Tuesday, April 29, 2008

"She's just running with it!"

Thus said LMNOB's teacher in the Monday folder, after explaining their new reading unit on questioning and making inferences on the texts they are reading.

Recently the class read this book (which I have never read but we may just have to borrow it from the library because Amazon makes it sound so appealing. Yes, I do know it is their job to SELL the books, but still!). Also in the Monday folder was a little worksheet they had done with the book and the concept of making inferences.

The handwriting on the wall, er, worksheet was precious.

Name: LMNOB MeYer (like seriously, the y was proportionately ginormous)

Title: G.T. (then, because she seemed to have suspected that that might possibly not be descriptive enough, "Grandfather Twilight.")

Questioning Web:
I wonder - what he will do tomorrow and what will happen to the moon pearl

(FYI - the web looks like a spider, with the "web" the circle in the center and several "legs" off to the side where she had to get answers to her question from other classmates)

M says:
he mite die.

O says:
do same thing
he'll take down the first pearl.

B says:
take it down and put it in the treasure chest.

Then, forget little legs, the rest fills up the entire left side and bottom of the page.

I (LMNOB) say:
In the mornig he'll eat oatmeal then read then he'll pick up his kitten and go for a walk then he'll go back home and get the pearl and walk agian and let go to the other moon pearl and that one will fall into the sea and G.T. will want to get it so he will swim and find a mermaid with the pearl and he will fall in Love with her and he will mary her and he will become a merman!

Below, the teacher wrote:
Wow, what an imagination! :)

No kidding.

Edited to Add: Wednesday at the school's Volunteer Appreciation Breakfast, LMNOB's teacher added to this story.

"Did you see the bottom, that she'd written over?"

"Oh, no, I completely lost that - so what was the deal?"

"Well it said, 'which of these is the best inference?' you know, based on clues in the story and all, right?"

Nod

"So I asked her to answer it and she goes, 'Mine, of course!'"

We all chuckled and the teacher went on, "Which, yeah, she was right, but the 'of course,' just cracked me up!"

Besides being a proud mother of a future novelist, might I entertain ya'll with a few of my observations:

1.) My girl knows the value of a healthy breakfast - Gotta keep old Grandfather Twilight regular, after all!

2.) Speaking of running, hon, let's talk about run-on sentences, a'ight? Also, totally non-related save for the running reference, LMNOB was totally stoked that she came in as the 2nd girl when her class ran the mile last week, and 4th overall! I was too - as I was always the fat kid who couldn't complete the mile. Additionally, she ran 2.5 miles of a 5 mile hike (those are so not my genetics btw) last weekend. She is showing a natural talent and endurance for running and we are nurturing it, baby! Hell, maybe it will inspire me to go out and run with her?

3.) It is no small potato that the BOY changes HIS LIFESTYLE for the GIRL - LMNOB has been a feminist longer than I have, always objecting to the general "he" and/or gender bias in "career" storybooks. Nevertheless, I am so glad that she is marching to her own beat on that path.

4.) Inferences are no more than educated assumptions, aided by clues, patterns, etc. While helpful, I see with LMNOB's imagination that we may need to talk about how inferences are more appropriate for literature than say, IRL situations. I can just see her with her future husband now:

"You've come home late three nights in a row, quit kissing me, and I just know that you had to have found a gorgeous woodland sprite to take my place!"

Yeah....................




© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Monday, April 28, 2008

Hashing it Out

Tonight, Charlie Brown asks me of our increasingly insolent son, "What is Punkinhead's deal with me lately?"

"Uhm, honestly?"

Nods, albeit a bit reluctantly.

"Well...you've been a bit harsh lately. To everyone. And, you know, it is really hard to teach a child, particularly a boy child, to respect his mama when Daddy treats her like dog crap in front of others and behind closed doors. And then, he thinks, 'If I don't need to respect Mama, I don't need to respect Daddy either.'"

From there it went like this:

I got teary. I feel unappreciated, overwhelmed, and not supported. I am resentful that he plays on the weekend while I find myself working. Of the home and parenting variety.

He got yell-y.

Which made me shouty and teary.

But we got it off our chests.

It being we both are feeling a lack of respect. Among other things.

Then he shared with me an inside story about a conversation he'd had with our group leaders about letting an outsider into our group (per the request of an older male friend at church) and they responded in a way that really surprised me, because these are people that I tend to see as more godly than myself, at least lately.

And suddenly, it didn't seem so bad that he'd wanted to air real frustrations, shared by the entire group re: a legitimately frustrating person who had been alluded to, but not named, last night.

"Hey, by the way, what was her deal yesterday anyway?"

And I proceeded to give him the low-down of the painfully awkward discussion between this person and I.

Then I went upstairs to pee.

Came back down and he was doing the dishes.

Without me having to ask.

That was the [moist, best-of both-worlds-marble] cake.

"I'm sorry for fighting with you."

That was the triple fudge icing.

And how sweet it is when he actually gets it.



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

I've Always Loved Matchbox 20....

Because they capture my insanity and all-too-clear awareness of it.

Consider this an apt dedication to Charlie Brown today:



Let's just say that last night we had a bit of a public tiff. Nothing major, just a little Charlie Brown drama. He came into a conversation late, proceeded to interrupt with a gossiping spirit and judgment, I wanted to stay clear of that realm and I cut him off in front of everyone.

Which you know, a woman cutting off her husband in public is a huge no-no to a traditionalist male with fragile ego syndrome.

And his pride got hurt, so he stormed off in a huff. (The kids were already loaded and we had taken separate cars).

It was only slightly embarrassing, as I had attempted to curtail his tantrum. To no avail.

So I was left with the group of church friends with a silent shrug: Welcome to my world, ya'll.

I'd planned on going out with DSW afterward and so I did.

When I got home he was asleep.

This morning, I called to apologize for cutting him off like I had - I knew that he has issues with that and it was disrespectful, but I wanted him to know I was trying to keep the conversation above board, that he'd started into it out of context.

I got told that it was the way I cut him off.

I reminded him that I had said, "Let's not go there" like 3 times before I waved my hand at him, and if he would just show some respect and restraint it could have been avoided entirely. Instead what happened happened and I was left, in a situation no different than the one he'd perceived me putting him in: publicly humiliated.

Did I get an apology for that?

No.

And that really pisses me off.




© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Spring Morning

This post inspired by my all time favorite Jewel song:


Ok...you got me. They are all my favorites. I love Jewel. Did I ever tell ya'll that I sang her at my highschool pops concert, when she was new?

The Sun all too cheerfully peers in through my blinds this morning.

I, not yet ready for wakefulness, resist, turning over on my side and hiding my face from her charms beneath my plush comforter.

Angry at this rebuff, She directs her more intense arms of brilliant white gold light to penetrate through my window. They do, carrying her indignant message. “I give you Spring, dammit! You’re Supposed to wake up and relate your soul’s beautiful awakening and rejuvenation to the one going on outside! You’re Supposed to enjoy this – why aren’t you enjoying this?”


Yes, folks, Spring has sprung.

And despite arriving after one of Colorado’s Longest. Winters. Ever. I’m just not twitterpated with the gloriousness of the Sun’s presentations of Herself; nor with her accessories of green, delicate buds, and rich soils.

I fear Spring has become a Supposed to Season for me.

I am now Supposed to have arms worthy of short sleeves, legs worthy of skirts and capris.

Instead I am carrying an obscene amount of winter weight; the results of my body’s desperate attempts to increase serotonin to my depressed brain.

I am Supposed to garb myself in cute, springy clothes.

Instead I have no clothes that fit. (Even if I did, they aren’t clean, see below)

I am Supposed to find respite from depression and strength in the Sun’s now extended hours.

Instead, I find myself still wondering why there aren’t more hours in a day, and just how am I supposed to enjoy the Sun when I still have the obligations of indoors beckoning to me? The fog is leaving me, but now the disgust at the outcomes produced by my lack of motivation hits and the futility of catching up looms. So now I am left only more mindful of the consequences of Winter, but no more motivated to cure them.

I am Supposed to be awed by the miracle of Life.

Instead I feel trapped by the very obvious fact that it keeps moving forward. Can’t time just stand still for a moment? Can’t I just get caught up?

I am Supposed to instinctively desire closeness from my mate. It is the season of fertility after all.

Instead I am dreaming of time away. In solitude. I grow resentful that the burden of catch-up rests solely upon me, as he would never dream of fixing the chaos – he just doesn’t know where to begin. And I do?

I am Supposed to want to be active and eat fresh foods.

Instead lethargy and carbs abound. Thank goodness for coffee.

I am Supposed to be able to pull it together, plant seeds of hope in my mind and watch them bloom.

And though I know there to be solace in positivity and exercise, it seems like a great big hurdle to jump.

---written 4/21/08

Edited to add….Since writing this I have:

Jaunted about on a 90 minute walk (yesterday) in the Sun (She has since retaliated against my morning snubs by brandishing me with a pink countenance)

Seen a -3 change in lbs on the Mo[u]rning Scale Report

Resumed St. John’s Wort (consistently…I’ve concluded that 3 doses spread over 6 mos is not effective) and Omega-3 Supplement

Done the dishes (for the first time in about a week – this morning)

Gone to bed “early” (10:30 – can’t go earlier on a consistent basis)

Wished daily that I could break away from being a Negative Nellie

Gone to (and participated in) LMNOB’s first aquatic OT session…and realized how blessed we are. Repeat on Wednesday.

Begun drinking Yogi Detox tea in the mornings.

Realized that I still just need to get away and find some peace, clarity, serenity….

Any bloggy friends up for a bloggy girls road trip?



© 2008
Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

The fuse has been lit

Monday night, upon arriving home after 9 pm and seeing LMNOB asleep, ON THE COUCH, and Punkinhead, STILL AWAKE, dishes to the ceiling, papers EVERYWHERE, filthy floors and more, I asked Charlie Brown if LMNOB had done her Monday Math.

In his shirking-responsibility-defiance voice, a voice that I am oh too well acquainted with, "No - you didn't tell me to!"

Oh. My. ___________________

"Well, hon, she's been doing Monday Math for oh, seven months now? I didn't think you would need to be told. I assume they didn't get baths?"

Correct.

"Why aren't they in their beds - it's after 9."

"Because, Heather, they find it a little hard to go to sleep without seeing you."

Oh thanks for playing the guilt card. Yes I know, and I've been totally overcompensating for it and now they're just BRATS!

Which, ok whatever. It was what he said next that just sent me over the edge:

"Cut me some slack. I've had to pick them up and be with them 4 out of 5 nights last week," (two of those nights by the way were just pick-up, not a late night for me) "I'm tired."

"Man, I'm really sorry. Sucks having to be a parent, doesn't it?" I said with exaggerated empathy. "Welcome to my world, dear."

*******************************************
Last night we're looking at bills and paychecks and determined that thanks to a new truck payment, we are going to have to be a little creative.

So we make a 2 wk menu plan, grocery list and go to the grocer's.

$200 later we drove home.

After I got the kids to bed, I sat down in the kitchen to put away the goods Charlie Brown had unloaded.

After about 1/2 an hour, and him in the living room watching tv, I started singing, "All by myyyyyyyseeeeeelf....Don't wanna be....alll by myyyyyseeeeelllllf, anymore..."

I know what you must be thinking, "Dang she's turned into a passive aggressive bitch."

Not really, just a pissed off mama who is trying to do too much because her hubs does too little.

Charlie Brown came in and helped me clean and reorg the fridge so that we could put all of our perishable nutrient bounties in the temperature preserving treasure chest.

Then he went and sat back down.

While I continued to work.

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

I sense a division of labor smack-down coming on.




© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Monday, April 21, 2008

I've Got the Blahs

Where hast my motivation gone?
Alas! Alas! I cannot find it.
Not hither, not thither.
And thus no work gets done, my brain goes numb,
And fatty carbs help me mind it.
Crappy prose, I know.
But it captures life for me for the past several weeks.
I'm just not motivated to do ANYthing. Hiding from God, myself, and work.
Eating to medicate.
I stepped on the scale this morning and I'm in a new weight class.
I have to stop this pattern.
But that would require motivation.




© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Blink with Me

Perhaps I ought to elaborate on the title there.

Becky's son J is autistic. On the days that J is in his own world, Becky has described his behavior as "blinky" or "blinking out."

LMNOB had a brief, albeit frustrating, sensory meltdown at church today. Upon drop-off to bible class, she did her trademark clingy freak-out. I was tender but firm, quiet but loud and clear, and when it became apparent that her behavior was a ginormous distraction, I pulled her out. And headed to the ladies room, our routine set wherein I try to help LMNOB regain her shit she seems to all too frequently lose.

Upon leaving, the Sunday school teacher tried (but failed miserably) to help, "Bye LMNOB, it's too bad you're not going to be in class today."

LMNOB heard, "Wa-wa-wa Wa-wa-wa-wa."

I heard, "Thanks for disrupting our class. Again. You do know she's gonna have to learn to separate from you sometime, right?"

I know, it is probably not at all what she intended, she was probably just trying to back a mama up, but it hit me completely wrong.

We made our way into the bathroom, a public venue that makes for a completely awkward scene when people walk in upon a tantruming LMNOB while I am begging and pleading for her to just do a wall push-up or some other kind of "body work." And let me just say, it's not that we're secretive about LMNOB's needs, it's just that so many people do NOT get it.

Also, this was after the previous day's long drawn out battles with selfish, bratty kids - in a moment of extreme battle fatigue, I broke down in tears at that last "But, Mooooooooooooooom!" before bed. "Clearly if my kids think it is ok to act like this, I am not a great mom," I ranted. Clearly, it was a moment of hysteria, but still, it pops out from time to time, ya know? This morning, I was not fully recovered and went into today's battle in an already fragile state.

Dear Lord, I just need some respite!

LMNOB wanted to hang on me - my neck and back are bearing the brunt of this oft-made request. The grandmother of one of LMNOB's classmates came in and went into a stall. I held LMNOB up so that she could hang from one of the stalls.

"Ahhhhhhhh...."

"That feel alright?"

"Mmmmhmmm."

Out came Grandma. She spoke to LMNOB, with a kind smile, about her hair, school, etc. She turned to me with a knowing look and said, "She's under-sensitive, right?"

Surprised, I responded, "Yeah, they call her a sensory seeker because she is under-stimulated. In MOST things, though, not all."

Grandma noted that one of the hardest things is that the issues aren't always consistent, then related that her 4 y/o grandson (one of the triplet sibs of LMNOB's classmate - yeah, and I think I have it rough, I know) had recently been ID'd with sensory integration problems, but he was on the over-sensitive, "defensive" end of the spectrum. As a result he's often an angry, wild, and defiant little boy.

Grandma said that it just upsets her when people give looks at her daughter and son-in-law when her grandson is acting out, that people assume that these parents are just not good disciplinarians, and the kids are just spoiled.

She went on, "If people would just read the many books that are out, they'd know there is much more to the picture than that!"

I could have kissed her. Like, a full on makeout session, but ya know such risque' behavior is frowned upon at church.

Respite AND Validation? Love you Lord, I do.

In the meantime, LMNOB was soaking all of this up. Hearing that other kids have sensory issues is as much (or more) validating to her as it is for me.

After Grandma left, LMNOB hung another time and did some pushes against the sink counter.

And then she went into her class with no problem.



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Saturday, April 19, 2008

East Meets West

The other day I was blog-surfing and found a blog with a corner banner on it that intrigued me.

So I did what any other curious cat would do and clicked it. Which took me here.

And as I clicked through the site, and other explanatory links on it, I felt a kindred spirit well up through cyberspace and whisper to my heart, "Namaste'."

So, maybe I'm the first to take a NYC phenomenon out West, but I'm doing it. You'll see the revolution button permanently on my sidebar, and I'm also taking Krystyn's HopeNotes and going to post them around with love.

In the meantime, dear internets, it has come to my attention that I managed to forget posting a bulletin article I put together for my church here...I think it is fitting with this idea of a Hope Revolution:


I will never forget the last day of my Child Pscyhopathology and Exceptionality class at CSU. At the front of the room stood my professor, telling a heart-wrenching story about working with a boy who had been horribly abused. I sat in the room, newly pregnant and bawling, as this man stood before us with tears in his eyes, face screwed up, explaining that sometimes the hardest part of working with kids [in "the system"], "is not knowing if you told the truth when you told a kid that ‘everything would work out.’"
Later, I would discover that this haunting phenomenon occurs in any realm of social work, not just with kids. Very rarely do social workers get to see the start to finish in the lives of those whom we’ve intervened.

Similarly, many of us are sowers of seeds. Unlike shepherds, who are given time to spend every day watching over their flocks, nurturing, protecting, and leading them; God provides those of us who are sowers with opportunities to scatter the seeds of His love. Sometimes these opportunities arrive with time to prepare the soil, but often things happen so quickly, we can do little more than throw the seeds out in faith, pray for roots to take place, and find ourselves being presented with new opportunities. Like a social worker, a sower doesn’t always get to see the harvest of these efforts. In those instances, we must embrace the adage heard at 12 Step groups across the globe: “Let go and Let God.”

I haven’t done direct services work for about 4 years now, but still God hands me opportunities, and He’s impressed upon my heart that my role in the Kingdom is that of a sower. Recently, He blessed me by sharing a glimpse at the harvest with me.

Last month*, I’d taken a day off from work, frantically cleaning my house before my in-laws came to visit. As I emptied a basket of papers, one fell on the floor. I picked it up and started to toss it in the recycle bin when I saw the name and phone number scrawled across it out of the corner of my eye: Jean A, Golden.

Jason, I thought. I wonder how he’s doing?

[the following is context, in the event you are a new reader and/or you choose not to follow the links]

Jason is a man who crossed our family’s path
one cold night in October, just outside of JAX. He’s an alcoholic. That night he’d found himself homeless, and drunk beyond all possibility of finding shelter. We put him up in a motel that night, and I offered to get him the help he would need for the subsequent days, provided he would follow through. He’d had me call his mother, Jean, just to let her know he was ok. Unfortunately, Jason chose to drink the next night and I had to uphold my stance that I would not continue helping him if he wasn’t willing to do some of the leg work. A few days later he’d called me to thank me for the help we’d given him. He’d ended up going to detox and later to a residential treatment program in Denver.

In January, I got
yet another call from Jason. Now sober, he was calling to tell me he’d been “working his steps,” that he realized just how much we’d done for him in very little time together, and that he was forever grateful.

So here I was in February, looking at his mother’s phone number. Coincidence? Probably not, I decided. So I called Jean. And got voice-mail.

Maybe you should just hang up. It’s kind of strange, you know?

Beeeep.

“Uh, hi, Jean. This is Heather Meyer in NOCO Town. We talked this fall after my family met Jason. Anyway, funny story, I just came across your number and felt compelled to call and check in with you, see how Jason’s doing. I wish you all the best.”

Within minutes my phone rang.

It was Jean.

She was not the same defeated mother I had talked to in October. She sounded hopeful, as she told me that Jason had completed the in-patient part of his treatment – a milestone which had previously remained elusive in his attempts at sobriety.

She continued, proudly rattling on that he’d found a church, was faithfully attending AA, and most miraculous of all, he and his brother were working together after a decade of estrangement!

I could hear her choke up on the other line, “Heather, you and your family have been an answered prayer. My son has come home in every sense of the word.”

Humbly, I corrected her. "Jean, I was only a vehicle through which God could answer your prayers. I had no idea that something so small would amount to such a huge victory."

Praise be to God! And thanks to all of you who joined us in praying for Jason this fall.

*February....I wrote this in March, but the conversation took place in February



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Friday, April 18, 2008

Who Could Ask for Anything More???

It's Friday.

It's Date Night.

It's WARM, finally spring has made an entrance in Colorado.

So I am going to get all Virile Va-freaking-Voom Vixen, right! now! and hope that is the perfect storm, :wink:.



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

A Whole 'Nother Realm

Note...if you are here via the BlogHer headline, great - thanks for stopping by. But this post is relatively lame - better suited for my regulars. For a more entertaining post, check this one out.

I am pleased to note that despite the initial disaster, known as Realm, we have completed painting Punkinhead's room.

I think it turned out pretty cute, for the kid not having decent bedroom furnishings (dresser is in the closet, the bed is good, but the shelves are all rather chintzy).





His response was super cute: "This is MY room??????"

Our nods.

"Heeeheheheeh!!! Yeah, woohoo!"

Oh boy, if you only knew....

Relief indeed. You'll notice Charlie Brown's beer on the Sterilite drawers. Yeah. We needed it.



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

The Business Sector CAN Make a Difference in Social Issues

I just received an e-mail with a link to an article MSNBC is running online.

 

Quizno’s Founder Fights Homelessness
The founder of the Denver-based Quizno’s restaurant chain and his wife are starting a business-minded group to help raise money for cities fighting homelessness.

The first project of Richard and Cheryl Schaden's America's Road Home, announced Thursday, will revolve around marketing a film about homelessness, "Where God Left His Shoes." A restaurant in Denver could follow, with proceeds going toward America's Road Home.

Michael Stoops, executive director of the National Coalition for the Homeless, welcomed the private-sector help.

He said the effort to fight homelessness hasn't had many high-profile boosters since Comic Relief in the 1980s. His group has been trying to get public officials, including the presidential hopefuls, to agree to live on the streets for 48 hours to draw attention to the issue.

"We really need whoever, I don't care if it's a Democrat or a Republican, we need people who have more influence than you or I to mobilize and lead the way," Stoops said.

Schaden said fighting homelessness is important to him because both he and his wife have had relatives who have ended up on the streets. One of the relatives had had medical problems while another lost a job and was too embarrassed to let the rest of the family know, he said.
"What it tells you is that anybody can end up there," Schaden said. "With a volatile economy it can happen pretty quickly."

 

Go read the full article.  Then go tell Quizno’s how much you love ‘em and buy a sandwich.  ‘Mmmm Toasty.

Out of Sync

Note: This post is about sex, and will be very frank - which some of my Christian readers may find offensive. Just FYI, and comments about how Christian women just shouldn't talk this way will go the way of the dinosaur, just sayin'.

Lately I've been wondering why in the heck the pubescent audience have staked their claim as sole proprietors on books/seminars/etc with titles like "Your Changing Body."

I mean, women especially could run a series on that.

Your Changing Body: How the Miracle of Life Destroyed my Body

Your Changing Body: The Physiological Need for Sleep Has Now Trumped my Desire for Sex

Your Changing Body: I'm Pushing 30 and Hello Vagina!


Yes, my biological clock, it is a tickin', and boy howdy do I feel the surge of hormones flood to my nether regions for about a week out of every month. It's that time known as "Fertile." And damned if my body is not saying, "We are gonna make you want sex so bad that you can taste it this week, and then you are going to have wild, passionate sex, because honey, our baby making days, they are numbered."

But the joke is on my body thanks to my lovely intra-uterine device. Which is totally ok, because the sex? WoWzAs! Why has someone not told me about this? Also, if boys feel this when they are peaking in their late teens/early 20's, well that explains a whole freaking lot to me. Instinct is a hell of a master, eh?

So this week is my fertile week. Forget Fertile Myrtle and her mousey ways. No way, honey, I go all Virile Va-freaking-Voom Vixen with the clothes and the makeup and then I plot how to proposition Charlie Brown all day, which only adds to the steam. (After all women are like crockpots and men are like microwaves, right?)

Also, isn't this every married man's dream - to have a playful, creative, and available bed mate? I mean we hear and see so many trite scenes of the married couple where the man is trying to get a little sumpin' sumpin' and you hear, "Not tonight, dear," that it makes me feel a bit of pride in myself that I'm not that wife.

So last night I'm at the store picking up dinner items and I text Charlie Brown:

i want ur body 2nite...and not 4 a quickie either ;-)

Get home, start dinner.

Suggestively, "So I sent you a naughty little message babe..."

"Yeah, I got it."

PERIOD.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! The non-verbals screamed out loud to me: AIN'T HAPPENIN'!

Play a little harder and chase a little more as he's doing this hard to get thing.

Or so I thought.

I try to talk to him about his day.

It was. FINE.

It's just not happening. Like last month when I walked down in slinky lingerie and he kept watching motocross.

And I feel like I could burst with the ache down there. Again.

The frustration was almost rage worthy....

And then there's that same feeling of rejection. Note: if a woman steps out and initiates, because you know, we hear men like that, then TAKE HER UP on it, for crying out loud. Because once bitten, twice shy guys.

Granted, we're having more sex than just this one week per month, but if we could just get in sync it could be SOGOOD!!!!!

We have got to get out of this rut. Or I have to go over the hill. Soon.




© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Monday, April 14, 2008

"That's Good Practice in Case You Ever Wind up in Prison"

Just what you want to hear your husband say to the kiddies, right?

Actually, it was pretty funny as Charlie Brown quipped it right out whilst LMNOB stood on the stairs, arm outstretched through the banister in my direction wailing, "Mama..."

This was of course after I'd already done the bedtime routine and tucked her into bed, at which point my tolerance for whiney utterances for this mythical creature known as Mama tends to decrease rather rapidly. So we both chuckled at his snark, listened to indignant grunts from the girl, and put her sorry butt back to bed.

G'night!




© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Behold! My new sanctuary

I have often been embarrassed by our hand me down furniture over the years.

First there were the two love seats that my IL's passed on as we got married. These seats wer functional, and their form wasn't bad, but they didn't seat many. We also had Granny's vintage blue naugahyde vinyl glider-rocker...that piece I loved. I nursed my babies in it and we have kept it as a result.

Then there was the cream leather sectional whose previous owners' cats destroyed one side of before they "blessed" us with added seating.

Then we, lacking a guest room, inherited Grandma's super-floral sofa sleeper (in mint greens) and her burnt orange rocker when she passed away in 2003. They were especially out of place when we moved into our new-construction home the next year.

Then, our friend S was getting married, and they were keeping her furniture, did we want his Broyhill set, that coordinated with our beloved glider rocker? Absolutely. And we loved that couch...a little too well - we wore holes in the cushions and the springs started to break down.

So at Christmas 2006, we purchased a futon with a mission style wood frame and a green microfiber mattress cover, in keeping with the loveseat's colors. The futon was great as a bed. Not so great as a couch, as the mattress would slide out of adjustment every two seconds. And it looked very dorm-ish.


We ripped out the crappy carpet in the downstairs and put in a beautiful cherry laminate floor in the living room this fall. Also, Charlie Brown made a cut-out entertainment console in the wall, which streamlined the look of the room considerably.

Then, early this year, when we did our taxes we discovered we were getting a phat check from Uncle Sam. And Charlie Brown and I said, "This is it. We're getting REAL furniture."

So we got this set with the sofa, loveseat and recliner. Then, we needed a coffee table. And given the rich colors of our living room, we needed a dark finish like cherry or merlot. But none of them fit the bill when it came to matching colors. And I was frustrated, because we were thisclose to having a GROWN-UP room in our house for the first time ever! That week, when I was shopping at Target, I walked by the patio furniture and saw this table, I started to think outside the furnishing box. I brought Charlie Brown back to Target, asked him what he thought and he was sold. Besides, since it is patio furniture, it is metal and weather proof glass (read: virtually indestructable!)

So, without further ado, here is my new living room, which I am comfortable opening up to company like never before:








© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

This is Your Cue to Laugh Maniacally With Me

Because if I don't laugh right now, long and hard, I will burst into heaving sobs and cry out that trademarked cliche of suburban motherhood:

"I guess we just can't have nice things!"

As it is, my head is still spinning from the chaotic turn of events here at casa del Meyer that had me running around, Brick Tamland style, initially noting "I don't know what we're yelling about!" and then just wanting to shut down with my hands clapped over my ears, screaming, "LOUD NOISES!" If Anchor Man gave me any lasting entertainment value at all, it would have had to have been with this character...I use those two lines a lot.

The set-up:

After staying home with the kids yesterday, getting the house in order, visiting and crafting with LMNOB and my friend DSW, and having had a great evening last night (Charlie Brown has developed a mentoring kind of relationship with one of his younger co-workers, and we had him and his girlfriend over for dinner last night), I was feeling really peacful-like and content this afternoon. We'd gone out for breakfast, as our Saturday tradition stands, and had returned home. I was in the very zen zone, ya'll.

Which is why the next chain of events felt completely surreal.

First, the background to the set-up.....

Earlier in the week, Charlie Brown had surprised me one night by beginning to paint Punkinhead's room. We'd talked about possible color schemes last weekend, but had not decided anything definitive. Or so I'd thought. Until I came home from grant hearings Monday night and he was just finishing the first wall. Ok, cool. Initiative. Charlie Brown always does great with home improvement projects. YAY!

In February, just as the great day-care swap was looming, Punkinhead had expressed his frustration with a bath-tub crayon one night. The crayon's effect on textured, flat white paint was not as temporary as it was on tub tile. In fact there was nothing temporary about it. That event alone would have qualified for the above nice things mantra, but it was after all, just paint and we had wanted to paint his room anyways.

So Charlie Brown's goal for the day was to finish painting. Punkinhead has been camping out in LMNOB's room all week and we need to change that prior to returning back to the school routine.

The kids were playing on the PC upstairs, I was watching Autism the Musical (which was fabulous, btw) and Charlie Brown was painting. I eventually went upstairs to do some laundry. After Charlie Brown got the first coat of Realm done, (seen below)he shut the door to Punkinhead's room, and gathered the kids and Porter up to watch some Motocross. I was folding laundry upstairs. Punkinhead came up, got his Nana Blankie from his room and went back downstairs.

Shortly thereafter the chaos ensued.

We had a Predicament.

With a capital P to the Nth degree: Painting+Punkinhead+Puppy = Pissed off Parents looking at extensive Pocketbook damage.

Charlie Brown is yelling, with that panic-stricken chord that rarely escapes his lips, running up the stairs with Porter in his arms. I look down and there are footprints of Realm all up and down the carpeted stairs. Which are a very light tan. Also, on the puppy, who is white with brown spots, are two bright teal hind legs. Sorry, no photo, we had had to act fast! I did, however, briefly entertain whipping out the hair drier and leaving him teal - I mean, why should Boulder pet owners get all the limelight?

"It's everywhere...on the couch, the [hardwood] floor downstairs....Get him in the tub."

I did and ran bath water in the master bathroom. However, I neglected to shut the bathroom door and out jumped Porter, dripping wet, Realm colored water splattered everywhere, and was now being tracked over my bedroom carpet. Which is the same very light tan.

I was now making loud, obscene, and incoherent noises (as I began new thoughts in mid-stream of consciousness) in trying to grab the dog and get him back in the tub. After I got him back in, I shut the door, then attempted cleaning up the dark teal puddles on my floor while simultaneously trying to ensure he stayed in the tub. It was a Twister-eque scene remniscent of a date-night bad comedy movie.

I toweled Porter off and put him in his crate while Charlie Brown and I applied Goo Gone, finger nail polish remover, and other remedies to our teal-tinted carpet. While we were able to diminish the appearance, our carpet is toast. Thankfully, our wood floors and new leather couches are ok.

Punkinhead and LMNOB then received a thorough talking-to about the importance of doing what they are told, when they are told to do it (i.e. SHUT your bedroom door so the dog doesn't get into it).

I now know what our next major home improvement project is going to be.



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Caving to the Princess' Peer Pressuring, and Other Miscellany

So, awhile back my bloggy girl Princess in Galoshes spake into existance her royally sanctioned blogosphere revolution.

She calls it Dress Thursday.

And just so she knows, I wear dresses all the time for work. Love feeling like a confident femme. Not enough knockout to claim "fatale" but I digress. No, my point is that wearing of feminine garments was not peer pressured upon me.

Posting photographic evidence, however?

Yeah...notsomuch very keen on that.

'specially carrying extra weight that has magically appeared this year.

But, the Princess, she has an infectious spirit to which I've caved. Was going to last week, but I was extremely pre-menstrual and I really didn't think the whole blogosphere would like to have Puff the Magic Dragon stuck in their heads, inspired by my bloated bod.

Behold, my contribution to the revolution:



What is really freaking me out is that with the combo of my glasses, short hair, and geometric print dress, I am looking more and more like my grandmother circa 1965, with whom I have never really seen any family resemblance before.

Does that mean I am getting older? I used to think that when people told me, as I was growing up, that I looked like my mom. Thought it meant that I looked old. And while I'm now aware that is totally not it, it still kinda makes me feel old. Ish.

But sitting more heavily upon me than the cloud of age is that of my weight (yes, har, har, pun was intended). After reading Liz' recent post about the Miss England weight debacle, I got a wild hair to calculate my BMI.

Honestly. With the weight the scale has been telling me for about 3 months now.

And seeing the word "OBESE" after the calculation completely broke my damn heart. Albeit momentarily, it would turn out.

Overweight, yeah, I'll concede that in a hearbeat.

But obese????? Day-umm.

Or so I thought. Apparently I'm not the only one who thinks BMI is screwy and definitely not the end-all be-all.

And so, I'm ok again. Sorta....weight is such an emotionally charged topic for me.

But, hey....did you see my new haircut/highlights? I took Becky's advice, sans the name change and relocation.

Here's a closer look at the hair:



It's the first time since before kids that I paid someone else to color my hair, and with highlights at that. I've gotten rave reviews thus far and am quite pleased.

And yes, that book behind me really is titled The Bitch in the House. It is the best non-fictional chick lit I have read...ever. I really identify with a lot of it. And then other topics in it, not so much, but it is juicy and riveting and fascinating all the same. I really want to read its sequel (written by men, about men) titled The Bastard on the Couch. It's genius in the titling alone!



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Blocked...

I've been trying and trying to think about what to write lately, and it boils down to the same old shadowboxing that I tend to do....

Some examples of the things I could have written about recently, but ended up arguing both sides so successfully that I wrote nothing instead:

Do I want to write about a petty argument with an internet chick that has bothered me a lot?

No, because 1.) that would be gossiping and I would likely turn judgmental, insomuch that I would then become the type of person which I hate, and 2.) it would mean that I actually care what this person thinks of me...real or perceived. I'm above that, right? Not really. Heather is still quite insecure about the things that matter most, despite a bold, confident facade.

Do I yearn to write about some delicate family of origin stuff, multiple instances?

Yes, because as much as I am happy for the one instance, I am also cautious and wish to seek balance between these two mindsets. This being my therapeutic outlet where better to sort through this myriad of feelings? Yes, for the second instance because it is freaking stranger than fiction, and I am waiting for somebody in my family to appear on Jerry Springer any day. But then....as much as it might be cathartic for me to get out, share, explore and/or poke fun of (sarcasm is my most primal coping mechanism) I'm not blogging it because I don't wish to cause hurt feelings as much of my writing regarding the FOO has tended to do...we do not have the same kind of understanding as Charlie Brown and I do in this arena.

Which, hey, I have to give Charlie Brown serious props, as he is an amazingly secure guy to let me air our dirty laundry as I have on here, and HONEY, I LOVE THAT ABOUT YOU!!!

Do I want to write about how the brain fog has descended upon me once again, how I'm having trouble coordinating my tongue with my thoughts, how I'm forgetting things, procrastinating in a way that is wildly different than my normally uber responsible self? How it really freaking bugs me when I get like this because I lose my wit and humor a la that one episode of Seinfeld where George comes up with his snarky comebacks DAYS later? I'm sharp as a tack, or can be, so where the hell did that sharpness go?

Yes, I do want to write about it. But the right words just don't come with precision - I want to capture it, and be heard with piercing clarity, and yet my thoughts on this state of mind I am in remain gray, fuzzy, difficult to communicate. Nor do they come with alacrity, readily available for my quick dispatch to the internet that this is IT, EXACTLY, that I'm going through and now please send validation, thankyouverymuch. And then, hell no, I don't want to write about it, because for once damn it, I want to be non-struggling! I want to be free and definitive in who I am, safe and secure, but mostly, content. I have a restless spirit....so much so that I sit here in awe that I've remained faithful, that Charlie Brown and I are staring down the barrel of double digits in marriage, that I haven't just bailed ship and said, "Onto the next great adventure." Sometimes I wonder if I am just by nature an unhappy person. Other times I realize that an unhappy person is usually quite content to be the Eeyore of their group. I am not. And that makes sharing about these depressive struggles of mine so difficult with people face to face. But here, here I can write about it. Even if I don't want to because when I return to this place I think in supposed to's and should not's, i.e. you shouldn't be here, again, you're supposed to be getting better with this. Well....I guess I did write something of substance here, after all, even if paradoxical substance.

Do I want to write about how ironic it is that some people take me as narcissistic because I write about my achievements, yet if they truly knew me they would know that it is not boasting?

Point: Yes. It's true that I have a category that claims its contents are bragging rights, but see above re: sarcasm. Anyone who knows me knows that I am much too insecure to be that serious about myself, lol. Finally, I have to remind myself everyday that despite what the world, my neurotransmitters, etc are telling me that I am changing. My family legacy, my community, myself. Without these little reminders, I would lose this "good race" that I am running. Counterpoint: No. For what in hell do I need to prove myself to some small-minded person who knows jack about me? I have a close relationship with my Lord, a deep faith - often pressure cooked and seasoned with doubts, but a rich and satisfying faith at the end of the day - that tells me I am doing what My Creator put me here for.

Do I want to write about the shitty e-mail I got last week from one of the nighttime dudes for the inclement weather shelter? Or how his subsequent phone call was an un-apology and a condescending, patriarchal, "let-me-put-you-in-your-right-proper-place-young-lady" lecture about how *I* had to be careful with my words when he'd ACTUALLY written words as offensive as "Maybe you ought to try yoga or deep breathing" whereas my communication glitch was more a perception problem than actual mal-intent.

Yes. I want to give ya'll the blow-by-blow, dissect every little statement and nuance in this man with a hero-delusion's e-mail. But, no, I'm a bigger woman than that man could ever give me credit for. I rest assured on the words of Laurel Thatcher Ulrich...make no mistake, I am not out to create a name for myself, rather I wish to advance change for the quality of lives of others. And sitting around, bowing down to men who don't uphold their community pledges (to provide shelter to the homeless when it is x degrees out) isn't exactly going to do that. Asking pointed questions about the damned elephants in the room and keeping people accountable will...eventually. Right?

Do I want to write about how the unbloggable scholarly excitement has turned out to be mere manipulation by an academic hoping to eke out some additional cash prior to retiring? How he used me and two other graduate students to expand upon his initial proposal to the university for an encore class, brand the class with a catchy title, and then market this proposal to the university administraters, all on the now-farcical premise that he would, of course, ask that we be hired to help him facilitate the class?

Hell yes, I do want to write about it. I want to shred this professor into mincemeat. This one had me mad, in my white-trash upbringing kind of mad....which was kind of funny when I was conversing with my lily-white always-had-been-upper-middle-class colleague, who was equally pissed, but with much more decorum. Alas, I fear that such a post could be construed as slander given no written agreements were ever formally drawn up. Hello, my name is Heather Meyer and I've been totally punked by a professor. Never again. I am also curious if he gave the drawings our class developed together proper credit when he used them to lecture at DePaul U this spring? I know he used them at least because he'd e-mailed me about getting them in a more user friendly format prior to the class shiz hitting the fan.

Internets, I can't make this stuff up. Why is it that things just pile up on me like this?

Anywho's bro is here now and I must get to properly entertaining, er feeding, him. Love that guy, I do.


© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Just Punchy!

Per Liz' request, behold the almond punch recipe:

Ingredients:


3 C sugar
2 C water
1 12oz frozen orange juice
1 12 oz frozen lemonade
2 tsp pure almond extract
2 tsp pure vanilla extract

You will need:
2 1-gallon containers
(I use empty milk jugs when travelling with this punch)
1 medium saucepan
8 C measuring cup
Funnel

Directions:
In saucepan, combine water and sugar. Bring just to boil. Add remaining ingredients. Pour mixture into large measuring cup. Note the measurement, and divide equally amongst the 2 1-gallon containers. Add cold water* to the gallon containers until full. Stir well, enjoy!

*Note: We've always enjoyed almond punch sans carbonation, but I saw some similar recipes online that utilized club soda in lieu of the cold, filler water.

Another note....on New Year's Eve our neighbor came over and offered us a taste of his "signature drink." Charlie Brown and I tasted, and looked at each other with shock - it had the same taste as almond punch! But with the perks of a good adult beverage ;) Mmmmm....

The mysterious combo? Squirt with Disaronno.

A low-cal version could also be made with Fresca and Disaronno.

Yummers.




© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

How I Managed To Get In Neurobiology Lesson With Heavy Reliance on the Word "Dude..."

Also: I think that wins for "Longest Title Ever."

Today, while taking LMNOB back to school after the longest OT excursion ever* we had a conversation that I will remember for a long time. LMNOB will likely also retain it for generations, explaining what a whack job, albeit an entertaining and fun one, her Mama was.

* Note....So, with crazy grant season upon us, I called the other day to reschedule LMNOB's OT sessions this month to times more conducive to my obligations. All but this week's appointment remained on Thursdays, but were moved to the morning. Yesterday's appointment was moved to today. It was all written down in my planner...mostly correctly. When we arrived at 11:00am and the receptionist said, "Uhm, but you're not scheduled until 12:45," I felt like a ginormous moron. No matter, it just gave opportunity to snag a Mommy and Me lunch and some window shopping...easy enough.

Back to the story...

LMNOB was talking about her new tooth moving forward, into the holes afforded by the recently pulled baby teeth, when she asked me why the dentist had had to give her a shot in the mouth.

"Well...it was to make your nerves fall asleep, so that it wouldn't hurt when the teeth were pulled out."

"What are nerves?"

"Uhhh, well it's like this. Nerves are like little messengers in our bodies. They're in our eyes, ears, skin, tongue...they're everywhere. So let's say your eyes look out at the sky. The nerves in your eyes race to your brain and say, "Duuuuuuude, like that sky is totally BLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUE," but they do it so fast, 'cause nerves are wicked fast like lightning, that your brain doesn't really realize that it's these little messengers doing all its work. The brain is a bit cocky like that, but really, without the nerves your brain wouldn't know what was going on. Now at the dentist, if he hadn't given you that shot, you would have had craziness going on inside you. Some nerves would be all, "Duuude, brain, man this frickin' hurts, dude. Oh, dude, you seriously must send some saltwater to those eye folks, dude. And dude, you really better leap up outta this chair, so that dentist dude can stop that crap right now. Duuuuude!"

LMNOB was busting up in the back seat.

"But, the dentist knows how those nervies work, and so he had that shot to make them go to sleep. They didn't know what was going on, so they had no message to give your brain, and you didn't feel a thing, which meant you were perfectly still and it went over," I switched over into that Cali surfer nerve persona, "like, totally awesome, dude!"

A light bulb went off shortly thereafter.

"Know what else?"

The now hysterically laughing LMNOB paused for a minute, "No, what?"

"Like with touch and stuff, some of your nerves are not as focused as they should be - like if I touch you they're all, 'Ok dude, something's up,' to your brain, but really your brain is wanting more, so you had some issues...and that's why we do the heavy work and other sensory stuff, b/c it makes your nerves go, "Oh, duuuuuuuuude, we are sooooooo happy.."

More laughing.

Later tonight, I was squeezing her hand, as I often do to give her some input when we're in public, and she got that playful sassy look on her face and said, "Oh duuuuuuuuude, that's perrrrrfect!"

LOL.....Duuuuuuuude.



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Friday, April 4, 2008

Who Knew "W" Could Be So Empowering?

I withdrew from my coursework today.

Not permanently, mind you. I will resume classes this summer.

I will have a W for the Spring 2008 semester on my transcript though.

Used to be this kind of "W" = Quitter, Drop-out, Failure....you get the idea, in my book.

Right now, this "W" =


Woman Who realized she Was overWhelmed and need not be;

Woman Wrestling With her self about WTF? her life is, could be, should be, WILL be;

Woman empoWered by revelation that she Was imbalanced;

Woman glad that she Will have more time With her husband, kids and friends;

And it feels good.

I'm going introspective, and apparently, I'm not the only one realizing this is a yearly pattern for myself:

Your best ideas in the next two weeks or so will come from your unconscious mind.

The weeks before your birthday are astrologically designed as a time for reflection on what you accomplished in the last year. The idea is not to judge and punish yourself, but to take time out to review what has transpired: what did you do well, and which areas of your life demand more attention and energy from you in order to work the way you'd like them to?



© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Joke's on me

So LMNOB and Punkinhead had a grand ole time with April Fool's Day yesterday.

"Mommy, there's a spider on your head" only flies, uhm, once tops, but none-ce for this mama.

"Oh, wow, look at that ________" followed by fingerpointing did get my eye a few times though.

What was funniest about this was that they would rapid-fire attempts to trick me, like the sheer volume would eventually overcome my wit. The irony was that it just made everything very cheeseball and unbelieveable.

Meanwhile time passed.

LMNOB and I watched American Idol while Charlie Brown and Punkinhead were in the garage doing boy stuff with the dirtbike.

LMNOB says, sheepishly, "Daddy's gonna buy us a boat ," to which my indignation flared.

"WHAT?!? When did he say this?"

"April Fool's!" gleefully escaped LMNOB's lips while her eyes taunted me:

"Haha, I got you for real!"

Little stinker o' mine, she is.




© 2008 Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child. All Rights Reserved