I've reached a new level of dorkdom

We are a Dancing With the Stars household -- it makes the kids dance, it's real cute, we really enjoy hanging out and doing kicks. But even with all the fun we have with it, I was still surprised last night when it was time to narrow it down to the final two couples -- I was so nervous.

Who's gonna go? Idon'tknow.

After that elimination, the final pick was kind of anticlimactic. The dynamic between the three couples was cool. I'm stopping myself from going into full analysis of why it was that way for me -- the important point is that I was really on the edge of my seat over it...DORK.

I've also decided that I want to be Jerry Rice when I grow up. He's so laid back, not sweating the small stuff. A lot of people pretend to be like that, but he never had a single temple throbbing moment where he was saying one thing and choking down another -- he seems nice for real.

That's the kind of nice guy who can get the girl, not the kind of nice guy who gets walked all over for being a "nice guy".

Not that I want to get girls -- I'm just thinking about the guys who say stuff like, "girls say they want a nice guy and when they get one, they dump him for the asshole". We want a nice guy (Jerry Rice), not a pussy (guys who resent the women who have dumped them because they are "too nice").

A writer of things is born

Do you ever wonder what type of person likes to sit down and write instruction manuals or encyclopedia type stuff?

Yeah, me neither, but it came to mind today when I was reading yet another instructional guide created by Winnie. We have, How to make a person (a drawn version, not a Frankenstien), How to draw a awt fit (that's; outfit), How to care for your Gunnie Pig, All about Chinchilas, tree Sloth, and on and on.

She even does computer research on the animals. She has loved doing this type of thing since she learned to write, but she has really stepped up production since she got her own stapler. "What can I staple? Hmmmm. I know! I'll make another manual!"

Do you know it's all about Chuck Norris now? He'll wear you down, eventually. You will laugh or he will kick you in the face with a roundhouse kick.

Frankie has actually come out of his room this week. He cannot resist the pull of the computer -- he's been lured out by jokes about Chuck Norris. He reads, then he laughs and laughs.

Most of the time it's a low Beavis and Butthead type of "heh, heh, heh." But sometimes he starts laughing to tears and tries to read aloud the hilarious things said about Chuck.

Oh, it's stupid stuff -- even for someone like me who loves the, "it's so stupid it's funny" genre. It's making me like Frankie this week. And listening to him read the fiftieth stupid statement about Chuck Norris doing a roundhouse kick, it's starting to wear me down -- I've even laughed at a couple of them. The jokes only work in the context of fifty or so, individually they are of no comic value.

Lizzie is shriveling (a fever transport to Wonderland)

Lizzie doesn't feel well today so she is snugged in a chair watching Aladdin when she tells me, "my feet are shriveling."
Then it was her hands, her stomach,her brain, her ears, then all her bones.
With all the shriveling, she began to wonder, "What does shriveling mean?"

Mom: "It's kind of like shrinking. Maybe you mean shaky and achy."

Lizzie: "What does shaky achy mean?"

I explain.

She said, "No, I mean shriveling." She explained how her "ear bone" was shrinking and gestured with her fingers, "this small" and instantly I knew what she meant, she meant shriveling.

I suddenly remembered a few times when I was sick as a kid, I felt tiny (and fuzzy) -- I can almost feel it just thinking of it -- it was like a molecular shift where, even though I was still there and whole, I was particles and I was tiny -- even though I took up the same space as usual.

I had bigness happen to me too. I didn't even have to be sick for big to happen.

I can remember me in my favorite red skorts (white buttons on the side, I was a kindergarten it girl) -- I just remember standing there in my skorts and having the sensation that I was far above the ground -- not floating, my feet were touching the ground and I towered over them, and yet I was regular size all at the same time. The big and small thing would last, so I got to ponder in the weirdness of for a long time which is probably why it's so vivid for me now.

The "shriveling" was way cooler than being big -- very Star Treck transport. I'd better go tend to Lizzie before she beams out.

Coincidence? or more hooky business --

I wanted to include this picture and story in my last post, but blogger was being temperamental about letting me post a picture.

I've had the marble story in the edit section for a bit, waiting to have the kind of time it takes to post something of moderate thought -- something other than the smut as of late. (If conditions around me are too chaotic, my simple mind seems to go on that track -- or others of similar depth. I like to fancy myself a deep thinker, but more often than not I think, speak and write in snippets from my own private Idaho where many of the potatoes grow in shallow soil. I'm not really a deep thinker, I'm confused and prone to short circuiting. It feels deep, but really -- it's just messy and all about me.)

Now, about the Melba box.
Rich has a living grandma and her name is Melba. She is in her 90's, doing well and living in an assisted living apartment complex.

A few days ago Rich came home from his latest job and said, "guess what I found today?" And he showed me the bottom side of a very aged, round metal pill box looking thing* that he had found in the dirt that day. "Guess what it says on it?"

When I was fresh out of guesses he turned it over to reveal the name: Melba.

My first thought was that Pops was telling us Melba is about to die. My second thought was that maybe he was just saying hello.


* We opened it and there was a partially disintegrated make-up brush and some very old powder blush. At first glance it just looked like dirt in there -- a closer look revealed the pink color of cheek blush.

He's sending him the right thing

My thoughts often revolve around God, religion, intent, coincidence, and is there life after death type of quandaries.

There are only so many times I can chalk things up to coincidence before I have to question -- Are the spiritual things which happen in my life governed by physical laws which are yet to be figured, or is God looking out for me?

I'm going with God, and not just to cover my ass. God makes the most sense to me and the relationship doesn't feel like it's with my imagination. While I feel confident there is a God, I don't feel secure in a truth of life after death.

When hooky things happen I run it through a categorical checklist: coincidence? Physics? God? Dead relative?

When I first met Rich his grandfather had died fairly recently (a year or two prior). Rich told me that he finds marbles all the time and that he thinks they may be from "Pops". Since this hooky thing wasn't happening to me, it didn't really merit the checklist right off the bat. I was pretty much, "if you think so."

Marbles were big in the seventies, they're everywhere -- if he likes to think they are from his grandpa, I think that's kind of sweet for him. I kept the "if you think so" attitude to myself -- on the outside I was more, "awww, that's nice."

Well, you can only go so many years with a man coming home from work, pulling his hand from his pocket and showing you the find of the day before you start to wonder.

Rich builds retaining walls, so he's going to be digging in the dirt -- the best possible place to find a stray marble, right? But he does a lot of new construction -- how many stray marbles are going to be out in the cornfields? Plenty. He finds one on every job he does. Month after month, year after year --marbles spot the pocket change jar. When the jar gets full, he puts the marbles in a separate marble jar -- which currently holds a good number of marbles. Truly, what are the odds?

I still don't know what to think, but when I go into the cupboard and see the most recent collection of marbles in Rich's change tub -- I can't help but smile and feel a little bit of warm comfort from the sight.

I hope it really is Pops, that would be truly cool.

Blink 182 spells it -- "Ben Wah"

I listened to the stereo, while eating ice cream, with Ben Wa balls in my pants.

I cracked myself up with that solution to my own post -- But then I had a new problem, how do you spell Ben Wa balls and do I risk getting a computer virus to google it and find out...of course!

They don't actually go in your pants you know.

Huh? Wha? String? Two or more? Fun for a girl or a boy? Rocking chairs are recommended? Well, that's just weird. What's this? "Can be used to strengthen bladder control." (?) Well in that case, I mean what sneezing mother of two wouldn't be interested in that? -- add to cart.

Do you suppose people using this particular ancient Chinese secret clack when they walk?

I have to remove the doorknobs

I don't like the way they rattle when the stereo is blaring.

It's good to know I've grown and changed so much; when my kids leave the house, I do pretty much the same thing I used to do when my parents left me alone -- minus the consumption of large quantities of liquor and drugs.

Home alone for the next two days!

Should I masturbate? Eat fattening foods? Lip sync to Alison Moyet? (Upstairs at Eric's -- First time I heard it, "who's singing? Is it a man? A woman? Who cares? This is bloody brilliant!" -- they're still mixing with samples from it today, and who can blame them? Come on! "...Can't stop now, don'cha know, hI ain't nevah gonnaletchago, DON'T GOOOOOOO..." The whole album-- even that freaky song -- brilliant!).

My world of possibilities has been granted a window, not for blogging though. Don't want to be near this computer for too long, lest I get sucked in and never know I was alone for TWO WHOLE DAYS!!!

Hey kids, stick with the video games because exercise is really dangerous and it could kill you

I have internet access -- I am aware that everything is a potential harm and I could die for any number of reasons right now as I type. Take the typing for example, I think the resulting carpal tunnel could be complicated by a blood clot forming due to the bloated wrist joint which formed because I never got the proper key board and as soon as I stop typing the clot will let loose and I will be gone from the ensuing aneurysm.

However, even I -- with my sometimes gullible nature and paranoid tendencies -- never thought I would be asked to sign off on my kid so she could JUMP ROPE!

For the gymnastics class, I get it, you -- the gym-- do not want to get sued every time some kid breaks their neck while doing acrobatics on your balance beams. But signing off on rope jumping? Not for the gymnastics gym, but for jumping rope in gym class at school (for an American Heart Association fundraiser). Check out some of the legalese to see for yourself just how concerned you should be:

"JUMP ROPE FOR HEART - RELEASE and INDEMNIFICATION (permission Slip) Jump rope for heart involves jumping rope* -- a strenuous activity that may include risks such as, but not limited to, PHYSICAL EXERTION!*, falls and contact with other participants. I hereby expressly assume all risks, including personal injury and fatality, arising out of my child's participation in Jump Rope For Heart and related activities...

I agree, for myself, my heirs, executors and administrators, to not sue and to release, indemnify and hold harmless..." **

And the rest of it is me signing away her publishing rights for pictures, speaking and any old thing they feel like doing while she is participating in their event. So if they sell her to another family during this event, I gotta pack her stuff and send her on when she's done jumping rope.

I think it's time to buy the PS3 -- the x-box, game cube, TV and computer are only going to fill so much time. And some recliners -- I really think recliners might promote more napping for the kids, especially if I start feeding them higher quantities of nap inducing snack foods. Stay safe kids. Pringles anyone?

*emphasis mine.
**Not responsible for typos or misquotes which may have taken place during the structuring of this blog entry. I hereby absolve myself from any fear of jumping rope or jostlephobia resulting from the reading of information contained in this post.

Why not Rodentville?

In reference to the song Istanbul (not Constantinople) by They Might Be Giants:

Lizzie -- "Why don't they say guinea pig, instead of the hamster thing?"

Mom--"What hamster thing?"

Lizzie -- "Hamsterdam. New Hamsterdam should be New Guineapigdam."

Mom -- "Ooo-oh."

"...Even old New York, was once New Amsterdam..."