930 this evening.  I will be immersed in parabolic functions, trigonometric functions, and x's and y's. 

9.  I have not been to the grocery store in 10 days.  We have subsisted on pop tarts, water and pasta for 2 days.

10.  Tomorrow forecasters say that we should see the sun. (Yay!) Of course, tomorrow is Thursday, and Thursday evening is hubs' golf night.  (Boo!) I am considering hiring a babysitter to take the kiddies to the park so that I may enjoy Mr. Sunshine, by myself, on my back deck.

So, pass the caffeine Starbucks.

This momma needs it.

The Words That Every Man Wants to Hear . . .

Dear Hubs,

For Valentine's Day I thought that I would say the words that you have always wanted to hear.

No.  Not those words.

These:

YOU ARE RIGHT.

I have no depth perception.

So, Happy Valentine's Day dear. 

I scraped the car along the side of the garage door.

Smooches!

Annie

Bunching Up My Panties

It is January and that means a few things around here.

1. It is ugly cold.  And, by that I mean that there is absolutely no way to be pretty when you are clothed in 47 layers, and thereby, you are ugly.  (Take heart.  So am I.)
2.  Krispy Kreme is giving out coupons for free donuts.  I take turns alternately loving Krispy Kreme and hating Krispy Kreme for that very reason.
3.  I am in an organizing and de-crapifying mode (a word coined by the Thrifty Decor Chick).

Today, I tackled my closet and drawers.  And, as I was surrounded by a sea of my panties and bras, I was reminded of the following post I wrote ages ago. 

Who knew that I'd have so much to say about panties?
*********************************************************
Originally posted 10/2009

I read an article recently that detailed the 6 kinds of panties that every woman should have in her drawer. Apparently, to be complete, each and every woman needs to have in her panty drawer:


1. A seamless panty (to avoid the dreaded VSP's or visible panty lines)
2. The hipster. (The modern woman's go-to everyday panty, according to the article.)
3. The boy cut panty. (No. I don't know why they recommend these. Any woman with an ounce of curves knows that boy cut panties just ride up and give the ultimate wedgie.)
4. A thong. (Yes. I own one. Yes. There was a time when I wore it. After three kids, my thong is more likely to be used as a slingshot by my resourceful son than as a piece of intimate apparel.)
5. A nude panty. (Again, to avoid seeing your panties through a sheer skirt or white pants.)
6. The control top panty. (ooh! The lovely workhorse of my mommy wardrobe. The control top prevents the muffin top that results from the flab leftover after three, 40+ pound, pregnancy weight gains.)

So there you have it! The list that every woman should have in her drawer to complement her wardrobe. Unfortunately, this list is deceiving. Real women, I say, probably have a drawer more like my panty drawer. And, in honor of those real women out there, I provide you with the REAL LIST OF PANTIES in every woman's drawer.

1. The grandma panty. Yes, these panties are probably worn by your grandma, but frankly, you don't care. They are soft, cotton and deliciously roomy. Their largeness provides super comfort on those days when you are feeling bloated. (Like maybe you ate your weight in Krispy Kremes?? No? That must have been just me.) These panties are secretly loved by real women everywhere and are equally despised by men for having absolutely zero ounces of sex appeal. No matter! They are a staple of real women's panty drawers.

2. The holy (or should I say holey?) panty. No, these are not your Sunday best panties. These panties come in a variety of styles and colors, but the one thing that they have in common is a hole. Yes ladies. You can admit it. Your panty drawer probably has at least one panty with a hole. Now, your hole may give a peek-a-boo shot of your tushie or it may be located in a more delicate region. But regardless of the hole, these panties are your favorite for color or comfort or whatever, and you and I know that you will continue to refuse to trash them until they literally fall off of your body.

3. The panties that don't fit but you hope that someday . . . they will again. These old girls were at one time a favorite pair in your panty line-up. Unfortunately, as age and the pounds crept up, these panties began to slowly cut off your circulation to your lower appendages. Rather than walk around with numb toes, this pair of drawers was delegated to the lonely back of the panty drawer protocol where they collect dust and wait for the day when they can one day be put back into the rotation.

4. The husband boxers. These underwear are not necessarily worn as underwear, per se. Instead, these boxers have been lovingly stolen from your husband's underwear drawer. They are clean and boy-stain free.(Yes. You know what kind of stain I am referring too! As if you'd steal a stained pair?!? Yuck!) They too are cottony, soft and roomy and are loved for their yummy comfort and the ability to be worn as pajama bottoms.

5. The memory panties. These panties are rarely worn. Instead, these panties are kept as a memory of a special shared time with the one you love. Whether they be from the wedding night, a special anniversary, or just a steamy night, these lovely little panties always inspire a smile when you see them in the back of your drawer.

So, there you have it! The real woman's panty drawer. And, while I aspire to have the pretty panty drawer that the article describes, I am smiling content with my own actual panty drawer.



Because, after all, real life always trumps fairy tales.

*********************************************************************************

Addendum . . . when all else fails . . . commando always works!

I Have Scarred My Kids

Hubs and I, Halloween 2010, as Lois Lane and Clark Kent

Dear Kiddies,

I know that I do things that embarrass you. 

Abbie, I have plucked my eyebrows using the vanity mirror in the car while I was stopped at a red light . . . right while you were next to me.  And, Ethan, I have given you a big wet sloppy kiss . . . right before you have hopped on the bus for school.

Clearly, these things have scarred you.

I have used my patient mommy voice in public to help the Walmart checker understand how to ring in a 30 percent off purchase, and I have used my teacher voice in public to reprimand potty mouthed teenagers at the local park.  I know that your, "Maaaa-AAAHHM!"  sighs and exasperated expressions signal that these voices have embarrassed you too.

I get it.

I have inadvertently worn socks that don't match (and one time I wore shoes that didn't match).  I have sported contacts that made my eyes appear to be two different colors on the same day.  I have worn my pj bottoms and slippers for parent pick up, and I have worn a do-rag in my 2 day unwashed hair . . . all while you guys were around.

I am not perfect.

But, let me remind you that I have also donned roller skates to be one of the only moms that helped all of you non-skaters make it around the rink during the open disco skate.  I have not been afraid to perform a cannonball at the pool.  I have been the mom to ride fast, scary, and upside down roller coasters.   And, although I may have lost my top in the process, I have jumped and played in the waves in the ocean with you.

I may be just a mom, but I do like to have fun.

So, yes.  I have scarred you.  And truthfully, I am glad.  Because a scar lasts.  It is forever.  And, more than that, a scar is a reminder.  A reminder of me, your mom, and  . . . a reminder of who I really am and how important you are to me.

And, each time you think of that scar, you will think of me, and you will have a memory of me, and you will have a memory of us together.

Personally, I think that is awesome.

So, I will continue to actively scar you and to burn you with memories and with my love.

It's the best that I can do as your mom.

I love you.

Mom

PS  I can not wait to scar you during your teenage years.  This blog alone has so much scar ammunition that you may just want to hibernate from ages 12-18.  Just sayin'.



******I am linking this to Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop this week.  Hop on over to read more prompts.:)**********

'Tis the Season or Merry Stinkin' Christmas

'Tis the season . . .

I sent Christmas cards to all of our friends and family.

I sent out $100.00 worth of Christmas cards and postage to all of our friends and family.

I sent out Christmas cards to all of our friends and family that included a grammatical error.

I discovered the stinkin' grammar error after all of the cards were mailed.

I sent out $100.00 worth of Christmas cards and postage to all of our friends and family that included a grammatical error, and . . . (wait for it) . . . I used to be an English teacher.

Nice.

'Tis the season.



So,  all of you out there that may have received a Christmas greeting from my family, I offer you this prayer of comfort . . .

Lord,

Forgive us our grammatical errors (on any and all holiday greetings), as we forgive those grammatical errors committed against us (during this holiday season and beyond).

Amen.


Because, after all, isn't it the thought that counts, correct grammar or not?

I think so!

It's So Hard to Say Goodbye

When I went into labor with Abbie,  I was prepared.

I had read all of the baby books.

I had required hubs to read all of the baby books.

I had prepared the nursery.

I had attended the requisite child birth classes, and (despite the fact that hubs and I were asked to leave after we got an intense case of the giggles one session where husbands were required to kneel behind their wives while the wives were perched on all fours,) I felt that we had acquired enough knowledge to birth my first baby.


I was prepared.


That is,  I was prepared until the contractions (complements of pitocin) doubled me over.

Hubs grabbed my hand and looked me in the eye and asked,  "What should I do?"  My mom and hubs' mom left the room and started praying in the hallway.  And me?  My eyes glazed over, and I howled.

I was worthless.

Enter Amy.

With her brown bob swinging at her chin,  Amy entered the labor and delivery room pushing her overflowing navy blue stroller.  Her bright "Hey guys!"  fell on deaf ears as I wailed and hubs tried to soothe me. Quickly, Amy's determined eyes scanned the room and took in the scene.  And then she got to work.

With ease,  Amy popped open a Tupperware container filled with cereal, and then she poured it onto the stroller tray for her daughter Cara.  Then she reached under the stroller and extracted a fast food bag from out of nowhere.  I swear, it was as if she were Mary Poppins and that stroller was her travel bag.  I smelled the yummy hamburger before she pulled it out.  With a smile she stated simply, "I figured that Paul hadn't eaten."  Then she lured a helpless hubs away from me, and over to the uncomfortable couch  with that hamburger.

Then, Amy came over to my bedside.

She gently grabbed my hand and said, "It hurts pretty bad doesn't it?"

I answered with a whimper, and her eyes widened with understanding. 

She patted my hand, wiped my hair from my face, and then asserted with no-nonsense, "I will be right back!"

I watched as she gave a quick check to Cara, and then over to Paul, and then she hurried out of that room and into the hall.

And as calm and in charge Amy was while in my room,  she was a crazed force when she went into that hall.

"WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE GET MY GIRL SOME DRUGS IN HERE!"  she bellowed in the hallway outside of my room.

And when no nurse responded quickly enough, Amy again took charge,  "WE ARE STILL WAITING FOR SOME PAINKILLERS DOWN HERE!!!"

Finally, a nurse took action, and Amy returned to my bedside calmly.  She restated the obvious and explained, "They will be right here with some meds."

Then she held my hand until that nurse arrived with the painkillers.

Amy was that kind of friend.

She knew exactly what you needed even when you, in fact, did not.  She was a mentor mom to me when I was new and inexperienced and doubting every damn thing that I did as a new mom.  She was another mom and friend that had "been there."  She got me without explanation.  And, she made me smile just to be around her and her warmth.


And that is why I can not believe she is gone.



Last Tuesday  Amy went in for a routine surgery to help with her migraine headaches.  There was a complication.  Amy never woke up.


She left behind her four kids and her adoring husband.

She left behind a doting family.

She left behind an insane amount of friends and people that she had touched.


And, she left a hole in my heart.


I will miss you my girl.


I will be lost without your compass.

This "Baywatch Babe" Says Goodbye . . .

Ages and ages ago, before my kids, before my stay-at-home momdom,  I taught English . . .  to seventh and eighth graders.

Yes.  I know that I have already earned my spot in heaven.

I taught those pubescent boys and girls about my love for reading and books.  I coerced them to write, write about anything.  We examined the parts of speech and their impact on the students' writing.  We rewrote Shakespearean scripts with modern day twists.  ( Anyone ever read a MTV's Real World show in Shakespearean form? No?  It was hysterical!)  We wrote soap operas and sitcoms.  We read poetry and music lyrics.  We talked about them.  We wrote about them.  And, even though my students were challenging every damn day, I loved every minute of it.

One class I had was particularly challenging.  It was an 8th grade composition class.  This class met immediately after lunch each day, and it was filled to the brim with 8th grade boys. 

Hormones-raging 8th grade boys stuffed in one small room after being hyped up with lunch time sugar. . . and one petite 20 something English teacher?

Not a good combination.

It was enough to make me start drinking.  Heavily.

Instead though, I tackled that class head on, including one particular student, Craig. 

Craig was the ringleader of those boisterous boys.  His red hair and freckled face were reminiscent of Mad Magazine's Alfred E. Newman, and his blue eyes were animated and filled with life and laughter.  Students naturally gravitated toward Craig.  He was good looking, quick witted, and pretty much a natural leader.  And even though at times he was wickedly ornery and made me want to pull my hair out, there was just no way that I could stay mad at him.  (Believe me.  I tried.)  His smile and his eyes disarmed me every time.

He had charm, and he knew it.

One time the students had a fairly straightforward assignment to write about a memorable teacher, good or bad.  I read countless papers about my colleagues that recounted ways that they had spent extra time with certain students or how they had inevitably scarred others.  (Incidentally, do we teachers really realize our influence?)  Then, I got to Craig's paper.

It was about me.

Except, it wasn't about how I had helped him discover all the wondrous joys of the English language,  and it wasn't about how I had scarred him from ever picking up a book again.  Nope.  Craig wrote about how I was a memorable teacher because I reminded him of one of the Baywatch stars on TV.

Yep.  Craig was saying that he thought that I looked like a Baywatch babe in a paper that I had to read and grade.

Brazen little sucker, wasn't he?

I remember reading his essay and thinking,  "This kid has got balls!  What was he thinking?!"  And truthfully, as a young teacher, I wasn't quite sure what my reaction should be.  I took the essay in hand and went for some counsel from the principal.

He read it silently, but before he was done, his shoulders shook with silent laughs and tears escaped the corners of his eyes.

"Well?"  I questioned.

He answered simply, "You have to confront this."  And then he added, "Good luck,"  with a wink.

Great.

So, I did the only thing that I could,  I called Craig up to my desk, pushed his paper across it, and looked him in the eye.

"What were you thinking with this, Craig?"  I asked.  "It is totally inappropriate."

Then I paused, continued to look at him, and waited.

He met my gaze, let a slow smile creep across his face, and answered, "Well,  I thought that it would get me a good grade."  Then his eyes twinkled and he asked, "No?"

It was all I could do not to laugh, and I replied simply, "No."

Yes.  Craig was that student that no matter what he did, he really could do no wrong.  So we continued the year.  He continued to drive me crazy, and I continued to suppress my laughs . . .unsuccessfully.

He was a life force, that Craig, and he was one of my favorites for sure.

That is why the news of his death has knocked the breath right out of me.

Craig, with his sparkle,  Craig, with his vitality,  Craig, with his endearing orneriness is dead.  There are just so many things that are wrong with this.  He was too young.  He was too vital.  He was such a force.

I am overwhelmed with sadness for all the things that Craig and his family will miss.

And one thing that I know is for certain.  He has definitely taken a part of this "Baywatch babe's" heart with him.

Rest peacefully, you imp!

I will miss you.

How to Tell When You Have PMS . . .

Reasons My Hubs Can Tell That  I Have PMS

1.  I proceeded to eat directly from the bag of pretzels and directly from the bag of chocolate chips simultaneously while we were having a conversation.

2.  When Hubs came home for lunch, my car was parked with two of its wheels on the curb.

3. My three year old's hair is not brushed, and I do not care.

4.  In addition to Ellerie's non-brushed hair, she also has several leaves still in it from our morning walk and again, I do not care.

5.  I am eerily not freaking out about the fact that a) Thanksgiving is at my house this year.  and b) THANKSGIVING IS AT MY HOUSE THIS YEAR!!!!!!

6.  I have consumed 5 cups of coffee today, and I could probably go for 5 more.

7.  I am considering inventing a salty lolli-pop to get me my salt fix.

8.  I have rearranged all of the furniture in my living room . . . two times, and, I still don't like it.

9.  I am considering tiling the kitchen myself tonight after dinner.

10.  I fell asleep for the night at 8 pm.


How can you tell when you (or your love) have (has) PMS?

"Serious"ly Annie

Forgive me friends.

I do not have any funny stories to recount.

Or, any sassy observations to convey.


My heart is heavy today.


I just heard the news that a favorite uncle of mine has been diagnosed with liver cancer, and truthfully, I feel like I am under water and gasping for a breath.  You see, 8 years ago, hubs' mom was diagnosed with the same cancer.  At that time, I was younger, and more naive, and I didn't realize the gravity of a liver cancer diagnosis.  Even though it happened right in front of my eyes, I refused to see mom waste away with increasingly toxic doses of chemotherapy.  I was helped along in my denial by mom, of course.  You see, she was so very brave, and never once did she complain outright of pain or sickness.  Oh, she got a little cranky and even a bit spunkier than her normal self, but, she never complained about the cancer.  She was the ultimate mom, after all.  Worried about her kids and their feelings.  Selfless to the end.

But now that I am older, I see the seriousness of a liver cancer diagnoses, and it makes me feel like I have been punched in the stomach. Hard.


I ache.

I am tired.

And, most of all,  I want to reach out and hug my dad, my cousins, and my whole family.


Since they are far from me, I will hug my own little ones just a little bit closer.  I will drink in their delicious vitality, and  I will appeciate their warm smiles and mischievious laughs.  They heal the hurts.


Most of all, though,  I pray.

Back to Blogging . . . 36 . . .24 . . .36?!?

The girls over at SITS are sponsoring a Back to Blogging event this week.  I seriously meant to participate yesterday,  but,  being that it was Monday and that I am currently doped up on allergy meds in the hope that I do not cut off my own drippy nose, I forgot.  Forgive me.  Today, though, the nose is not dripping (as much), and as I sit here with a tissue stuck up my nostrils so that I do not drip on my laptop, I thought that I would participate. 

I know.

I know. 

You're welcome.

Today's prompt was to repost a post that you wish more people had paid attention to.  So here goes . . .
This post was originally written in early November of 2009, after my 36th birthday.  And, as I  come up on my 37th(GULP!) birthday, I think that it still rings very true.


36 . . . 24 . . .36????

My birthday was on Saturday.

 I am officially now 36.  (Thank you for asking!)

And while I am not that phased by the passing of another year, I am phased by the fact that I am no longer in the 24-35 year old demographic.  Nope.  I am now in the 36-45 year old portion of the population.  Just one, tiny 1/4 of an inch separates the two check-off boxes on official paperwork, but in reality, I am finding that these two boxes are worlds apart.

For instance, at 24, it was an accomplishment to hold my pee during a rowdy night of beer drinking with my friends.  We teased each other about "breaking the seal".  No one. No one wanted to be the first to break her pee seal, because we all knew what would inevitably follow.  Once a girl relieved her bladder, she would be back and forth to the bathroom for the rest of the evening.  At 24, I could hold my bladder like a champ!

At 36 . . . not so much.

At 36, I am lucky if my bladder holds my first cup of morning coffee, let alone a night of beer.  In fact, the old girl seems to be rebelling at me at any chance.  If I sneeze, I pee.  If I cough, I pee.  If I laugh, you guessed it, I pee.

I am heading towards the Depends aisle in the grocery store, my friends.  

This.  This does not make me happy.

At 24, I got my eyebrows waxed regularly, at a salon, by a professional.

At 36, I wax my own eyebrows.  Consequently, I have burned the skin between my eyes more than once.  At 36,  not only do I have to wax my brows, I also have to wax my lip . . . a duty that I had once relegated to the ranks of my old and hairy italian aunts.  Apparently, at 36, I am now part of those ranks.  I carry a pair of tweezers with me at all times, and I pluck stray hairs in the car while I am stopped at red lights.  It seems that the magnified rearview mirror is the only place that I can see those pesky hairs that pop up!

At 24, I colored my hair for a change of pace.

At 36, I color my hair for necessity.  While I have very few grays (hooray!), I am not above plucking out a stray gray.  And now that sharpie markers come in so many different colors, I have and will continue to use a sharpie to color in a strand or two of offensive color.  I love my sharpie marker!!

At 24, I had no idea about who I wanted to be, or, for that matter, who I was at that moment.

At 36, I am comfortable being me.  I love my life of wife, mom, teacher, tutor, instructor, friend, laugher, lover and blogger.  My life is full of daily silliness, laughs and hugs.  I never knew I wanted to be a stay at home mom with 3 kiddies, but I wouldn't change it for the world.  I am blessed!

Because at 36,  my boobs may be way lower than they were at 24, but there are better things than perky boobs.  

I am wiser.

I am more appreciative.

I am thankful.

So, I don't mind checking off that 36-45 box in the slightest. . .

But, I won't take plastic surgery off the table either!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So there you have it!  My take on aging.  What do you think?
Now go on and visit the sponsors of the SITS girls Back to Blogging event  They are the Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances.  Go on!  Go!!

Her Days Are Numbered . . .

"What do you think of this?"  Ab asked as she walked into my bedroom.  For the last hour, she had been trying on clothes from her closet and mine.  Her fashionista vibe was in full force, and she was creating some very interesting outfits to prepare for the new school year.  I was more than a little worried that I would have to veto her latest creation, so I cautiously emerged from my closet to take a look.

I was not prepared for what I saw.

There was my Ab, my little girl,  looking very much like a young lady.   She was wearing my black and white graphic short dress,  except on her, it came down to her knees.  Ab combined the dress with  black leggings, and in her short cropped blonde bob, she sported a white headband.  She topped off her ensemble with red sandals that let her cute painted toes peak out from underneath their straps.  It was a great outfit.

"Mom?"  she questioned, breaking me from my daze.  "Well, what do you think? "  she asked as she did a  giddy little twirl.  I could tell that she was happy with herself and with her look.  She radiated her confidence.

And it hit me.

She was so beautiful. . . and . . . she wasn't a little girl any longer.

Oh,  my brain knew that she still liked to snuggle with me before bed, and that she still enjoyed playing with her Littlest Pet Shop animals for hours on end, but my heart knew that that twirl and that confidence marked a turn for Ab down the road towards being a big girl, a young lady.  Abbie was growing up, right before my eyes, and apparently I was not ready for it.  Not at all.

"Oh Ab,"  I sighed,  "You look beautiful."  I felt like my words were choking me, as I fought back my tears. 

Ab smiled, then responded, "Mom?  Are you crying?"  She came over and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. 

We were almost the same height.

I smiled through my tears and answered honestly, "Yes.  I am.  I'm your mom and I am allowed to cry.  Now, if you would please go in your room and stop growing,  I will stay here and stop crying."

She rolled her eyes at me, gave me a squeeze, and said, "Mom, you are so weird sometimes."  And, with that, she skipped back into her bedroom.

And I watched her.  Intently.

Acutely aware of how blessed I am to be a part of her growth . . .

And acutely aware of how my days of having a little girl are numbered.

What's in a Name, Anyway?

There are times when I talk to my husband that I wonder if there is a reality TV camera focused on us and our conversation.

And, before you start wondering . . .it is not because one of was throwing things.

And, it isn't even because one of us was born in Jersey and can claim to be an actual "Jersey" girl.

It is just that there are times that I think that there may be a candid camera on us. In fact, I am pretty sure there has to be a camera on us, because it is just too hard to believe that other married couples talk about the same crazy things that we talk about. I mean, our conversations can be downright idiotic. They tend to be about things that are just plain stupid, yet, we have the conversation anyway, just like it is completely and utterly normal.

But . . . it seriously can not be normal. After all, how many normal people have discussed the reasons why a person's feet are cracked, but don't stink ?(Hubs' feet. Not mine.) And, just how many normal people can say that they have had a conversation about how the neighborhood squirrels are possessed by demons?

I would venture to say . . . not too many,my friends. Not too many.

So the other day when hubs and I were out on a much needed date, and he said, "If I could change my name to any name besides my real name, what should I change it to?" I shouldn't have been suprised.

With that question, I glanced over my shoulder, looking for the reality TV camera, and not finding one, I answered, "Hmmm. I don't know. Why do you ask? "

He shrugged and said, "No reason, really. Just thinking."

"Well what's wrong with Paul, your real name?"I asked.

"Nothing, "he shot back.

"So why would you change it?"

" Annie, it's just a what if. Like what if I was in a golf tournament and the announcer was announcing my name on the first tee? I don't think that Paul has that ring to it," he explained and then, he paused.

I paused too, because really, how do you answer that question? I tried to be funny and make reference to one of my favorite movie characters from Sixteen Candles.

"How about Long Duck Dong? That certainly has a ring to it." I laughed.

He didn't. "I was thinking Will."

"Will?" I questioned. You think that Will has more ring, more pizzazz, than Paul?"

He answered simply, "Yes."

My answer? A very noncommital, "Hmmmm."


Because really, what normal couple has a conversation about possibly changing one's name for a PGA tournament event?

Ummm, yeah.

I don't know of any people that talk about that either.



So, give it up. What crazy conversations have you had with your significant other?

It's Time for You to GO! Really. It Is!

Dear Unwelcome Guest,


It has come to my attention that you have chosen my family for a little middle of the night visit. . . again! While I have remained a polite host during your previous stays, I am drawing the line this time. Here are a few ground rules that I would like you to follow during your stay.


No longer will you be allowed to arrive unexpectedly while we slumber. For future reference, please provide me with at least a 2 day notice of your arrival. That way I will have the extra sheets, blankets, and towels clean and ready for your stay. When you arrive unexpectedly, I inevitably am already behind on my laundry, and therefore, you usually add to Mt. Washington. Providing me a little notice will allow me to refrain from such rants as, "For the love of God . . . again?!?!" and "I am not ready for this tonight!" I will also be able to handle your visit more graciously if you decide to arrive during daylight. Trying to make accommodations for you while I am half asleep and blind makes for a rough first impression. And while I do have the blind-man-pat down to an exact science, if you were to provide me with a little notice, I would be able to either sleep in my contacts, or at least have my 10 year old prescription glasses handy, so that my lack of sight would not be a hindrance to your stay. I could immediately direct you to our facilities and accommodations. It is the least that you could do.


Along those lines, no longer will you be allowed to visit each of my family members individually. I know that you are a yearly guest and all, but, really, when you visit with each of us individually, you prolong your visit by days and days. Why not just visit with one or two of us during each of your stays? That way, you will still feel as if your stay was worthwhile, and we will not feel so exhausted and drained when you finally leave. I am not one to complain, but when you come, it is hours and hours of extra work for hubby and me during your stay, and then when you do leave, it is hours more, but by that time, we are quite worthless. After entertaining all of your whims at any hour of the day, hubby and I just want to catch up on our sleep, let out the stale air that you create, and give thanks that you are finally gone.


Finally, I politely request that you in no way bring along your so-called friends. Frankly, they are nothing but trouble. They may think that they are funny when they cause us to double over and hold our bellies, but trust me, we are not laughing. It is more likely that we are crying from the thought of another unwanted guest that refuses to be polite. We are crying because your friends create more laundry, more yucky smells, and more chaos each and every time that you insist on bringing them. Plus, they tie up the bathroom for hours at a time. Remember, making us cry and feel as if we were kicked in the stomach is not the way to receive an invitation for next year's visit.


So, that is it, Mr. Stomach Flu, or should I call you, Mr. U.P. Chuck? Keep in mind that this year, I mean business! I have invited Mr. Clorox to stay on permanently, and he has agreed. You may want to rethink your visit for next year.




Your host,


Annie


P.S. Please relay this information to your friend, Ms. Di Arrhea . I would hate to think that she was not informed of our changes.




*******Yes. This is a repost from March of last year, but due to the fact that the stomach bug has once again reared its ugly head in my family, I thought that it was a more than appropriate post (That, and I am up to my eyeballs in laundry and chlorox). So, if you see me at the grocery store, I will be the one buying popsicles and ginger ale, and it is OK if you stay away, very far away. Trust me . . . you don't want this funk.*********************