I feel like I have to randomly ramble at least on a monthly basis, or I lose my edge. Nah, not really. I'm just living in a disorganized mind right now, so it's one of those times when I'm thinking in lists and tangential thoughts. I feel like I have ADD. Those moments where I walk into the kitchen, stand there scratching my butt, and say, "what was I looking for?" are coming with more and more frequency. I feel a little, uh, alzheimer-y, to be honest.
Topics are, of course, all over the map. I'll limit this hopeless rant to 10. Ah, that which you are seeking is causing you to seek.
1. I think I'd like a perm. Can you still even get a perm. I might be smoking something funky, or maybe just having flashbacks to happy days when I sported the long, flowing, gentle curls and a full head of locks. I wasn't under such unpredictable hormonal control then. Are you confused? I tend to cut my hair when my hormones swing. Whatever. It's me. See, here's me with lovely curly, long, layered, spiral locks. And that awesome shirt that I bought at Maurice's.
Oops. So, maybe my hair is so dark that you can't really see it. Trust me. It was big. Also, apparently I thought I could pull off that semi-sexy sultry smile. Whatever. I've matured. There's nothing as sexy as a genuine gut busting grin. Screw sultry.
2. I've been lost, oh-so-very-lost, planning Pop's memorial. It's next Monday, the 16th. I HATE doing things last minute. I like to leave a week of event "padding" between when I'm done with things and when something actually happens. That way, there's plenty of time to, say, get a perm. Or not. Anyway, I'm very, very, very blessed to have two people working with me. One: Emily. She's a funeral director. She's awesome. She's hilarious and practical and a positively perfect fit for my personality. She says things like, "do you want to drop your dad off with me on Friday so you won't have to worry about bringing him?" She says these things JUST like I would and they make me feel at ease and comfortable. I love her. This week she solved my major stress-causer: WHERE to have a reception. Listen, friends, I have a beautiful house. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE my house. But I really do NOT like people in it. I don't entertain. Aside from a Silpada party or Pampered Chef show (about every 24 months and because this is how I Christmas shop), I don't have company. Sure, there are a few exceptions and people who are always welcome. Homestead. Katy. Mel. Yah, I guess that's it. I don't love cleaning before guests or a party and I really don't love cleaning after them. I am plenty busy enough cleaning just so I can walk through the dining room. Sometimes I feel like I need a snow shovel and a ride-on vacuum just to maintain a baseline around here. Anyhoo . . . I was really dreading the thought of having a reception following the memorial HERE, as in, inside the walls of my house. Dear Sweet Emily solved that problem. Love that gal, I do. I used to think that kindergarten teachers and hospice nurses had the golden ticket. That, those two folks could sort of present an Express Pass at the Pearly Gates and get direct admission. Add funeral directors to that list. There are three kinds of people to whom I am forever in debt: kindergarten teachers, hospice nurses & funeral directors. Also, Big. Big has a computer-techno-gift that amazes me. She hasn't really taken much for classes, so I can only think that it's just the way kids think in this day and age. I've been making the transition from Windows to MAC and some things are just slower coming. For example, I love, love, love iPhoto. It's powerful and very user friendly. But this is my first go-round with making DVD and/or slideshow with my MAC. A solid hour past bedtime last night, I was sitting at the computer with tears streaming down my face, when Big walked in. The long and short of it was like this:
She said, "Can I help?"
I said, "No", with frustration, "I just can't figure out how to burn this without losing all the format and music. I think I'm gonna have to start over."
She said, "What if you go into that area, click over there, highlight that and then right click over there?"
Let me be honest, the selfish, headstrong adult in me almost banished her from the office. But the woman crying thought it was just crazy enough to work. And damn, Sally, it did. The girl saved Christmas. She's also been scanning pictures and making things like a champion. Man, I love that girl.
3. Since I'm on a memorial rant . . . . I did finish the photo album that I'm using for the sign in book. I love it. Wait, I think I might have done most of it, but Big was a huge help with that too.
4. While I'm in iPhoto mode, didn't I post something about a goal to finish Middle's Level 5 Team book? Yeah, Big did that too. But, damnit, I clicked "submit order now" and I also paid for it, so in my mind, I had a hand in it and I'll take a wee-bit of the credit. Go me. Whoop whoop.
5. The fire is nearly contained. Thank the Gods. Contained is not to be confused with put out.
6. Speaking of Big, she got the dreaded summer cold. Well, or allergies from all of the smoke in the air. At any rate, it progressed pretty rapidly into a full blown sinus infection. She's no stranger to the signs, and she's uber-responsible, so when she told me she needed to go to the doctor, I booked her an appointment. Sinus infection. Check. Ear infection. Check. But the cool part. And by cool, I mean "cool-gross-nasty-gnarly", was a cerumen impaction in her left ear. Yea, we knew she had a propensity for giant hard clumps of earwax to occlude her ear, but not like this. Apparently, Florida humidity mixed with just enough swimming and ear wax loosener drops made it just possible for the doctor to fish out all of the impaction. Eeeew. It was so cool-gross-nasty-gnarly. It was HUGE and very, very colorful.
7. Middle is officially competing as a Level 6-7 this season. That means an extra long meet season that runs from September through April. Long. Pause. While. We. All. Think. About. What. That. Means.
8. We were in the mall today and as we walked past Victoria's Secret, I noticed that Little blushed a tad. It went like this:
Me, "What's up, buddy?"
Him, "I just don't get it."
Him, "Well, why there's only underwear and bra-ers on those fake girls."
Me, "Well, buddy, that store sells underwear and BRA-ERS, so it's hard for them to sell those items if they don't display it and try to make it look good."
Him, "I'm not a fan . . . "
Me, ". . but you will be, buddy. Someday, you will be . . . "
9. Summer television and air conditioning. They go hand in hand because for one, we've never been much for summer television OR air conditioning. Generally, MOTH works late & I have evenings with the munchkins. We spend our evenings outside playing games that I make up, like Hide The Monkey with Flashlights. I know it sounds dirty, but it's not. It's just hide-n-seek with a stuffed animal (a monkey) so that everyone gets to be a seeker at the same time. That generally morphs into the hot-cold-game, a bunch of clues, but only if you can solve a riddle. You know, goofy mom games. We do backyard fires and gorge on s'mores. We play games with a random box of flashcards that I've been collecting for more than a decade. So, not much for summer TV, except, of course for Rockies games. Too, we're not much for air conditioning. I've always just suffered through, turning it on only when I REALLY needed it. Well, shine that! This summer, with the smoke in the air the last few weeks, crappy air quality and sweltering heat, I've turned the A/C on. And, we're watching summer TV. I LOVE the A/C. Why was I so resistant? I'm actually sleeping. It's a friggin' miracle. And we love Gator Boys. I think Big has a little crush on Paul . . . or at least I know she covets his necklace. I feel my adrenaline rise when I watch that show and often times, they cut to commercial and I have my hand in front of my face like I'm watching Friday the 13th, part 94.
10. A ramble wouldn't be a ramble without a pitch on diet and exercise and nutrition. I slipped. Of course, we all knew that I would. Summer PLUS no school PLUS four kids at home simply = no time for me to get to the gym. I've been doing home things, but I also hurt my back (again) and have been conservative and safe. My friend Cinnamon says stress oozes through my back and that's where the Devil works his magic on me. I'm thinking she's right, 'cause when I'm feeling out of sorts, physical pain starts peeking into my life, too. Anyway, Big and Middle have been doing 30 day shred with me. Mimi thinks it's like Wii and always wants to know, "which one am I?" Middle, being the most fit one of all of us, gets to be Jillian Michaels. This morning, she ate a muffin while she stood over me asking, "can't you take it any higher than that, Mom?"
Oh, one more?
11. Mimi is on a boy-kick. I hereby promise pictures. She and Little are super-tight right now. He has always wanted a little brother and she is doing her level best to step up to the plate. Yes, he taught her to pee standing up. About a month ago, she asked me for a haircut, so (as she put it) she would " . . . look more like a REAL boy." I cut her hair that night. Since then, she's been on and off borrowing his clothes, wearing his hats, stealing his boxers. She wrote me the nicest note asking for (1) a bow and arrow (2) muscle shirts of her OWN and (3) a shorter haircut. Hmmmm.
And THAT's what I know about that.
* clean off my *&^% desk. I can't think when it's in this condition.
* find something for me and each of the children to wear next week . . . to Pop's service and the one on Wednesday for the rest of his family
* finish the photo stuff I have in progress, which is WAY to elaborate to post here . . .
* scan, scan, scan
* invoice, post payments & communicate with offices. Blink, blink, oh, I have a job??
* pictures . . . from vacation . . . load, import, edit, post
* weeds . . back yard . . . pull
* the table!! Post glorious pictures of my almost-finished pallet table. Oh, I love it so!
* anniversary . . . . our anniversary is coming up . . . . .
Oh, that can't be all . . . but I'm must go see what all of the laughter is about . . . .