Bringing Home the Bacon

I have a job.  Like, a real 25-hours a week, honest-to-goodness job!  I haven’t worked outside the home in fourteen years, since I was pregnant with Spike and my doctor put me on bedrest.  I worked my second day today, and I enjoyed it, actually.  It’s a lot to get used to.  I’m not accustomed to working to a deadline or having a boss or office politics or a staff lunchroom.  It’s all new to me.  But I actually feel, once again, like I have a mission.  Don’t get me wrong…I loved staying home full-time with my kids.  I loved being there for them 24/7.  And truthfully, I miss that a bit.  But at the same time, it’s nice to have people counting on me to do something all on my own.  It’s nice to accomplish something and think…there!!  I did it!  It’s nice to have an administrative assistant (I have one!!  Crazy, right???) that I can give all my grunt work to.  It’s just nice to be in an office again. 

My kids will all be in school full-time in the fall, and I will have a few days at work, with a day or two at home to get some stuff done there and to have some time to myself.  It’s really a perfect schedule for me, and I’m so excited for the opportunity.  But I will have less time for blogging and such.  You won’t see me as much.  I’ll still be reading.  I’ll still be writing when I can.  I’ll still be wondering what’s going on in all my blog-buddies’ lives.  I’ll still be here.  But until I get used to this whole job thing, I’m lying low for a bit.

But I’ll let you know when I bring home my first paycheck in fourteen years!!!  :)

Really Disgusting

Spike, my 13 year old son, was away at camp for a week.  He just came home and I did his laundry.  There was a total of two pair of dirty underwear:  one pair in his bag, and one pair that he took off before his shower.  Two pair.  In a week.  He says he “forgot” to change them. 

This will get better, right??

I Guess I AM the Only One Who’s Normal…

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, or if you know me IRL (in real life), you are aware that friendship means a lot to me.  I take pride in being a good and loyal friend and I value those people who feel the same.  I have several good friends, and they’re all so different and unique, and I love that about them.  But lately I’ve been realizing a little more clearly that each friend has a quality about them that I would characterize as “strange”, or “weird”.  Nothing that would be a friendship-breaker, mind you.  Just something about them that makes me a little crazy, something that makes me stand back and say, “Hmmm…”

There’s the friend that is constantly worried that her kids are going to be “snatched”.  She won’t even let her kids play in their own backyard, which is not visible from the street, by the way, without being right there every minute.  When we go somewhere, she looks for all the ways a child-snatcher could escape with her child.  She has a hard time letting others watch her children, because she’s always convinced that they won’t watch for kidnappers as well as she would.  I love this friend dearly, and don’t love her any less for having this little quirk, but sometimes I do think it’s a little nuts.

Then there’s the friend who never calls me, despite how close we’ve always been.  But when I call her, she claims that she’s been thinking and wondering about me for days or weeks.  She hasn’t called, of course.  But she’s been thinking about me.  LOVE love love her, but ya know…a little weird.

I have a friend that doesn’t ever change the way she does things, no matter where she is or who’s around.  A whole group of girls watching a movie??  Well, she always watches movies in complete darkness, so she gets up and turns off the lights, without asking everyone else’s preferences.  Going out to eat with a bunch of people?  She never ever eats outside…sorry!  It’s an inside table for us.  A friendship-breaker?  Of course not!!  But a bit crazy.

Another friend asks me over often to hang out, but never offers me anything to eat or drink when I’m there.  Even once, I went over and taught her to make one of my favorite meals, and then we ate it together, but I finally had to ask for a glass of water because she never thought to give me something to drink with my food.  She also added seasoning to some of her food that she never offered to me as well.  Another weird thing is that when this friend comes to my house, she often reaches into her purse and pulls out a packet of candy or some other snack and proceeds to eat it all on her own.  I love her to pieces, but how insane is that?

One friend finishes your sentences with you as you speak.  Another friend has very strange shopping and laundry habits.  (She soaks everything five times before she washes it, and she hangs everything on hangers to dry so they won’t be ruined…even pajamas!!)  Someone else winks at you often during a conversation.  Everyone has their own little quirks…those things that make us all who we are.  And don’t think I’m criticizing or finding fault…I’m really not at all.  Like I said, it’s not that I mind these things.  I just think they’re funny, and different than how I do things myself.  They just make me pause and think, that’s all. 

But then I started thinking about what makes me “weird”, and honestly I couldn’t think of anything.  I mentioned this to Sarge, and told him that I guess I wouldn’t know it was weird or I wouldn’t do it, and he agreed.  But he couldn’t come up with much for me, either.  A friend says I say “Dude” a lot, but I think that just comes from having a thirteen year old son.  I’m not sure it’s something that would qualify me as being strange exactly.  So I’m really curious now.  I know I’m not the only normal person on the planet.  That in itself would make me strange!  So I wonder what it is…what quirks do I have?  What makes me a little strange?  What about me makes others a little crazy?  Seriously…I want to know.

And while you’re at it, what are your quirks?

An Award With Dancing

I’m not sure if I have major writer’s block, or if life has just been a little crazy and busy, but I’ve been terrible about updating this blog.  I have very little to add today, actually, as my two oldest kids are at week-long camp and my husband is off in Texas, and 5-year-old Goo and I are taking full advantage of our time to do a whole bunch of fun stuff.  So far this week, we’ve played miniature golf, gone to the local “splash park”, and wandered through the toy store.  Today, we’re off to see Wall-E. 

I do, however, want to acknowledge a really great award I got earlier this week from a blogger that is on my short list of people I’d love to hang out with IRL. Stella writes a great blog, so if you haven’t already, go check it out. Pretty please?? Anyway, she so graciously gave me this lovely award:

Thanks, Stella!!

Thanks, Stella!!

I’ll pass it on to someone later.  I haven’t read blogs in a week, and I have some catching up to do this weekend, so I’ll do it after that, mmmkay??
On another note, my five year old son Goo loves to dance.  I mean, loves to dance.  I can’t decide if he’s too “white boy”, or if there’s hope.  Opinions??  Dancing Goo

I Don’t Get It Either…

Okay, so Maria (you all know Maria, right?) posted today about her strange crushes, and I couldn’t help it.  I had to ‘fess up.  I have a strange crush, too.  I actually may have alluded to it once before on my old (some of you read my old blog, too, but you don’t know that was me!  Email me if you want more info!) blog, but I’m coming out with it for sure now.

So there’s this guy.  He’s semi-famous, with an unusual job, and a bunch of crazy friends.  So, well, okay…he’s on tv.  He’s on a tv show.  I used to watch it.  I used to DVR it and watch religiously, actually.  I don’t anymore, unless I just happen to be flipping through and catch it on.  And if I do, I just have to wait until they show this guy.  I don’t know what it is about him.  He’s just…you know…crush-worthy.  To me, at least.

Okay, here goes.

The show is Miami Ink. The guy? Chris Garver. I know, I know! He’s bald. And covered in tattoos. He’s just sort of ordinary-looking. But those dimples! And his life experiences…travel and such, I mean. I don’t know. He just gets to me. Crazy, I know.

So cute!!

So cute!!

So what about you? Who’s your crazy crush??

Nineteen

Remember when you were nineteen years old?  All of us were at a different place.  Some of us, maybe, were in the party phase, drinking with friends and staying up all night.  Some of us were already working hard in a blue-collar job, trying to make it on our own for the first time.  Some of us were studying for college exams and deciding what we wanted to be when we grew up.  I started early…at nineteen I was already engaged, working at a college degree that I would never get, looking for the next step in my life.  Wherever you were, chances are that at nineteen, you were learning huge lessons, full of hope and dreams and a few disillusions about what life is about.  You were young and confident and scared and excited about the many years you had ahead of you to make something happen.  To live your life.  To build your dreams.

Think about it.  Nineteen.  Where were you?  What were you doing?  Just think about it for a second.

A few days ago, we received word that the remains of Private Byron Fouty, an Army soldier from here in Michigan who had been missing in Iraq since March 12, 2007, were found.  Maybe you heard about it on the news.  But then again, maybe you didn’t.  It was barely mentioned on some local channels.  One little blurb about a hero found and they were on to news of the latest Hollywood marriage.  It seems so strange.  Here was this soldier…this kid…out doing his job one day, wearing his camouflage and boots, talking to his buddies, fighting for his country, carrying a gun and wearing body armour in the dirty streets of Iraq, and he was never heard from again.  Gone.  Lost.  Missing.  He was nineteen.  Nineteen!

We have gotten to know some of Byron’s family since this horrible event occurred fourteen months ago, and have prayed and worried and wondered alongside them.  My husband Sarge is involved with them in an official military capacity and has had the chance to learn about this young soldier, to see pictures and hear stories about his childhood and to meet all the friends and family that he left behind.  At some point soon, we will go to a memorial or a funeral and hear even more about Byron…who he was and what his family will miss about him and why they are so proud. 

And I will cry.  I will cry for the parents who will never see their son fulfill his dreams.  I will cry for the nephew who will never meet his uncle.  I will cry for the friends who will never hang out with him again, laughing and making memories.  I will cry for all the people who never got to tell Byron how much he meant to them.  But most of all, I will cry for that nineteen year old who was full of hope and dreams and big things to come.  I will cry for the nineteen year old who had the courage to fight in a war that most people don’t support, and who gave his life so that they can hold that opinion openly.  I will cry for a life cut short.  I will cry for the man that will never be.

He may have been only nineteen, but he did more with his life than many of us ever will.  Thank you, Byron.

                                                         

Happy, Happy Birthday!

There are times when it seems that only yesterday, my little Goo was a baby and I was overwhelmed with going from two kids to three.  Then there are other times that it seems we’ve had this sweet little boy in our lives forever, and we can’t remember what it was like before he was here.  It’s his birthday today.  He’s five.  My baby boy is five.

Goo, I love you.  Happy, happy birthday.  You were a surprise to us, but God knew just what He was doing.  You make me smile every day, and I love you so much.

Lessons

It is my belief that the most significant events or periods in our lives continue to teach us lessons for as long as we live, if we let them.  As time goes by, and as we reflect and remember those past events, we see new things about ourselves, we glean new information about the way things were, and we notice more about why things happened the way they did.

When Sarge was gone for over a year, a world away in the Middle East doing his job, which just happened to be fighting in a war, I was here alone with three kids, a house, and a dog.  I learned to be strong.  I learned to be independent.  I learned that it was okay to ask for help sometimes.  I learned who my friends were.  I learned what was really important.

And then he came home…to children that were a year and a half older.  To a wife that was used to doing things her way.  To a country that forgot about the soldiers and their families.  To a life that didn’t include 60 pounds of body armor and a gun at the ready.  And again, I learned.  I learned to be patient.  I learned to let him in again.  I learned how to be a wife and a mom, and still keep my own identity…something I hadn’t been so good at before. 

And now, the deployment is well in the past.  Sarge has been home for two and a half years, safe and sound.  We are used to living together again.  I no longer jump every time I hear the doorbell ring, thinking it’s a stranger in uniform coming to tell me my husband has been wounded or worse.  I am back to complaining about his crazy out-of-town schedule and his snoring and his camouflage stuff all over my kitchen.  Life is, for the most part, back to normal.

Lately, though, my mind has been wandering back quite often to those days of when he was gone.  I’ve been remembering frequently the days of no phone calls and no sleep for worrying about him.  I’ve been looking back to the moments of panic as I’d hear about a bombing on the news, or waiting anxiously to see him on the webcam, or talking non-stop to one year old Goo about his daddy so he wouldn’t forget about him while he was gone.  It could be anything that brings me back there.  It could be a story I tell a friend about the time we thought Spike might have leukemia, and people were advising me not to tell Sarge, so he wouldn’t worry from a war zone.  That was something I went through alone.  It could be a song about a soldier and the letters he gets that mean so much.  It could be asking Sarge about something funny that happened only to remember that he wasn’t here then, and knew nothing about it.  It could be talk of Hurricane Katrina, something he heard about briefly but was amazed as I described the devastation to him over the phone.  It could be my kids hearing about a trip Sarge has to take for work, and asking if he’s going to Iraq.  It could be anything that reminds me.  Anything.

And as I think back, what amazes me most is our ability, as humans, to cope with what life throws our way.  I’m still learning from that time in my life.  Whenever I think I can’t do something, I remember deployment, and I know that I can get through anything.  If I see a friend in need and think I’m too busy or too tired or too far away to help, I remember the friends that helped me and I find the strength to do what I can.  When I see Army kids missing their parent, I remember to give them extra attention, because they’re missing some from the one who is away.  When I hear people arguing about the rightness or wrongness of this war, I remember that no matter the politics, it is the soldiers and their families who need our unwavering support.  I learn from it every day.  Every moment.

Sometimes I can hardly believe that it truly happened.  Some days I wonder if that time was all just a dream.  But then I look at the pictures of the day he came home.  Or I see the Muslim prayer beads that he brought home with him hanging on my wall.  I hear the doorbell ring and while it no longer scares me, I still remember.  That time in my life, a time I had hoped would never come, has proved so invaluable to me in so many ways.  It is a part of who I am and who my children are.  It is what makes Sarge the incredible man he is today.  It is in the life lessons I teach my children and the advice I give my friends.  It is in the way that I smile and the way that I cry.  When I see myself in the mirror, it is part of what is looking back at me.  It is a piece of the map that makes up my life.

I wonder sometimes what’s to come, and I worry about what’s in store for us.  But when I really think about it, I know that whatever it is…whatever hard times or happy times or scary times or amazing times we will go through, they will be the things I look back on someday.  They will be the things I remember as part of the map of my life.  Part of the journey that makes me who I am.  The things that taught me how to live as me.

I hope I never stop learning.

 

Update:

I have added the picture on my previous post.  Thanks to SWC for sending it to me again.  And girl, I had such a great time the other night.  And you’re good people too.  xoxo

A Brush With (Dr.) Death

I have never been to California.  I have also never been to New York City.  Here in the midwest, celebrity sightings are not commonplace.  I did kiss John Stamos once on the cheek when I was about thirteen and he was making an appearance at my local mall.  I am friends with a woman whose husband was a professional baseball player, and he has a World Series trophy in their home office.  I am distantly related to Daniel Boone.  That is the extent of my experience with all things celebrity.

Last night I met my friend SWC (she has a blog but has gone private…some of you may know her) for dinner and a walk around town.  We ate really yummy Mexican food, got some Caribou coffee, and were wandering around a bit downtown when we noticed a cute little old man walking toward us.  S said, “Look at that cute, cozy old man over there.”  I agreed…he was a cute little old man in his cardigan sweater and hat.  It was only then that S recognized him, and I realized she was right.  That cute, cozy old man was Dr. Jack Kevorkian.  Otherwise known as Dr. Death. 

S stopped him and confirmed his identity.  We asked for an autograph, but apparently his lawyer won’t let him sign autographs.  But he does do pictures, so I took my friend’s picture with Dr. K.  He asked if we were registered voters.  He said it was a pleasure to meet us.  He shook our hands and smiled.  (By the way, he had the softest hands I think I’ve ever shaken!)  He was a very sweet, cute old man.

Now, I’ve never supported assisted suicide.  I don’t, at any point, think that a person can be “useless”, and I believe in being strong and staying strong in the face of whatever life throws at you.  Please don’t think I’m cold and heartless.  I have read testimonies of those who wanted Dr. K’s assistance to take control of their own fates and die on their own terms.  I understand that those individuals were in extreme pain and misery, and were only hastening the inevitable.  And I feel for them, I really really do. 

In fact, I’m able to see the other side of this issue.  I can truly see why Dr. K felt he was doing the right thing.  I can see why those poor people felt the need to end their suffering in their own way, in their own time.   And despite the controversy, despite the prison sentence, despite it all, I think that Dr. K really did have good intentions, and really did feel he was helping people.  I don’t think he’s evil.  I just disagree with him.

It was very surreal, meeting this man in person after the reports I’ve heard about him in the media.  I’ve read and heard about the hunger strikes, the controversy, the names he’s been called, his crazy and adamant lawyer.  I watched the news on the day he got out of prison, and have heard that he’s running for office.  I know the stories.

And yet, last night, he was just a cute, cozy old man in a light blue cardigan.  He was just walking around downtown enjoying the beautiful weather, like S and I were.   And I have the picture to prove it. 

 

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