My Sister’s Father

My sister’s father lives in the middle of nowhere.  Because his backyard is a lake, he naturally owns 2 boats, which he never uses.  He owns two cars and a truck.  The truck is used only to take his garbage to the dump.  There be no garbage trucks in these parts.

My sister’s father loves to buy stuff.  He loves his toys and gadgets.  The man bought a Blackberry and a mini notebook because he said it would be great to have when he travels.  Um, I tried to remind him that he doesn’t travel, but I don’t think he heard me.

He paid for an elaborate security system with all the bells and whistles, including cameras and monitors.  So far, only the stray cats have set it off.  Another big purchase was a generator for his house.  Ok, one never knows when you might have a power outage, but he had to buy a backup generator just in case said generator happened to quit (I could go on, but I won’t).

Every few months my sister’s father will send us an email highlighting his latest purchase.  I tell my sister’s father that if he’s looking for stuff to buy, I have a laundry list of stuff (washer and dryer, sink, couch, dining room set, living room set, dishes, appliances, muzzles).

Every time I get one of these emails, I think to myself, ha!  Finally.  This is it. There is nothing left for this man to buy.  What will he do now with his time?

Until…

Hi Kids,

Today I went to my insurance agency and insured the Golf Car for liability, theft, loss, collision, and un-insured motorists.  Then I went to the DMV and registered it with the state.  I am legally allowed to drive it on all secondary roads within two miles of my home.  They gave me an ID sticker for it.  Most people do nothing of the sort.

I am the Bomb.

Me

Dad Doesn't Even Golf!

Workers are coming to the house today to enlarge the carport to make room for the golf car.  Imagine.  Really?

After re-reading his email, I’m not sure if I’m more in shock over the purchase of one golf car or the fact that he said, “I am the bomb.”

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You Wanna Go Out?

My husband and I had some great quality time this morning.  For an hour and a half we were able to be with each other with zero interuptions.  We stood in the kitchen and talked and laughed. No cell phones ringing.  No baby crying for attention.  And no five year old repeating, “excuse me, excuse me,” relentlessly, because of his need to be involved in every conversation and know everything that’s going on.  For a brief period of time, I felt the normalcy and calmness of our time together.  This is what it felt like B.K.

B.K. (Before Kids)

Oh, to flashback to that time.  Quite honestly, I can’t remember what it was like to not have a little person attached to me or within ten feet of me.  Those little people.  Why do they have to be so needy?  Geez.  If I had a dime for every time I heard someone say, “Oh, he’s so adorable!” about either of my two sons, not only would I be rich, but I’d be on some remote island that I had purchased with all those dimes, sipping on a Grey Goose Gimlet, reading a trashy Celebrity magazine.  Am so behind on my celebrity gossip.  Umf.  Adorable.  If they only knew.

What I failed to mention is that our quality alone time happened at 2 o’clock in the morning.  After one 10-month old decided to snuggle back into his comfy cozy crib, we were left tossing and turning.  I thought my husband had fallen back to sleep only to roll over to see his big head two inches from my face with his eyes wide open, staring at me.  Owl!  I jumped.  He looked like an owl.  An annoying owl.  No wonder I can’t sleep, there’s an owl in my bed and a noisy bird in the crib next to me.  Am counting down the days until we’re in our new house so he can have his own room.  Not sure if he will be the baby or my husband at this point. TBD.

Ever since Vincent and I have been together,  we’ve been really good at having “date night.”  A nice dinner out.  Alone.  Two solid hours of conversation and reconnecting with one another.  It’s a good thing and a much needed thing.  The past few months have been a bit challenging with all that we’ve been juggling with the new house.  I’m beginning to feel the affects of no date night.  I’ve definitely been a bit more cranky and feeling a bit off.  Reconnecting on the couch after the kids are sleeping is just not the same as being out to dinner, sitting face to face.

It’s amazing how many distractions there are at home, with or without kids: Television, phone calls, pets, email, video/computer games, Facebook, to name a few.  It’s challenging to have a decent conversation without any interuptions.  A waiter bringing me another glass a wine, however, is an acceptable distraction.  A five year old jumping and yelling- not an acceptable distraction.

An article I read talked about how much time should be spent on marriages to make them good marriages.  The author broke down what we do in a typical work week and how much time we spend doing those things.  Out of 168 hours, 4 hours was left for working on our marriages.  Television viewing wasn’t even added into this equation yet.  Yikes.  A statistic I once heard is that the average couple spends 12 minutes a day engaged in real conversation.  Not just passing words, but real conversation.  Yikes again.

“It’s a fact that no relationship is as intense, demanding or as fulfilling as a marriage can be. It is the toughest, yet the most rewarding relationship you can have with another person. So WHY then do we choose to make EVERYTHING ELSE our top priority while we leave only 4 measly hours a week to devote to our marriage?”  This was taken from the article I mentioned.  (You can click here to read it in full).

Hmmm.  I think we need to turn off our t.v. sets, cell phones and computers.  And maybe invest in some muzzles for the kids.

Life always gets busy and out of control sometimes.  But you know what?  If we stopped sweating the small stuff and remembered what’s really important, date night would be a no brainer.  I think I’m going to go call my husband now and ask him out on a date.  The other great thing about date night, is you usually get lucky too.

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Chrissy’s Wishlist

My sister has an 11 page wish list on Amazon.com.  That’s not a typo.  11 pages. She says she edits and adds to her list when she’s bored at the library.  Someone please give her some more books to catalog!  Geez.  Me? Personally, I’d go nuts in a library.  Forget it.  Being surrounded by books all day long and dealing with college students?  I’d lose it.  Forget about creating wish lists, I’d be making origami birds out of all that paper and starting little fires behind the shelves and shelves of books. It’d be like a really, really bad version of  Fahrenheit 451.

My sister is very famous for emailing my dad links to items that she wants.  It’s the running joke that Dad has bought her enough gifts to last her through her 80th birthday.  Her birthday was actually just this past weekend.  She dropped a few subtle hints like, “The alarm clock would be nice, as well as the fiestaware pie dish.  Oh, and the book on how to make pies would be great too.” Shopping was such a breeze!  Except for how I totally messed up the last step because I didn’t click the right box when I was checking out, so all her shit came to my house instead of hers.  It’s all here on my kitchen floor.  Urgh.  That’s why I like ordering stuff on line because you don’t have to deal with packing it up and going to the post office/UPS drop-off place, but because I wasn’t paying attention, I screwed it up!  Mailing anything is a project for me. Such a project that I still have the same stupid Netflix movie for like two months now because I just can’t physically put it in the mailbox.  Why is this?  Why? Why?  Why? Jesus, Mary, Joseph.

Having a wish list is actually pretty great for friends and family.  Suddenly asking, “What do you want for your birthday?” becomes a really stupid question.  There’s no more guesswork.  It’s all right there for you to see.

I always get a kick when I go through her list.  So much of a kick, I thought I’d share some of it.  Here’s a book she picked out.  The title is:  How to Wrap Five Eggs:  Traditional Japanese Packaging. Really Chris?  There’s a book on this?  I guess you never know when you might need this information.

Moving on…

rain gauge

If there was ever any doubt that my sister’s father was indeed her father, this item on her list says it all.  Drum roll… It’s a “Long Term Professional Rain and Snow Gauge.”  As opposed to a short term non-professional one.

Ok, the next item I actually bought (featured below) for my sister, but there was a host of issues, so I just gave up.  I’m sure she will be happier making her pies anyway.

It’s the “Samsung LN40A630 40-inch 1080p 120Hz LCD HDTV with Red Touch of Color.”  I think the problem was that the warehouse was”out” of the Red Touch of Color feature.  Yes, I believe that’s what the issue was.

The next item on her wish list definitely shows that we are sisters.

A bird book! How nice.  I can name that bird song in less than two notes!

Hmmmm, Penis Pokey.  Sounds like fun.  It looks like a board game.  No, am wrong.  I just looked at the description.  It’s a board book.  When might be an appropriate time to pull this out?  Could make for a good coffee table book or a drink coaster, or even a door wedge.

The following items on my sister’s wish list make me say, “Why?  Why?  Why?  Why?”

Handy Farm Devices and How to Make Them?  What?  First off, to sit and read through this book might cause death by boredom.  Not to mention, why do we want to make them?  Who has time for this?

Um, a book on preserving stuff at home?  There’s 400 some recipes.  Ok.  This could be kind of cool.  Maybe. Like in Amish country or something.

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What’s News?

It’s sad when every conversation I have with my father ends with him saying, “How do you not know what’s going on in the world?  What’s wrong with you?”  I say ends because this is usually the part of the conversation when I hang up on him.  The world is a big place, ok?  Isn’t it good enough to know what’s going on in one small corner of the world?  Like my corner?  But if you must know the truth dad, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me.

I’ll give you a little hint.  There’s four letters.  One vowel.  First letter is “K.” Rhymes with the word, lids.

It’s true.  The way I get my news is from Yahoo’s front page when I check my email. I look at the picture that’s at the top with whatever headline.  I’d say about 30% of the time, I might click it and speed read it. My definition of speed read is reading every three lines, give or take another few lines. By the time I get to the bottom, I have no idea what I just read, but the fact that I made the effort, makes me feel good about myself.

After absorbing absolutely nothing, I go back and quickly scan the other highlighted news stories.  If something really jumps out and seems very important, I may actually have to undergo another speed read session, but this scenerio would be considered highly unusual.

Thanks to this way of getting the news, I’ve managed to get by without looking like a complete moron.  “Oh yeah, I heard about that.  Oh yeah, I saw a blurb on that.  Oh yeah, I heard about that too.  What a shame.  Why do things like that have to happen?  Swine flu?  Of course I’ve heard about it.  Now when the swine flu first hit the news, I remember seeing the headlines on my way to, yes, you guessed it, check my email. My first thought was that a bunch of pigs were really, really, sick.  Sad. I love pigs.  I was born in the year of the pig.  Forget about eating pork. I won’t eat pigs.  I love the pig.  I really, really love them.

I haven’t always been this way.  I was definitely more in the know way back when. Not much more in the know, but definitely more than I am today.   I read more newspapers, magazines.  I guess I had more quality time back then before the kids took it all away .   No one ever told me just how demanding little people are and how they put a cramp in your day to day life, not to mention sex life.  Sex on the kitchen table days just don’t happen like they used to. I definitely used to watch more television B.K. (before kids).  But wait.  Come to think of it, Letterman was my way of getting the news during my twenty-something years.  But this is because I’m not a big fan of television news.  Especially local news.  If you ever want to enter a severe state of depression, just watch your local news.  Who got shot, who raped who, who murdered who.  It’s just not my cup of Joe.

Ok, so maybe I’m not a big news person.  B.K. or A.K. (after kids).  I’m trying to rationalize this out, but it’s not working.  Using Yahoo and my dad is certainly not the best way to get my news.  And I know this.  And it bothers me.  I think I would feel so much better if I was able to carry a conversation about North Korea past the, “Bombs are bad,” part.  Seriously.

Become more worldly.  Yes, let this be goal number 3.  I need to be more in the know.  I want to ooze intelligence at social gatherings instead of burying my head in the macoroni salad when the topic of current events come up.  Think how much thinner I will be because of this!  Fantastic.

I will make CNN my home page.  I will tune into Brian Williams at least twice a week. I will make the New York Times a reading and learning tool, instead of cutting coupons and scanning for sales inbetween crying over the real estate section at all the property I will never be able to own in this lifetime.

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Therapist Needed

Obsession:  

“The domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc; the state of being obsessed; the act of obsessing”  

Giving up obsessing about losing ten pounds was huge for me.  I feel so light and fluffy like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.   I haven’t been constantly thinking about what I’m going to eat and how my ass needs to look better than my husband’s ass.  I hypothesised that if I just excersised for the sake of feeling good, the weight would just peel right off.  And I have to say, my hypothesis is correct!  I have lost two more pounds since my last post.  

The problem now is that I’m obsessing about exercising.  So not only have I been running more, but my mind is too (not a good thing).  I’m thinking about when I can go running, what time I can go running, and how long I can go running for.  

But lately, running has become more of a challenge because we’ve been juggling more things, mainly the new house which needs a shit ton of work.  My husband is more on the go, leaving earlier to get stuff done at work, and coming home later because he needs to go to the house after work.  So this leaves no time for me to do anything without the baby, which equals more time with the baby and less of a break.  Hmmm, no wonder I’ve been a bitch on wheels the past few weeks! Seriously, makes total sense. 

In any event, now I’m obsessing about not being able to go running when I want to, and what I’m just realizing now, I’ve been obsessing about not having time for myself as well.  Quite honestly, I used to think that I could have quality time when the baby sleeps, but you can’t leave the house when the baby is sleeping.  And most of that time is spent doing dishes and catching up with stuff from days before.

I think I’m losing it.  Truly.  

Since grade school, I’ve been obsessed with birds.  And when I say obsessed, I exaggerate not.   I thought I was a born again ornithologist.  I read bird books, wrote poetry about birds, stalked birds in camouflage with my binoculars, and daydreamed about the black capped chickadee.  Forget about the dozen parakeets I owned.  

After grade school came the Fab Five- Duran Duran.  Forget it.  I had every book written on the group.  If a magazine mentioned their name, I bought it.  My entire bedroom wall was covered with posters of Simon, John, Nick and Roger (never got into Andy).  My entire jean jacket was covered with buttons with all of their faces (minus Andy’s).  I remember I even performed “The Reflex” song with Chris Dinger in front of my 8th grade choir class.  Oh the horror!  And another thing I’m not so proud about is even to this day I remember most of their birthdays.  Nick Rhodes:  June 8th.  Simon LeBon:  October 27th.  John Taylor’s: June 20th, I think.  Roger Taylor:  Sometime in April.  Have no recollection of Andy’s however.

This obsession business could be something I was born with.  In other words, genetics.  Again, thanks dad.  I give my dad credit for all of my wonderful, positive attributes such as my big ears and flat feet.

Chrissy, my sister, was born with a pony between her legs.  She was drawing horses at the age of two.  She has read every horse book ever written.  Thursday night at her house is pony movie night for her and her horse friends.  She actually owns a beautiful horse named Snuffy.  Nice Snuffy.  Cute Snuffy.  There, there, Snuffy.

 

Snuffy

 

There’s nothing like watching your sister being thrown off a horse.  There I was watching what Chrissy does best, when Snuffy decided he had had enough. 

Chrissy went flying head first off the front of Snuffy.  She did a perfect flip in the air and landed smack on her back.  She decided to totally give me heart failure when she didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity.  Glue Factory ran through my mind along with some other choice words for good ‘ole Snuff Face.  Chrissy got up, dusted herself off and chased after him!  Girl’s got balls.  Those balls are fueled by obsession. 

And dad?  Well, dad has about five hundred radios crammed into an 8×8 room.  He’s a ham operator.  He’s into morse code and all that crazy stuff.  If we could “cut to” dad right now, you’d probably find him in his radio room, sitting at his desk with headsets on, asleep and snoring, with a cigarette burned to the filter in his hand and a cat on his lap.

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