April 30th

It's ironic that I chose this day to have an emotional crash.
But,
I have to wonder if maybe subconsciously it was this day that lead me to it.

Less of a "Chicken and the Egg" debate and more like, "Was I grumpy because I was getting sick, or did I get sick because I was so grumpy?"

33 years ago my dad died of a sudden heart attack.

Today I honoured him by shouting at my kids and telling my husband that "I quit". I'm sure it was a proud moment for him.



There's just some days that being everything for everybody gets a little old.


Today was the third of three days per week that I am supposed to have a couple of hours to myself (you know, to catch up on laundry. Or finally remove the rest of the wallpaper that the children have destroyed so that I can paint). The first two days were entirely consumed by my family and this day was supposed to be spent grocery shopping (when you add an hour drive each direction, yes it does take the day).


Of course it was this day that the commissary chose to have the fewest cashiers, the traffic was the absolute worst and of the two people listed as emergency contacts for my kids, one is terribly ill (nearing hospitalization) and the other is away for the three-day weekend.

There was 45 minutes of extremely stressful clock-watching while stuck waiting for trains, slow moving tractors, lorries and Friday traffic.

I ran up to the school 10 minutes late for the boys, which made me 25 minutes late for Miss Ky (same area). At least it gave me great parking, since all of the other kids had been picked up.

One boy child was snarky and downright disrespectful and Miss Ky was obstinate about staying behind for her after-school party. The one I forgot about. The one I insisted she could NOT stay for since I had a car full of frozen items that had already traveled for an hour as it was.

I cried quietly into my sunglasses all the way home.

Yes, this is a frequent whinge on this blog, but I'm really looking for confirmation that I'm not the only one who questions if this is all there is. See, I even feel guilty saying that because I am so abundantly blessed...


I just wonder if there is a way to be a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a church member, etc... and not have a day that is spent trying to get somewhere for someone by some time.

I want to know that someone has figured out the technique for doing something you love (or hate, like exercise not hidden in a fun package like dancing or swimming) and still be successful in the above titles.

My dad was only 49 when he passed away.

I often wonder if he felt his life was lived fully...

Father, husband, son-in-law, brother, friend.


He was bowling with his good friends in a tournament when
the heart attack struck,
so I have a sneaking suspicion he did.

I still miss you Dad.

That's Not Success I'm Smelling

I'm busy and distracted. So what's new right?

I find myself on auto-pilot most of the time.

Like last night when I was meticulously lining the toilet seat with squares of toilet tissue...
and then remembered I was in my own home...


and then remembered there's a lot of cavemen sharing this home,
so I continued to line the seat. Just in case.

****

Today Miss Ky was on the sofa. I told her, "I'm finally finished, so now I can sit down and love on my baby girl!"

"Smell my feet."

"Uh... no thanks."
She's obsessed with the olfactory senses lately. She asked us earlier this week to smell her breath, "It smells like water!"

Thursdays are always fun since Hubby does Young Men's on the
Thursday nights he's not at work and one kid plays football.

I'm the one who will stand in the cold, stomping my feet and wiggling my fingers to keep frostbite at bay with three other children who won't bathe or eat until after 8.00pm.

A day (ab)normally packed and long, last Thursday started with a morning meeting that lasted three hours.

It might not have gone so long if Miss Ky hadn't locked the bathroom door with a latch that was too stiff for her to unlatch so that we had to extricate her from the window.
Thank goodness she was able to reach up and undo the window latch.

The very nice couple told me not to worry, they had another bathroom upstairs and would have someone sort the downstairs one later.
Unfortunately later wouldn't work when my secretary, who is in a wheelchair, needed to use the bathroom.
So, we took the skinniest of us (so not me) and hoisted her into the tiny window where she was forced to bend her legs in some very unnatural ways to get in.


What I learned this week besides that losing weight and being more flexible could be a bonus:

In my friend's bathroom there were things on the floor.
Rolled nappies, clothes, towels, shampoo bottles and such. Her shower had hard water stains and various colours of mold and mildew growing on the tile. Her laundry room cup runneth over, her kitchen counters are under siege by the Tupperware army.
In general, everywhere but the dining table and living room are well lived in. Her cleaning time is instead spent serving people and relishing time with her two kids.

My envy is eating me alive.

I dream of leaving the house with a sink of dishes and NOT stressing about it.

I want to sit on the floor with my kids and not be focused on the legos I can see under the sofa or the pair of underpants still tangled in pajama bottoms dangling from the book shelf where they landed this morning..

I want to take a shower breathing in the crisp scent of tea tree oil (I know, yuck) and let my eyes sachet in an ultra-relaxed manner observing the light of the morning sun dancing on the glass--instead of the military-style tile inspection I usually do.

Does anyone else clean the grout while they're showering?

You'd think with my attitude my house sparkles. But it doesn't. I did just tell you that I felt the need to line my own toilet seat.

So my need to know question for today is: Which person are you?

The uptight woman with the unoccupied show house that lifts her guests feet to vacuum?
Or are you the lady that Kim and Aggie throw in the towel and say there is no help for you?



Can you smell that?

It's the smell of a woman defeated by perfectionism...

or it could be some left over water, I haven't quite mastered Miss Ky's abilities.



IMPORTANT NOTE: While uploading this post, I heard the refrigerator door open.
By the child who was supposed to be napping (thanks for nothing Dora).
I found her mesmerized by the string of goo dripping from her fingers. The other hand was still holding open the egg carton. Apparently she didn't eat enough hard boiled eggs a couple of weeks ago... I guess now is as good of time as any to clean the refrigerator...

Going Up, Up, Up!

This weekend Simon Lappin's shirt sold for £201.01 (small change).
The three top scorer's (Simon is a midfielder) shirts went for £300 to £350.

For £350.00 I want more than sweat and dirt...


there had better be a little footballer blood on that shirt as well.

Pull your minds out of the gutter, you thought I was going to say something about "the body better still be in the shirt", didn't you!



Oh, did I forget to mention something?



WE WON THE LEAGUE!!

Wow, what a thrill. It made up for the HUGE disappointment last year when our team got relegated.

Because I know you mostly just humour me when I post about Norwich city, I won't go on and on about how we screamed our heads off and danced the happy dance for the last 20 minutes of the game, or how the other team could have stripped nekked and run around the pitch and no one would have noticed.
I won't tell you how we hung out long after the game to bask in the celebratory atmosphere.
We won't even mention that horrible day at the beginning of the season when we were crushed by a visiting team and it made the fans so mad that some of them invaded the pitch and threw their season tickets at the manager...huge difference to have 25,000 singing and chanting fans instead.

I'll save you all of that and show you our happy day.



Refusing to go home until at least 30 photos are taken...



This is J2's recording of the winning goal. Nice and jiggly and he stopped recording to shout and jump up and down. I wouldn't have.




I'm so proud of our guys, I couldn't possibly be sad that I didn't win the shirt.
This would be a good time to promise that since we have now won the league and are being promoted I will stop posting photos and posts about Simon Lappin... but I won't.

What was the highlight of your weekend?

Spellbound

Thank you all for some very interesting an insightful glimpses into my psyche. I am really sorry I haven't responded to the comments yet, because I am meeting myself in the doorway again. Amazing how it never slows down around here.

While I'm playing catch up, here's what Britain is talking about this week:
Gather your kids who are sitting on the sofa playing video games and then please, please, please watch this!

Calling All Dream Interpreters...

Any Joseph's in the house?

I've had this dream since I was little, but I've had it every night this week and it's more pronounced. It nags me while I'm awake. I'm exhausted tired with whatever my mind is trying to tell me.
I'll spare you the boring details (wanna come over for a slide show of our latest holiday while I tell you about my crazy dreams?).

The gist of it is:

I am looking at a house (very much like real life-- call me The Moving Queen).
It's either too late for me to have the house because we've chosen another, or I can't afford the house. A few times I am actually renting a room in the house.

The house is always a little run down, but I can see beyond the work to the magic of what is. Uneven floors, hazardous stairs, poor design never deter me.
As I wander through it, I find secret rooms or passageways I didn't know existed. It just makes me want it more.
Sometimes there's treasures left behind. I don't mean gold or jewelry, I mean sentimental things from someone's life, like letters that give me a glimpse into the person who once owned the house.

I always wake up a little melancholy from having left.

If it matters... when I was small, growing up in a tiny town on the Arizona border, I would often shout out to my parents as we passed a desert area on the way into Utah. I would tell them the house I dreamed about was out there. I swore that we had been to it, I could describe the yellow gingham curtains hanging on the kitchen door window.

As I got older, I found a house in the little Utah town that had been abandoned and I fell in love with it. I took photos of it every time we were over there. It was just a given that after our dentist appointments, shopping, lunch day, we would swing by to look at the house before we went.
When I was in high school, someone bought the house and fixed it up. I was devastated.

The houses I dream of and the the houses of my childhood aren't the same. It's a symbol and apparently I'm pretty thick and just not getting it.


Any thoughts?

Saving Some Money. Or Not.

Hi, my name is Hostage and I'm a thriftoholic.

Today I did two rounds of the car boot because I still had coins in my pocket. That's after I found four more books to add to my tower of will-never-be-read-in-my-lifetime of books.

I also managed to make sure Miss Ky has a new baby doll. It's an Ariel. I collect Little Mermaid/Ariel and have done since 1995. You know, for the one day when I would have a girl. And then I did. And she loves Cinderella and Snow White.

Miss Ky needed a new Cinderella mug for hot chocolate. Since I could also get two Winnie-the-Pooh mugs for only a few pence more, they came home too. I'll have to sneak them into the cabinet and hope Hubby doesn't notice them for a while.

I am the proud new owner of 6 tomato and 4 strawberry plants. I'm going to place them next to all of the other plants I will surely kill.

With a house full of cupcakes, I bought a chocolate muffin to bring home. I hope someone eats it because muffins are really fattening.

When I came home to my quiet house that needed cleaning, I instead put another bid on the Simon Lappin shirt (oh somebody PLEASE stop me). I'm only mentioning it because even though it SO doesn't fall into the thrift category, it does fall into the things-I-don't-need category.

At 10.23pm I was chatting online with a person about adopting their cat. This morning, the cat was off of the adoption site so someone crazier than me made an impulsive decision.

In two months the other personality will take over again and I will be screeching about the house being so cluttered. So, most of the things I have collected will be gathered up and taken to a charity shop...

where I will see their book shelf and have a rummage through it.


I need help.

Off to the Pokey I Go.

This post was actually written last week. I started worrying about what it said about me as a mother so I didn't hit publish. I realize now that I've never fooled anyone into believing I was in the running for Mom of the Year before now, so why hold back? Here's my mad mom skillz in full glory:


I doubt that I will be allowed my Mac while in prison, so I thought I'd better say goodbye.

Yes, I am going to jail. The clink. The slammer. The big house.
I knew it too. You know that niggling feeling you get telling you that you shouldn't do something, but then the child's incessant pleas wear you down and you give in?
Oh, you don't give in?

Yesterday was one of those days... I just wanted to read a book. Out of my leaning tower of unread treasures, I pulled out "The Lovely Bones" and have been desperately trying to get past the halfway point for days. Yesterday was beautiful and sunny. Perfect day to sit in the garden and read... but there's a birthday party coming up, kids play dates, husband's school/work/gym schedule etc.

We began by running everywhere. Well not running, because just being out in the sun would have been nice, no, we were clamped into our car where the only sun rays that would hit us would be bounced off the pavement and up through Miss Ky's Princess window screens.

This day is typical for me except now I have four tornadoes reveling in their Easter holiday as companions.

I dropped one mini cyclone off at a friend's house. I kept the three more-difficult-to-navigate-around-breakable-things with me to go to the craft store to find party things.

They broke me. I was scanning the store for wine by the time I needed to check out (and no, I don't drink...yet).

We went to Mickey D's. They got balloons, talked in helium voices that for some reason didn't elevate my headache. We headed home.

There was a lorrie accident and the traffic was moving about an inch per minute.
Miss Ky, with her impeccable timing, chose that moment to ask me to pull over on the A47 so she could poo... in a country where everyone carries doggy poo bags in their back pockets and I don't have a dog so I don't have anything. We frantically rip the car apart for any used tissues, dried up diaper wipes or old candy bar wrappers. Nothing. Did consider the banana peel.

I weighed the consequences of either putting a child out on the asphalt or letting her defile her seat and pressed on. By the time I pulled into a village, she had fallen asleep.

At home, I needed to hang some towels on the line, the Miss still needed to poo and then it would be time to go get the child from his friend's place. The seat by the apple tree in the garden beckons me and my book. I refuse to look at it while I hang my towels that will just be on the bathroom floor tomorrow.

The younger boys had begged to go to our village park while I stopped off at the house...

The park, the only park, which sits in the middle of our tiny village of maybe 20-30 houses. In our village too small for a store, a post office, a school, a nursery.

Like a good mom, I told them, "No, you're too little".

They worked me.
They debated with me about how they could both have a phone that I could reach either of them and vice versa. They "could play until it was time for (me) to pick up the fourth child. It would be 30 minutes", they said.

They won.
I justified it with the thought that if I lived across from the park, I would let them be there all of the time, exact same age, the same way I let them play in the fields by our house and the neighbors comment about stopping what they are doing to watch them play and laugh.

I live one street away from the park.
I chose to trust them and let them have the childhood I had-- one without a mother watching their every move.

Only...

and you knew there had to be something that went wrong,

only,

one sent me a txt, "R U still at home?"

I was getting in the car so I rang him. Nothing. Voice mail.
So I rang the other phone, nothing, instant voice mail (which means the phone is off).

I went directly to the park, I didn't pass go, I didn't collect $200.00 or my wits or anything else. I am going to tell them off for not answering. Only...

they are not there.

It is time to pick up the other one. The older one who could be out alone where he is, but I had made a commitment to a mother to fetch him by 4.00, not 4.30 or 4.15. So I went to get him. He was another 3 miles from where I was and where those other two were supposed to be.

In my lightning return to the park, (I had rung each boy a minimum of 4 times. No answer) they were there, on their backs in the grass enjoying the last of the sunshine.

They met the ugly face when they got in the car. They received my lectures of loss of trust. Truthfully, I was telling myself off for doing something so stupid, but I wasn't going to tell THEM that.

After the dust cleared, little guy says, "Mum, there was a man and a mum and a baby in the park and the man asked me how old I was".

"You talked to someone you didn't know in the park?!"

"Yes"

I called for the older brother, "A1! What was my reluctance about letting the two of you go to the park without your older brother?"

"Uh...um..."

"Where were you when your little brother was talking to a stranger?!"

"I was there."

Yes, the man had asked him his name and age as well,
and of course he gave it to him.

Stupid stupid stupid me. I'm going to jail for neglect.

And I still haven't read my book.

Do you suppose I will get a little down time to read it in jail?






Before anyone (troll-like) berates me for the sheer stupidity of letting two young boys play in a park alone-- don't bother. I've already been much more hateful to myself than you could ever imagine. And I have a delete button.

Seven Is Lovely

Went to bed way too late. again.

For the first time in years, Miss Ky slept through the night and DIDN'T travel in to visit me.

However,

Husband lost his mind and decided that 2 or 3 am is the perfect time to get up and re-make the bed. I could NOT believe it. I still think he was sleep-bed making, but he swears the blankets were messed up.

by 8 am little birthday boy had opened pressies.

by 9 am I drove into town to buy the food things for the party.

Received a text from Hubby, "When you get a signal, call home please".

Bad news:
Apparently I had a brain hemorrhage sometime a few weeks ago and had put two different times on party invites. I had two moms in the same place and their invitations said 1-3.30 and 3-5. They had called to see what I was up to. Women are now laughing at me and saying they're blaming it on pre-menopause.
Back up: one of the women just happened to be the one I sucked up the courage to call about a week ago to ask her what time I had put on the invitations...

I drove home quickly. Frantically tried to get numbers to ring all of these people I don't know to ask what time their invitations said. A2 had invited his entire class.
Fortunately for me, some of those kids are only discovering their invites tonight as they prepare their book bags to return to school tomorrow after a very long Easter holiday.

by 11am I drove to the building to decorate -- with all food stuff still unprepared due to the phoning required. Kids played while I decorated. I would have to prepare food during the party. Sometime.

At 12.30 I told my kids it was time to put on their costumes. Aaaargh! Pirate party Ye know.

Only...

I had left the costumes at home. 20 minutes away.

I could dwell on the fact that everything worked against me this month, but instead would like to see 7 positive points (yes, it's me writing this post and not some guest blogger):

A. A2 had a great time today.

B. I didn't kill anyone in my crazed drive home and back

C. The costumes were by the door on a chair and hadn't been put on the roof of the car or any other equally stupid place.

D. It didn't matter that it rained since I had opted on an indoor party.

E. Being of "advanced maternal age" when he was born means that I fully appreciate this time watching him grow.

F. Now with this party over, I may be able to concentrate on things like... blogging a decent post for the first time in a month.

G. Flights may resume tomorrow.

Ok, "G" really has nothing to do with our pirate party, but it's important to other people (F might be as well).

.... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... ....

Aiden... 7 years ago, heavily pregnant I traipsed through the desert, walked into the hospital, donned an unfashionable backless gown and instantly despised the woman who would become my nurse.

I think even that day started better than this one...

But the results were equal-- in the joy I felt watching you run and laugh today and the sweet little newborn face I lovingly melted into then.

Your impish ways, soft heart, contagious giggle, odd British/American accent, are the highlights of my day.


Happy 7th birthday big guy.

What More Could You Ask For in a Post?

New meaning to having a black cloud follow you around.

Image from Mail Online.

What unlucky soul brought on this flight restriction? What poor sap spent his whole life savings on a holiday to or from Europe only to have some obscure fissure open up in a country hardly anyone travels to? *joke-- call off the Icelandic Chamber of Commerce please.

Being the little ray of sunshine that I can be, I just reminded one of our missionaries that he won't be seeing mail from home for a while... Our military mail is grounded as are some of our supplies for the commissary and BX. We'll live, compared to what this is doing to farmers and businesses, we'll live.

For us, it also means I have a birthday boy who was very lucky that his paternal grandparents mailed early.

How did Iceland's Volcano affect your life? And how do I know when to use effect or affect?

So, did you hear the one about Brittney Spears?

No, of course you didn't.

If the girl was pregnant, shaving her head, getting a quickie divorce/marriage, her drunken face would be plastered (pun intended) on every surface available.

Listen closely. Pay attention. Because this is the only time you will hear me praise Brittney Spears on this blog:

Here is her latest headlining news.

Bravo. I wish more celebrities would do this. It didn't lessen the impact of the ad to let us know that a human girl was photographed for it. Truthfully, there was nothing wrong with her body to begin with. People aren't supposed to be shaped like Barbie Dolls.

Mother's of daughters (and fathers with daughters), it's time to demand more from the media. It's time to tell our little girls they are beautiful just the way God made them.
Nothing wrong with a little PhotoShop nip and tuck, just as long as we all know the truth.

As long as this post is going to be be another deep, thought provoking entry, have you seen the new Britain's Got Talent sensation that we're all talking about?
Here's something for your viewing pleasure while you're waiting for your travel plans to resume.



There's more.. don't say I didn't give you a heads up on Cloe Hickinbottom.



Now go do something useful. You know, like PhotoShop some of that hair out of your 80's photos.


*I'm aware the whole YouTube box isn't fitting. You can click on the video to go directly to YouTube if it is too annoying.

Dear Santa,

I've been good.

Can I please have this for Christmas/Birthday/Mother's Day/(holiday of your choice)?

The shirt would be great too.





Just kidding Hubby, it's the shirt I'm going for.



really.

I'm Old AND Stubborn

It's 12.48 am. I should be sleeping, but instead I am here. awake.

I have three children threatening to get ill on me before school goes back in session, so I dutifully went to each room and put in a Calpol Nighttime plug-in (like Vick's). Then, as I was finally heading to my bed, it occurred to me that I hadn't done something on the computer and so decided that I should do it quickly before I wasted time lying in bed thinking about it.

So, I came down stairs.
I answered an email.
I watched a movie preview.
I can't remember why I am here.
I read a blog post.
I commented.

I scrolled through my browser bookmarks to see if anything triggered my thought process into working again.

I tried to see who a guy was on "The Good Wife". He looked so familiar and yet I don't watch anything TV show he's been in.

There was new video to watch from Norwich City's terrible beating yesterday (that we drove two and a half hours to shiver through), so I watched it.




I didn't see us anywhere, even though we sat on the very front seats. Freezing.

In a crowd of 3038, we still stand out...




Maybe my purpose in coming down stairs was just to turn the computer off.

Epic failure if that was the reason.



I counted 20 "I"s already in this post.
Make that 21.



One should go to bed when one is loopy enough to babble oneself through a "why-did-I-come-here?" moment.






22.

Yes, there are other players other than Simon Lappin on the team.











Look how happy they were before they fell apart.

What Do Winners and Potato Chips Have in Common?

"No one can eat just one Lays potato chip..."
Remember that jingle?
I tried to prove it wrong every time. But they were right. Every time. Especially if there was French Onion dip anywhere in the vicinity.

And so it goes with my inability to stick with just one anything (husband excluded, Hi Honey!)...

I have a winner-- or three!

First of all, a very big congratulations goes to MOM24 for winning the Austen goodies!!! Yay 4everMom. That has me wondering, is she a mom 24 hours or is she a mom of 24 kids-- go by and find out.

I love Mom (she is a great family planner like I was-- she has them ranging from 25 to 7 years) and have intentions of meeting up with her someday when I am back on the same continent, so I should have been satisfied, right?

Nope. I like to have more than just one, so I had another kid draw for a second prize.

Who Hoot! Hey Lauren, from Sanity Sold Separately, come get your prize!
Oh, too far to swim? You would have to start at a beach? Fine, I'll mail it.
Lauren lives near beautiful beaches, go by and find out why she doesn't like to be on one.

*Lauren, Miss Ky was convinced she pulled out her brother's name, so don't make a big deal about winning around her please.

When decorating, scrap booking, family-making, odd numbers are more pleasing to the eye so I couldn't stop with just two winners.
Child three (the nearly 7 year-old) took time out from his Jillian Michael's 30-day Shred Workout to draw a name...
he breathlessly pulled out...

Tamie!
How excited am I to send a little something to the woman dotting the earth with beautiful baby boys! She's carrying number three now, so stop Peterson Party Page and congratulate her.

Winners, please email me with your snail mail addys...

Thank you all for playing. I really do enjoy doing these so much, I really should consider going commercial and letting advertisers support my habit...



not.

Can't Buy Me Love

During the Easter holidays, we took the kids bowling on base.

Bowling is not cheap anymore, is it? I found myself echoing my grandmother, "When I was young, bowling was only 50¢ per game and my shoes were free!".
I was totally making it up, I can't remember how much I used to pay to bowl, but I do remember doing random yard clean up jobs to get the 25¢ required for an afternoon swim in the city pool.

Anyway, everything is now electronic at the bowling alley.

Turkeys run across the score screen (why don't we keep score manually anymore? Kids already don't know how to read a clock, but now we're taking away the opportunity to do math in a fun setting?), music plays at high volume over tinny speakers as disco lights flash.

It was in that setting that my youngest son, (nearly 7) asked, "Mum, what was that...uh, ...that...uh...thing with the bird on it?"

"The what?" I ask while looking around at all of the possibilities.

He stutters through the question again, clearly unable to pull the word free from his mouth that best described his object, "The....uh, it had a bird on it" and points to the counter that is now empty.

I realized then that he was referring to my change that had been sitting on the counter (what little of it was left after four shoe rentals, slushies and a few games). I had slipped it into my pocket before the oldest got any bright ideas with a candy machine staring him down...

The poor little boy wanted to me to tell him the name for the coin with a bird on it...




a quarter.




How sad is that? He has no idea what this coin is, poor little American boy growing up in Great Britain.



When I was little, the Tooth Fairy would leave me a quarter for my tooth... what's this kid getting?

Pound coins.



I'm not that sad for him anymore.

Things are how they are...

My friend Tara gently hinted that she had to cut back on some of her church volunteer work... it was kind of her to be gentle with me since she was listening to my list of things I don't manage to accomplish every day, but it made me realize that some people don't know how my church works.

It begins with a seemingly innocent engagement of eyes across the chapel. The connection that is very quickly broken by anybody who knows never to make eye contact with anyone from the Bishopric. Eye contact could get you a talk next Sunday, or worse, a calling other than Sunday School Door Holder.

The intimidating person in suit and tie will ask you if you could come have a chat with him in his office... and if you give the Bishop a chat, he'll want an acceptance speech to go with it...

If he leans back comfortably and asks, "Sister Molly, how are you doing?" That's never a good sign. The more concerned he is with your children, husband, dog that died two years ago etc., the worse the calling is going to be.


He may lead in with all the reasons why he feels you're good for the position. He may not. He may leave you to squirm in your seat and wish you had worn Depends that day.


However it happens, it happens and you stumble out of the building with a plastered-on smile in stunned silence.


I didn't volunteer. I still don't volunteer if you want to know the truth. I can't cut back my volunteer time (well I could by disconnecting my phone, but someone always could find me).
On a regular basis I give this kind man an opening in case he's the one squirming now--realizing he's made a huge mistake. I've even suggested some great ladies who would step into my calling quite well.
I'm blatantly dropping hints about previously being a camp director, activities chairperson, Nursery Leader (that's the first clue that I'm desperate. I lead nursery at home, do I really want to do it again at church?) but it all seems to fall on broccoli ears.

It's been a year. He's not budging-- stubborn man.

A year as Relief Society President.

A year of constant reminders that I can't do everything right.

Reminders that I am unbelievably flawed as a human.

Reminders that some people who bear brilliant testimonies of following Christ refuse to do service for many reasons and that other people who have many reasons to be very self-absorbed, serve many silently.


I'd like to think that one day I will fall into the latter category- some future Relief Society President will never know to what extent I am serving.


I'm also hoping that day isn't too far off in the future. I make eye contact all of the time now.

The Bishopric is starting to look a little nervous about the tired, disheveled woman wearing two different coloured shoes (surrounded by wiggly children) staring at them throughout the service.


I wonder if a white flag would be too much...

"Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it."

--Mahatma Gandhi

"Things are how they are, and complaining doesn't help." John H. Groberg


"Nobody cares how much you know until they know how much you care." Fred Babbel

The Only Time...

...it's appropriate to tell someone their Grandma has nice buns.



I haven't spoken a lot about my "In Search of Mr. Darcy" trip. To sum it up, I saw a lot of great places I would've missed on my own, but I would never travel with this organization again.


We were rushed everywhere. The van drivers often got lost and then would be adamant about us being prompt. They didn't allow us enough time to really experience the sites they took us to, which was sad because they had really planned a great itinerary.

If I were to do a critique (and you know I'll never pass up an opportunity to critique someone), I would suggest that they remember that even though they (the guides) have been there before and have seen it all, this is our first time and if there is going to be a place that closes early it should be left to see the following morning-- not cut everything else short to get there and rush through that place as well.

But I'm not doing a critique.

Before leaving for the trip, I received an email from a bloggy friend telling me I had to have a Sally Lunn bun while in Bath. So I researched it. I told the guides about it. I was very up front that I would skip what I had to to get to Sally Lunn's. I left a walking tour early to stand in the queue to get my buns.
By this time, about 9 other people wanted buns too.
The volunteer guide that I had grown to hate was his most annoying here. He kept pointing at his watch reminding us of the time.
I told him off. He had it coming.
I did sulk back to the van with my buns in tow.

They rushed us out of Bath to Steventon, Jane Austen's birthplace, to see the parish church where Jane's father was a minister.

The irony here was that an hour away from Steventon someone pointed out the name of the church. They had taken us to the wrong one!

Nevermind. I got some lovely photos of yet another beautiful church building in England, and some great jumping off points for a future trip with the whole family.

Now for that giveaway I spoke of...

I can't send you a Bun, sorry.
I can send you some little trinkets picked up just for my lucky reader while in the Jane Austen Center in Bath.

All you have to do is comment.

Tell me how much you love Jane Austen, or Mr. Darcy, or your favourite character/actor/book. Anything Jane Austen and you're entered.

Last comment considered will be 11.59 pm Sunday, April 11th (your time). Now go do something productive like read Emma again.

Benefit from My Inability to Learn From Past Mistakes

Remember when you found that great doctor who took the time to sit and listen to you? Remember how he knew your name, your children's names and the last ailment you saw him for?
In your excitement, you told everyone about him and now have your name on a waiting list to get in sometime in the year 2015.


Remember the first time you went to the hairstylist that actually cut only what you asked? Remember how she didn't give in when in a chocolate-induce mania you told her to cut it all off and that yes, you were quite sure?
Remember how her cuts would last beyond 6 weeks and still fell right into place even while traipsing around in Florida's humidity?

You're a slow learner, so you told a few ladies... next appointment available is June.

You've probably guessed it by now, I'm not really talking about you and in true form, I'm going to tell you about a blog that I have been rolling around in like our dog, Dorkenheimer, when he would find a dead snake.

Ok, maybe that's not the best metaphor.

The Blog O' Cheese.

This is one of those finely-aged, non-stinky blogs that if you appreciate the humor, you will find yourself eagerly reading past posts and wondering how it was kept secret for so long.
Cheeseboy, I'll probably never hear from you again after all six of my readers switch to your place, but as long as you keep writing, I'll keep rolling. Do NOT do to me what my last highly recommended blog did and close up shop. That's just wrong.


In 2005 I was lucky enough to be graced by the weight loss program called Giardia. Nasty, horrible stuff that if one survives the burst appendix-like cramps and rapid loss of all bodily fluids, one will be cautious of everything for the rest of one's life.

My love for milk? Tempered by the fact that my body has never been able to tolerate it well since that illness. Giardia "reduces lactase production, so your body may not be able to break down and absorb the lactose in the dairy products".
It was recommended that I allow 6 weeks to pass before consuming dairy. I didn't.

When I finally started feeling like I would live, I became pregnant with Miss Ky and the sickness (different kind) and tiredness started all over again.

You would think that the lesson was not only learned but stamped on every molecule that is me.

Do you know that people drink thermal water at the Roman Baths (in Bath)?



Facts (thank you Wiki):



"The water that flows through the Roman Baths is considered unsafe for bathing, partly due to its having passed through the still-functioning original lead pipes (blah blah blah) on the basis of the radioactivity it contained. However the more significant danger is now considered to be infectious diseases. In 1979 a girl swimming in the restored bath swallowed some of the source water, and died five days later from amoebic meningitis."

"In 1983 a new spa water bore-hole was sunk, providing a clean and safe supply of spa water for drinking in the Pump Room."



Yes I did.

Without hesitation.



It wasn't yummy, that's all I'm saying.



The sad thing is, this post very nearly became the rant about how
certain children in my home can't seem to retain information...

apparently it's in their genes.

I'm a Snob...

...I never realized it before now and am quite shocked at the discovery.


Yesterday I was standing in the commissary when a lady in front of me turned to talk.

She had a tiiiiny baby in a carrier and a not-that-much-bigger toddler in the cart. She and toddler were wolfing down fruit snacks right out of the un-purchased box.
I thought about how tired she must be and was uncomfortably aware of her brightly dyed hair and dark roots looking a little unkempt.

Toddler was making all sorts of screeching noises for each fruit snack. Like a trained monkey, mom just rewarded the screeching with the bite-sized treasures.
She turned to me, laughed and said something like she "might be willing to give some kids away today".
I nodded to the baby and remarked on how little sleep she must be getting, to which she replied, "Oh, no. He sleeps through the night".

Oh dear. Older Mom-Alarm goes off. Newborns aren't really supposed to sleep through the night, they need food (don't agree? Wait until I start telling you to rub Vick's all over your feet to fight a cold).

That's when I noticed she was missing her front teeth and was wearing sweat pants. She animatedly began to tell me Husband & Baby stories. The highlight of her day was when Daddy and baby were asleep together in a chair and the diaper failed. She mock-shouted, "Get me a diaper wipe! I have poo all over me!" that led into a husband-doing-poopy-laundry story.

The louder her voice got, the more I began to squirm. I didn't know her. I didn't want anyone else to think she and I hung out and told baby-poop-on-Daddy stories over coffee.
I wanted to slip out of the queue but I was bound by ropes. Dang Commissary.
What if tacky was contagious and I couldn't extricate myself from the contamination?

And then something happened. It was as if a voice over the loud speaker (that only I could hear) said, "Hey, you're being a snobby jerk, knock it off".

So I did.

I looked her in the eyes, took a deep breath and smiled warmly. She offered Miss Ky some fruit snacks and let her dig her own germy little hand into the box. Her voice softened and I noticed she had perfect, porcelain skin and a very petite build.


This young mother with her young military husband plus two very young children--living overseas away from family-- probably has enough things to deal with on a daily basis. I imagine she doesn't have a lot of adult contact other than a brief chat in the queue of the commissary.

Considering the "Everybody Has a Story" view,

how often do we gesture from our cars,
scowl in the supermarket,
roll our eyes in the doctor's office,
sigh loudly behind a slow walking couple
and never take into consideration what is happening in our innocent targets' lives?

I'm sorry young mother. Thank you for not being prejudiced against a self-centered and slightly proud woman, because I apparently needed an experience that only you could give me.

Thank you for choosing to talk to me today.