"Witch" Way to the Funny Farm?

In my Leave It To Beaver (NOT) upbringing, I watched a lot of inappropriate (for children) television. One of the weekly shows was Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. Anyone remember that? (wait, is there even anyone here over 30?)
There was one episode where Louise Lasser (Mary Hartman) had a "nervous breakdown".
I don't remember specifics, my child eyes watched utterly confused at a woman reacting strangely to loud noises. I think there was a sound like a big jet was flying overhead and she had her hands over her ears trying to curl up into a little ball. I remember asking my Mom what was happening, and she explained, "She's having a nervous breakdown".

"Oh".
That image stuck in my mind, mostly because I didn't understand what the heck I had just watched.

I do now.

Tonight as I stood at the kitchen sink, opting for sticking my raw hands into hot, sudsy dishwater rather than listen to the kids bicker at the table for one more minute, the clarity roared over me like a 747.

7 pm is the "witching hour" in our house. It's the time of day when one more whiny voice begging for sweets/to stay up later/to skip bath/to sleep with Mommy, makes mommy a little "witchy".
Reminding her you don't like cheese as you pick apart your meal is too much.
The McDonald's rap, is too much.
"I Spy" is too much.
The cacophony that accompanies our dinner table is enough to send me running from the room with my hands over my ears.

I learned that 7:00 was my limit a few years ago and we moved dinner back from 6:30 to 5:30 or 6:00--for a nicer dining experience. The noise is still there, Mommy's just not jamming a fork into her eye or the kid sitting closest to her.

There are those nights though, like when there's a football match in Norwich, that we eat later. Tonight was one of those.
I had a hot dinner waiting for my family. The family that practically fell out of the car tripping over their sarcastic comments and insults.
I waited upstairs rather than enter their little fraternity of dislike. I figured 45 minutes in the car with each other would get wiped off at the mat as they took off their shoes and then we'd sit to have a nice, although late, dinner together.
They began bickering about whether or not I was upstairs asleep. Oh sweet children, don't you know Mommy gave up sleep when you came into the world?
I served up dinner... to a very reluctant crowd.

Five bites into my meal, I decided that washing dirty pots and pans would be more fun.

One child was begging for more beans even though there were already some on her plate (it's harder to throw single beans down than it is handfuls when your chubby little fist hasn't mastered the fine motor skills). One child was practically laying on his plate complaining he was full, having taken NO bites. One child was facing the toddler, with the table to his side talking full steam ahead. The one sitting closest to me was eating--well, at least he was eating.

All of them were annoyed to be at the table because there were kids outside that would self-destruct if my kids didn't get outside to play in the next 30 seconds. Attitude hung like a thick, musty tapestry over my table. Great times, friends.

It wasn't until the threats had been made to exile them to their friendless rooms for the remainder of their lives did I discover the culprit behind my less-than enthusiastic diners.

Dad had grabbed a burger for everyone AS THEY WERE LEAVING THE FOOTBALL STADIUM.

Who feed kids just before they go home to dinner?

So I did dishes.
I stood at the sink with my hands screaming from the heat of the water and held on tightly to each slippery plate, fantasizing about allowing a few to take flight.

I think we'll move dinnertime to 4 pm, find me some demerol, and take Hubby's wallet away for a while.

Do you have a "witching hour"?

Stand For Something

Labor Day weekend. A break from our labors (except for Moms. Somehow we missed the meeting and still continue to clean grubby faces and protect our homes from un-flushed toilets while others rest). Like Memorial weekend, many people will enjoy picnics, bbq's, family outings or finish those nagging DIY projects. Some will tune in to the Muscular Dystrophy Marathon, and have every year since 1966.
They are able to do those things because of people who came before, who proposed that American workers receive recognition for the contributions made "to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country willing."(U.S. Dept of Labor)
Americans are able to do those things because of others willing to lay their lives down for freedoms sometimes taken for granted. Freedom to complain about politics, war or other religions. We are all free to do that.

So tell me, in all of your freedom, what have you stood for recently?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following article was pinched from LDSLiving Magazine.

A Stand Up Kind of Guy
by Joseph Walker

---

Dad was, by nature, a “stand up” guy.

Whenever a card game got intense, he’d stand up to make his play. Whenever he watched me play basketball or football he never sat in the stands with the other parents; he always stood by the side of the bleachers—usually alone. Whenever I came home late from a date, I’d sit on the couch and he’d stand in front of me to lecture—usually with a little pacing thrown in for good measure.

That’s just the kind of a guy he was. Forthright. Direct. You know—stand up.

One Fourth of July we were on the front row for our town’s annual Independence Day Parade. Dad had gone down to Main Street early to set our folding chairs along the curb, so we had a great spot from which to watch the floats and bands and beauty queens pass by. We had just settled into our seats when a snare drum cadence signaled the start of the parade.

To our right, four men in ill-fitting World War II uniforms marched down the middle of Main Street, carrying the red, white, and blue of the United States of America. Their eyes were fixed forward and they marched with clear direction and purpose, apparently unaware that their tummies were hanging ponderously over their government-issue belts.

But we were aware. To tell the truth, it was hard to miss. Some of the folks were chuckling and chatting about the veterans, who were so clearly past their prime. A couple of teenagers in the back shouted out jeers and taunts—this was, after all, the Vietnam War era, and such disrespect for the flag and for those who fought under it was common. Patriotism was unpopular, and in some settings even risky.

I don’t know exactly when my father stood up and took his hat from his head and placed it over his heart. He did it quietly, almost unobtrusively. But Dad wasn’t a small man, and it didn’t take long for the rowdies in the back to notice.

“Down in front!” one of them shouted.

“Yeah,” another chimed in. “Down in front!”

Suddenly I realized they were yelling at my father, who continued to stand at attention, his eyes riveted on the stars and stripes. Nervously, I looked at Dad, willing him with all my heart and soul to sit down and not draw any more attention to himself—and to me, who wouldn’t stand a chance against any of those high school boys.

“Hey, Mr. Hawk,” came another shout. “Find a place to perch!”

I had no idea why they called Dad “Mr. Hawk.” I didn’t know anything about the hawk-dove designations that were being used all around the country to characterize pro-war and anti-war sentiments. I just knew my father’s propensity for standing was attracting some undesirable attention, and I was feeling embarrassed—and a little threatened.

But then an interesting thing happened. Another man about Dad’s age stood up a few feet away. He looked at the boys, then turned and faced the flag and put his hand over his heart. Then a woman to Dad’s right did the same thing, and she tugged her husband to stand up with her. Then another couple, then an elderly woman, then an entire family right in front of the rowdies. Before the color guard had passed, the entire section of parade-goers—with the exception of a few high school boys—was standing at attention with their hands over their hearts.

Not a word was spoken, but a message was sent to those teenagers—and to me. Patriotism isn’t just something you feel. Sometimes, it’s something you do.

Whether or not you are, by nature, a stand up guy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HAPPY LABOR DAY WEEKEND everyone!

Hell Hath No Fury Like an Insulted Woman

I'm ticked off.
Angry.
I'm offended.
I resent what the news programs are shoving down our throats today.

For a couple of weeks, I have been diligently flipping on the two news channels that give me a little bit of U.S. information, to see who John McCain would be choosing (just in case he caved and told us early). It mattered to me. I'm afraid it REALLY mattered to me.
Knowing that today was the big day, I was up before the roosters. I don't know why, U.S. roosters had just gone to bed-- I knew I wasn't going to hear anything.

But I did. I heard lots of speculation. And it went on through the day.

Then I heard this (I may not quote it exactly because I began seething afterwards and may have shorted out some of my wiring):
(one newswoman to news anchor-dude) "There were women who, when I told them 'Romney is NOT the choice, responded, 'Ohhh..." (disappointed), but when I told them it may be a woman, they lit right up".

What the..?

Is this what America believes?

That we, the feeble-minded weak sexed citizens run out and vote for who we think looks most like us?!
I had no intention of voting for Hilary even though she is a woman. I couldn't fathom voting for Obama just because he's young. I wouldn't vote for McCain because he's white. I wasn't racing to the polls to cast my ballot for Romney because he was Mormon.

I was choosing my candidate based on what he's (he/she/it) accomplished as a servant of The People, his track record for doing what he says he's going to do and his stand on things I believe strongly in.
I know nothing about Governor Sarah Palin, but you can bet I will learn everything I can before I lick my absentee ballot envelope.

Believe it or not, I do have a brain, FOX & CNN NEWS, and a temper when you infer that all women are incompetently shouting for joy because McCain picked someone of our gender.

ok. I feel better now.

... and Deliver me from Terrorist...

As a military family, especially one who has lived overseas, we have had a few OPSEC education courses. It's mandatory for us to learn what risks there are to our sponsors (the military member) and to our family. We're taught to be more aware, never at rest. Let's face it, people who would wish us harm are never at rest. I trust no one.
Remember my Pub Crawl? I was always scouting my exits and watching people around me. I am too much fun to go out with.

So imagine my concern one hot day (apparently this story is NOT set in England since we just skipped our second summer in a row) as I was weeding my garden, when in my peripheral vision, I saw two UPS guys walking towards my house. They were coming down the street that came perpendicular to ours. Since they were far away, I couldn't really get a detailed look at them -- not with trying to look like I wasn't aware of them and my yes-I-skipped-my-carrots-as-a-child eyesight.
I did watch them though. I watched them come closer and closer to my home.

How many times have you seen TWO UPS men together?
As for me, never.
How often do you see a UPS man without his big brown truck close enough to be framed with him in a photo?
Yeah, doesn't happen. These guys work with speed, so leaving a truck a few blocks away is not considered.

It wasn't until they stepped up on my sidewalk and I could see they really were coming TO MY HOUSE that I dared to look them in the eye and show them I had no fear. Bring it on, terrorist dressed like a UPS guy!

Then I laughed. hard. and ran to get my camera, while UPS man number one went for my water hose.
Son number one with friend. Don't ask.


Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Ten Years and Counting

Ten years ago, you changed my world.

After a few scares through the pregnancy and lots of prayers, you entered our lives-- a miracle considering you weren't connected properly.

You're delivery was such a beautiful time that bonded your Dad and I closer than we could imagine. It was such a great experience, we decided we would do it again --good thing you came before you sister. If we had had her first, the rest of you wouldn't be here.

You were the joy and entertainment for all of us, especially for your older brother who adored you.

We thought all 18-month old children spoke in full sentences.

We thought all two-year olds could sing the entire first verse of the Star Spangled Banner.

Your artwork at age four surpassed what some of my adult friends could do.

You excel at everything you try.

You're a great example to your younger siblings

You're generous, loving and it's been ten terrific years. We're so proud of you. Enjoy this day big guy, we love you!!

Let's Bring This Conversation Back To Me, Shall We?

I suck.
Self-absorption. It's what I excel at. Look, you can even buy a book to learn to love me.Me, me, me.
I'm wondering if there's a widget that can count how many times I write "I", "My" or "me".
I just received a lovely award from Angeline (thank you, I am honored that you thought of me), and it occurred to me that it's been a long while since I passed any on.

In my defense (ooh, there's that pronoun again), I tried to "commission" an award, but I think my emails were eaten, because the artist stopped responding...perhaps she got tired of my long-winded "notes"?

So, forgive the crude bling attempt and try to remember it's the thought that counts, ok?

MY very own award:I came on to this bloggy scene in November (oooh, I smell a give-away coming) a complete mess. Let's face it, I was a few steps away from the looney bin ("where life is wonderful all the time..").
I found people who were like me. I found people who weren't. Some made me laugh, and some made me cry-- both great emotions when your eyebrows are falling out from stress.
There were people who posted or commented something that changed me.

This homemade award is for them.

"We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." -- Thornton Wilder American playwright and novelist.

Don't fail me now drying brain cells...

I treasure you, (you have to read that in Jasmine's voice when she says, "I choose you, Aladdin")

Tara, Kathryn, Anglophile FF (and I don't care that you don't do memes and awards, you won this one), Such Simple Pleasures (no link because she's hiding), Flea, Woman in a Window, Painted Maypole and So Grateful to be a Mormon.

Now, I also have the lovely "Nice Matters" given to me by Angeline that I'd like to pass on to some of the sweet commenters that come by:
Laura, Robyn, Lunatic Fringe, daisy, Wisteria and Roses, Personal Pensieve, Firelein Tomfoolery, I Struggle and Emerge and Fresh Fixins


And the Brilliant Blog award from Mikki (I passed on the one from Tara, but got self-absorbed when Mikki's arrived).
This goes to The Rocking Pony, because this is the only one she doesn't have! And The Diva's Random Thoughts And finally, no introduction needed for these awesome blogs:

My Chaos My Bliss, Mama Geek, The Mental Pause Chronicles, and the Noble PigDoes that cover everyone?
Not by a long shot.

There are blogs I read because I can relate to them, or they crack me up, or make me appreciate what I have. I can't list all of them, my hand hurts.
There's also some new blogs I'm enjoying that need to get an award and some linky loves-- wonderful people who for some reason take the time to read my garble.

Me Myself and I really appreciate you. Not only because you take the time to say, "Hey, I'm here!", but because you're posting and changing lives with your words.
Your dedication to blog through the madness makes this chaotic world feel just a bit more unified, don't you think?

Now please gather these things up and move them onto your blog-- hurry, I may start charging rent.

Life's a Party

We had a few friends come around to our new place.
I consider it a bad sign when people come to a party carrying tents, but we tried to make the best of it. We do have that big garden after all.

Not all of us can dress as well as my children, but we accept friends however they come, don't we?

J2 is a restless sleeper. We thought we'd get him some protective night gear, so he decided to show it off at the party.
You should see the chasity belt we put on lay-away for Miss Ky.Things got a little out of hand when a couple had a bit of a domestic in the front garden.

We BBQ'd,

Listened to some tunes,

danced,

showed off,

Oh yeah,
there was some kind of misunderstanding .
Apparently this man preferred "leggings" over the word panty hose.

All in all, we had a great Bank Holiday Monday.
Next party is Halloween, you're invited and I won't accept no for an answer. No really, we're installing a gallows and I hate for good party food to go to waste.

We're Buying a Home

In England.
Because my military guy makes such great money.

Here's the front of it. I know, kind of a fixer-upper, but it has potential, don't you think?

Here's the front door. I'm thinking of painting it red. (oh, and somewhere in a recent post, I mislead some of you and you think the Hubby is currently deployed. He's not-- see, that's him wearing a Norwich City Football shirt.)
And the stairs. Lovely.
I don't have to splurge to buy baby gates for Monster Girl, nor expensive anti-theft devices-- it's all included.
The garden my kids will destroy playing football.
The well I will throw them into when they argue. That flag pole? I will hoist the flag that says "It's ok to come by now, I'm dressed" so you never feel like I'm acting strangely behind the door when you drop by unannounced.
The tree I will sit under while reading Jane. alone. with my Galaxy chocolate.
Our closest neighbors. I will fill in that mote just in case their sheep decide to come eat my daughter. Not that I've ever experienced that other than friday when the petting zoo sheep decided Miss Ky tasted pretty good.
My always impeccably dressed children will fit right in, don't you think?


It's wonderful to be finally putting down roots. Deep, debt-ridden roots.
Feel free to come for a visit, as you can see, I will have plenty of room.

Cognizance Skills Needed

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

In June (oh my, that seems so long ago), my Hubby took me to see the Phantom of the Opera in Her Majesty's Royal Theatre in London. Remember? I made you sit through two weeks of a playlist mostly consisting of Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman.

Well, back on New Year's Day, the #1 son and I did a whirlwind walking/tube tour of London-- causing his newly naked toe (ingrown toenail removed days prior) to swell and not look very happy. But that's not what this story is about.

After said limper and I quickly snapped pictures of the Tower of London and walked along the Thames to then cross the Tower Bridge, we sped by the HMS Belfast (link shows you the ship) and made our way towards a little shopping area so that he could buy a few touristy things like keychains for double the price of what they'd cost us elsewhere.
As we were creating our own tailwind along the pavements, we passed a very posh looking pub.

The glass gleamed and the brass sparkled. There were draught pulls that twinkled, they were so clean. The interior shouted "Elegance!!" (translation: "Too expensive for you Yank, keep on walking").
I wanted to snap a shot, but chose to keep up our pace instead.

So, in June when Hubby and I were there (see how nicely I lead you back to the beginning?), also doing the whirlwind tour since our babysitter was doomed for pumpkin status shortly, I made the Hubby pose outside the pub.

Only then did I catch the name.



there goes my blog rating again....

Can We Talk?

No really, I want to sit down and ask you a few questions. We're friends, right? You can tell friends anything without fear of judgement.
I can tell you right now that what I want to talk about will get me dropped off about 15 blog rolls. I won't fit in the mold anymore....um, which mold does this blog fall into?

The thing is, and I know this may surprise you, but there are days I really don't like being a mother.
GASP. shock. Hey, you there, judging, take my kids for a day, please.

I read kid magazines and get all giddy thinking of play dough, finger paint, summer reading lists and nature crafts. Birthday party planning thrills me to no end. Shopping for a wardrobe that would please a princess makes me nearly euphoric. However, the day in day out whining, pooping, slobbering, puking, bickering, competitiveness-- did I mention whining?-- has me considering making a run for it.

I'm wondering, how hard is it to change your identity and leave no trail behind?

Because as much as I dread school being back in session and the guilt that comes with it (how much we didn't do that we had planned), I dread another moment more (the one when my eyes open every morning and the realization sinks in, "Oh, crap, I'm still here?").

Every day,
I know there will be three days' worth of laundry waiting for me-- even though I may have stayed up until midnight finishing "the last load".
I know my role as a short order cook will begin when their eyes open and will end after three starved pajama'd prison (bed) escapees receive their last morsel for the day.
I know that regardless what I have planned, where I have taken them, how much I have spent, A., something will go wrong (ie: the expensive foray into the dinosaur park only to have A2 stung under the eye by a wasp 45 minutes into it), or B., someone will cry boredom. 15 times.

Please tell you me you feel this way.

Please tell me when your kind neighbors are busy trying to get their house in order for an overseas move, your child shatters their patio table by throwing a rock over the fence...
and that the older neighborhood kids that have jumped on your trampoline, eaten at your BBQs and sworn to you, making full eye contact, to look out for your boys as they play over on the green taught your children all of those colourful swear words as well.

I used to be happy in Motherhood. Not happy as in "Wow, I won the lottery!" happy, but happy as in "My son was at your house all day and DIDN'T break anything?" happy.
That was before Miss Ky hit the "terrible Two's" at 18 months. Before I lost a friend and had no spare time to myself to mourn him. Before we had enough rainy days to have me considering taking an Ark Building 101 course.

I didn't invite you for a pity party, really. Just some validation. You have days like these, right?
oh.
you don't?

Take My...please!

I'm going to be the best MIL ever.
I am making a list, you know, for the time that I gain four new daughters.
It's important to know what one is marrying into, so below is my resume for these future family additions.

• I will think it, but will never tell you (over and over), how lucky you are to have my precious son. I will even try to tell you how lucky he is to have you.
  
• When you hold your first, second, third baby in your loving arms, I will fight the urge to go on and on about how the sweet little bundle looks just like his/her beautiful Daddy.
• For your birthday, not only will I NOT ignore it, I also WON'T send my son Father's Day wishes and gifts early-- timing them to arrive on your birthday (or proceed to blatantly acknowledge everyone else's birthday that immediately follows yours).
  
• When I get older, if your birthday does slip my mind, I will not, on my son's birthday, send brightly colored packages filled with confetti to then acknowledge his.
  
• I will never criticize your mother's grand parenting abilities.
• And as a grandparent, I will move Heaven and Earth to see your sweet children. I will know what positions they play in sports, I will know who's good in Math, Art or Music.
  
• I will always let you know that by marrying my son, you became family. Families come first before all else. As part of my family, I will not pretend that you are a temporary fixture and only send mail to "My Son and his Family".
• If you're ever worried, I will take the adult role and try to comfort you, my daughter-in-law. I will not cry into the phone all of the fears I have for my son as he's protecting our freedoms.

This is what I will do when I become a Mother-in-law.
I'm just saying.

Does This Frighten You?

On the skirt of my latest Sci Fi posting (Dr. Who), this UK advert was a little too creepy for my tastes. Pause the Playlist to hear the warning...

The Itinerary for Today

David from authorblog asks: Are you a nervous traveller?

I am not a nervous traveller... but I should be.
In my eagerness to see the world, I have done some pretty stupid things. Like travel to Italy. alone. with no reservations, maps or idea of how to get where I'm going.
but I get ahead myself....

When we lived in the Azores, we had the opportunity to hop (hop a military flight) to almost any destination. There was paperwork involved and a need to be very flexible and not easily disappointed (one could wait for hours only to be told that there wasn't room) and not be in too much of a hurry to return, because the flights coming back could be full-- but that kind of "fly by the seat of your pants" traveling really appealed to me.
However, I was very pregnant (are you catching a kind of theme running through my blog? I either have an elephant's gestation period or I have too many children) so hopping wasn't an option for me right away.

When baby #3 was nearly 3 months old, I thought it would be the perfect time to hop to Germany.

My husband saw baby and I off (I was nursing, he couldn't stay behind with the others) and I landed excitedly in Germany. Visions of sausages, castles and full-cheeked fraus holding frothy mugs of beer danced in my head--did you hear the screech of a turntable needle dragging across your favourite vinyl?
Well I should have.

I was packing a baby and luggage for an undetermined length of stay. I carried it all into the base's hotel registration office where I learned that their family rooms were full and would be until the second coming.
I explained that I didn't really need a family room, just "one bed with a toilet nearby will suffice", but I was told I couldn't have a baby in those rooms.

So, I did what I normally do in those situations.
I cried.
Not there of course, I said, "thank you" and wandered aimlessly out on the road trying to determine my best crying place. Baggage, baby and I walked for a while until we found the BX. I ordered a sausage, sat down and ate it while contemplating my next move.

To spare you the long story (you're welcome), the Reader's Digest version is: we had a place to stay for three of the 6 days we were in Germany. One night in the hotel lobby (I wasn't loitering, they told me to come back and hang out in case there was a cancellation), one night in the air terminal, one night in a room at another base a few miles away (a base that had no food nearby), one night in a room out in the German community--with a lovely mural of an orgy on the wall and one night, my tenacity to get a cancellation paid off.
By then, the hotel staff and I were great friends. They held my luggage in the day and visited with me in the evening. One front desk clerk drove me to Taco Bell when they did their chow run. Another actually looked sad to be going on her days off, not knowing what would become of us.
I flew home exhausted, determined never to do that again. I had seen nothing but the base while waiting around to try to score a room for the baby and I.

My next trip was Italy.
It was just as spectacular, but I did it alone (no baby this time) so I was able to be careless and walk dark highways alone in the pouring rain and sleep outside a terminal in cold, wet clothes all night before my flight was then cancelled.

But that story is for another day...

All Things British Day

Some military families do their best to live on base, regardless of what country or U.S. state they're stationed in.
They find comfort in the "cookie cutter" houses with tiny lawns and safety in the gated atmosphere. They might even take a little pleasure in the structure Military Housing gives them with the 2-page list of rules (everything from yard maintenance to dishwasher regulations).
It's sad to see people get an assignment like what we're living now--they have a new country, culture, FOOD and a new language (I am NOT kidding, you U.S folks may think you speak English, but I guarantee you, you don't)-- that choose to live in mini-America, with their American fast food and American neighbors.
The kids go to schools on base, daycare on base, youth clubs on base. Women go to craft clubs, Officer and Enlisted Wives clubs and movies--on base. Some stay on base for their entire tour, having never seen the local sights, much less traveled to see anything else.
What do they miss?


Well, since my kids are attending British schools, we have participated in things we never knew existed. Guy Fawkes Bonfire nights (effigy burning at it's finest), Christingles and Boxing Day are a few. We attend school and village Fetes, Hen Parties and coffee mornings; get smoothly from point A to B with the fabulous round-a-bouts and I have discovered dishes that I can't imagine living without.

My kids say things like, "That was well good!"
"I've got all of the bits for that game".
"Ring me and I'll come round yours" and
"G'night Mum"

Living in the British community is an amazing experience,

But most importantly,

We know what a Tardis looks like.










(you realize without me telling you that this is NOT my picture, right?)




Today, one of the radio personalities was going on about how dull the GB national anthem is. When asked what it should be changed to, he replied, "Well the Dr. Who theme of course".
I chuckled, but then thought, "He's right."
After all, you will not ever meet a Brit that doesn't know what you're talking about if you mention "Dalek".
This isn't like the Trekkies, or the Star Wars..um.. -ies?
No, perfectly average people slip out of social events to catch the next episode (not to insinuate that Star Wars fanatics are extreme..Hi Hubby!).
One can buy Dr. Who merchandise anywhere and watch it on three different channels. It's silly and sometimes scary (like a Killer Tomatoes movie might be scary), but always entertaining.
It is the longest running sci fi tv series EVER.
I bet the people in Mini-America don't know that. Knowledge is power, folks and this is information that could come in very useful someday.


We went to Scotland the first month we were here. I was VERY pregnant and went on an Outdoor Recreation trip (read the words again and then understand this translates to: You will see sights while hiking up hills no one realized Britain has) with two of my boys.

As we blasted through Edinburgh someone shouted, "Ooh, a tardis! I have to get a photo!"

NOT having the slightest idea what they were so excited about, I half-heartedly lifted my camera and snapped a nice blurry shot.
I could kick myself now.

But I won't. Because at least I left my house to long enough to see one.

What are you missing where you're living? What would a sight-hungry tourist want to do in your neck of the woods that you've never done?

Do Your Dreams Work?

First, can I tell you what I just discovered?
IF you hit return after titling your post, Blogger publishes it. Yes, it does.

Anyway...
Do you have dreams of jobs in your past? YEARS ago, I worked in a fishing business where I was a (very young) Supervisor in a infant company that was spreading like wildfire throughout the world. We made, packaged and shipped fishing lures that were shipped all over the world, our biggest sales-- Japan. High stress, huge demands of our time and energy left a mark on my subconscious. I still dream about working for my highly volatile boss (who I adored when there wasn't an overwhelming deadline causing him to shout profanities). The overall feeling of the dream is whether or not I'll remember what I'm supposed to do after being gone so long.

I was a career student. I LOVED going to college. I dream often that I have forgotten to attend a class for the entire semester. I didn't officially drop the class, so now I will fail. My GPA will be trashed. What an awful feeling.

I did various stints in food service as well. I regularly have those dreams where I have forgotten to take someone something they requested (sour cream for their baked potato, sauce to ruin their steak with), or worse, that I've completely forgotten to wait on them at all. Nightmare. The stress of food service is something EVERYONE should experience at least once in their lives...

Which leads to the point of this post (yes, I do get to a point eventually).

Summer holiday is like being sentenced to life in food service.
"Mom, I'm hungry."
"Again? You just ate 30 minutes ago."
"But I'm hungry."
"Anyone else hungry?"
In unison, distracted zombies (never looking up from their activity) "nooooo"

After said child eats and I'm placing the last dish into the drainer...
"I'm hungry" same voice, new face.
"Why didn't you eat when your brother was hungry?"
"I wasn't hungry then".

A few hours later, after feeding 30 children (it seems), that anxious, sinking feeling overtakes me.
"Did Miss Ky eat today?!"

Feel free to wake me anytime.

I'm Afraid I misunderstood the Question

david mcmahon (you seriously DON'T know who that is?) has asked:

As a child, were you afraid of the dark?

Of course, I pondered it for a day or two and in the shriveled recesses of what's left of my mind, I turned it to completely different questions:

What did you fear growing up? I feared losing people I loved. I feared it more after my dad died.
I should've feared the sick men who showed me WAY too much attention as a young teen.
I should've feared climbing into strange vehicles with people I had just met to go four-wheeling in the desert.
I should've feared my nasty Prom date that actually gave me the "Put out or get out" ultimatum (I had no problem walking and when he realized that, he took me home. And then proceeded to smear my name throughout the school the next day).

Luckily no harm ever came to me.

or was the question...

What did you fear as a child?
I had a few VIVID dreams about my Dad dying--before he actually did-- that scared the heebies out of me. One recurring dream was about a psycho entering and killing everyone in my family off and for kicks, he put on my Dad's bathrobe before dragging me by my feet to kill me. That was when I always woke up. Imagine the fear in that 13-year old girl when she discovered her Mom had donated that same bathrobe to a Goodwill-type place after his death.

I feared dolls at night. Dolls that might say creepy things and try to push me down the stairs (that we didn't have). Too many Twilight Zones for me.

Oh, I got the question wrong? Was I afraid of the dark when I was little?
Nope.
As long as the closets were closed and my feet didn't have to touch the floor, I was good.

You're Invited to Tea

Scrolling Saturday was this wonderful idea by Manners and Moxie and suchsimplepleasures Whether or not they're doing it anymore, I'm grateful for the opportunity to scroll back to a sillier time to recycle a post.

Friday, April 4, 2008

We Support Safe Eating

Setting: The Grockle Family dinner table.

Attendees: All but the big one-- #1 son.

Meal: Tacos and Spanish rice (say it with me, "Tack-ohs" which cracks me up. We're supposed to say, "Bah-Nah-Nah" and "Pah-jah-mah", but the British say "Tack-oh").

A rubber goes flying across the table and lands on the Hubby's plate.

We all crack up.

It's A1's rubber (the 8 year-old), he has carried it all over the house since he got it at a birthday party, but tonight Miss Ky, who has been released from her high chair prison, lofts it onto Dad's plate. And we laugh.

Only in England would this be funny...

Your All Things British moment for this week:

Rubber=eraser, because it rubs out the mistakes you make in pencil.

And since we don't have that "Back to School" shopping frenzy you suffer in the States, the school freely hands these out and not one parent is upset by it.

If Less is More, This Post is Non-existent.

It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God
that such men lived.

---George S. Patton, Jr.

Thank you for your kind words. I don't want to give the impression that we're walking around like zombies unable to cope with the concept of death, I really have been taking that break that mentioned three weeks ago when the kids began their summer holiday. We're halfway through it and there's so much we haven't accomplished.

I do want to take a moment to tell you about Dave.
He was a kind man who loved his family.
He was that rare guy who wasn't threatened by me (even though I am the epitome of a 50's housewife, I have a mind of my own -- for some reason a lot of my friend's hubby's seem to think I am going to carry off their wives to a Women's Lib. demonstration or something).
He always treated me as kindly and as welcome as his wife did.
When my Hubby was deployed, Dave came over to do the oil change on my car, even though I was perfectly capable of doing it myself.
He also took time out of a family event at the school to check out the grinding noise my brakes were making (while we all stayed inside enjoying the day).
He loved Mike and Ike's
and singing karaoke (much to his wife's dismay).
And riding his motorcycle.
He married his partner (of 19 years) and mother of his three children in Feb.
A month later, was in a crash he was extremely lucky to limp away from (he managed to kick away from his bike as it slid under a tractor that had pulled out in front of him). The insurance paid for a new bike.
Recently at the village "Clairvoyance Night", the "psychic" singled him out, saying, "You're having automobile problems... have you had any trouble with an automobile?"
Dave responded, "Only when the wife is driving it."

He was killed on his way home from work tuesday, a collision with a car.

The village has this strange quiet sadness now.

We'll be ok. Last night when I climbed into bed, to finish my fourth book of the Twilight Trilogy (hah), a thunderstorm quietly rolled in. It was a gentle thunderstorm. That may seem like an oxymoron, but truthfully, it was gentle, lovely and reassuring. I've told you how I always have felt like storms are God's way of telling me everything will be alright. It takes thunder to get my attention apparently. Some times I'm harder to talk to than at other times.
Thunderstorms are NOT common here where we're living.

The Hubby is having a birthday tomorrow.

For his birthday, he took a couple of days of leave so that we could go to London with a friend and her children. But that fell through.
Then we planned a trip to a castle where they were having "Knight School", but with news of Dave, we left the planning until the morning of-- in case we were needed.
So, this morning we packed up the family and began the drive.
It's weird how every thought, every action takes you to what's stewing in your mind even when you're determined to make a day as "normal" as possible. When we'd talk about Dave, I would feel my throat getting tight and we'd sit in silence for a few minutes.

Leave it to kids to take your mind off of your troubles.

J2 said, "I don't feel so good" and within minutes began throwing up. Didn't see THAT coming, did you? Yeah, neither did we.
We were 20 minutes from the castle.
After a quick stop, we decided to press forward. He was holding a plastic carrier bag just in case.
As we pulled into the car park, A1 said, "I don't feel so good".
I shouted for sick child #1 to pass the "just in case" bag to the newly sick child where he proceeded to be ... well, sick.
Then J2 says, "I'm gonna ..." and he did.
As other tourists piled out of their cars anxious to begin the day, I was wiping faces while the hubby looked for a bin for the carrier bag.

Good times, friends, good times.Here is a photo of the castle. as we drove away from it.

There's sand sculpture competitions going on about an hour from here... I wonder if we should head that way next?

I miss your posts. I hope to be back on reading schedule soon, will you drop me a comment or email with the posts you want me to read most? hah.. the postest with the mostest.

Halfway there

"When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life in a manner so that when you die the world cries and you rejoice." - Native American Proverb

There Will Come Soft Rains

I love storms.
I love how the sky roars after it sparkles with nature's fireworks. Growing up in Arizona where the earth is parched most of the year, the monsoon storms were welcomed by my mother and I. We'd wake one another if they came in the night, and then stand silently appreciating God's wonder.

Good things have always happened for me during storms, or so it seems.
The day J1 was born was stormy. As I laid in the hospital room wondering how on earth I would parent him alone, large thundering clouds rolled in. It seemed like it was a promise that everything would be ok.
It was.
He is my miracle, my gift, and today he turns 20.

He's 5000 miles away from me, so the thrill I have of him turning 20 is saddened by distance,
and a day where the rain has come, but no storm.


The rain falls steadily down my cheeks as my good friend is planning
her husband's funeral.

I ache in a way I can't even put to words, and out of respect,
I won't even attempt it today.
We love you and we'll miss you, Dave.

Once Bitten

I'm sorry. I've neglected you again, but let me explain.

You know I am a voracious reader. You know all life stops if I get my hands on a book I really enjoy. If you don't know this, you're fairly new here, Hi! nice to meet you.

Wait, back up, that can't be where my explanation begins....

I live in England. I am an American in Norfolk. I have access to American amenities at the AF base an hour away from my house. I don't go there often. I don't get American TV, sit in American cinemas and I don't see Regis and Kelly anymore (Oprah's shows airing here are from, well, I don't know which decade they're from, but she's not stick-thin anymore and seems just fine with it).
I don't know what American celebrities are doing-- unless they happen to be with Becks and Posh, and then I know just about every sordid detail.
I have no idea what movies are being released in the theatre or on DVD (unless I go on the web to find out).
I am not bombarded with American advertising or political mud slinging (thank you Lord).
So I find myself very often behind the learning curve on some of the things you discuss on your blogs.
Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog? What the heck is that?! I downloaded it and enjoyed every episode, all 45 minutes of it. There's no more?

Grey's Anatomy? You're on which season? I just started watching it.

Books.
Ahhh, we're almost back to my first explanation...

The great thing about living under a rock: When I find a great book, say part of a triliogy or a fourlogy (hah!), I don't have to suffer the agonizing wait for the next installment. I'm sorry, but it must suck to be you-- person on top of all of the newest things.

Anyhoo,
armed with this information now, maybe you'll be a little less critical when I say:

OMGosh! I just found the coolest book!

I was wandering around the Air Force base book shop.
I like to do that. Books reach out and pull on my sleeve and beg me to take them home. Library books do it too, but since the library closest to me is well.. another post on it's own, I buy or swap my reads these days.

I am drawn first to the cover.
Did you know that I am an artist? Yep, officially trained and everything. I could teach painting or drawing classes if I chose to do that. I don't. So, the dust jacket is very important for grabbing my attention.

Next is the title. If I'm holding a little treasure in my hand, it's already beaten the odds. I am intrigued, so I will open it and read a page or two.

How the words flow. Would-be authors? You'd better grab my attention by that first page, or all of the art in the world is not going to make me take you home. You don't have to start the book by killing someone or dropping a dog out of a plane, I just want to see your writing style-- I want the words to twist like ivy up out of the pages and around my fingers making it impossible to put the book down. I want that. I'm on your side, so help me out here. (this coming from a rambling, verbose blog writer).

Well on this particular book shop meandering, I passed a "New Book" display. There were several books by the same author, same color theme on all of the dust-jackets.
"Hmm, that's nice", I thought as I glided back to where I knew Philippa Gregory would be waiting for me in the back of the shop (have you seen THOSE dust jackets?).

As I wound my way through History, Self-Help, and Hobbies, I passed it again.
"What is this anyway?" I wondered as I glanced at a couple of the covers. I picked one up -- nice photo, pale arms holding hypnotically red apple on a black backdrop.
It was a vampire book.
I sighed and set it back down and walked off.

Don't get me wrong.... I love vampire stories. Scare me to death-- please. But somewhere a while back, something went wrong with vampire tales. I think it began with an author whose name rhymes with Stand Twice (just avoiding hate mail from her fans). She can really tell a toothy tale, only it has gotten so... explicit.
I like an author to credit me with some brain activity, a story that gives me something to taste, chew and then move on. I mean, if I want to fantasize about some pasty-skinned bat flying in and out of my room, I will. I can put the book down and let my mind really wrap around an idea, you don't have to tell me every detail of our encounter. Because of this latest trend in storytelling, I have been put off by these kind of books.
And,
as idiotic as it sounds-- even though I love reading vampire stories, I don't like reading bad demons/devil stories. I don't want to invite some dark yucky feeling into my life.

Despite my usual protests, something enticed me to go back and read a few lines.

Enchanting... I bought it. For the first half of it, when I couldn't put it down and was getting irritated with family members who wanted to eat, chat or have their diapers changed, I feared it. I didn't want it to change directions and turn into a mini-porn novel and ruin everything for me.

Captivating. I didn't have to flip back and forth to see what I had missed in between the distractions (you know, cooking, communicating etc...) and yes, it's considered a Young Adult read, but hey, who am I to call me old anyway?

I enjoyed Twilight so much, I went to the library today to try to get books 2 and 3 (they are reserved for the next decade apparently). I went online and discovered-- holy cow it's great to be me, because not only can I sink my teeth into 2 more books, there's a fourth (the fourlogy I mentioned) that was released --TODAY. Who HOo!

My life is good, but wait, it gets better.
There's a movie!
I am as happy as a Grockle dropped in a vat of chocolate.
Fellow rock dwellers, this was a good, clean, engaging tale. Others (thinking, "yeah, this book, movie everything, so old news"), shame on you for not telling me about it.