Today somebody suggested perhaps I was a pussy.
Today somebody else called me a hero.
Yuh...weird day.

I may or may not be either one--and I leave it at this comment because really--come on-- who wants to be called a pussy??? ESPECIALLY, if you know you are kinda being one and incidentally, who really feels comfortable with the hero word either? I mean your are just as likely to be uncomfortable with either introduction: "Oh hello, So and So. Nice to meet you, I'm a pussy." OR "Hi, X, The name is hero." Either exchange will raise a brow or get you a smack in the mouth. The thing about either one of these is that the person assigned to one description or the other generally hasn't sucked around for either.

I have had some things that weren't as easy to write because they weren't a rant or particularly humorous.

I have been stuck as it were. I can't say I haven't had thoughts. They have been sitting in their seats waving madly from the front row to be called on and I have been looking over them at all my other students hoping to hell they had something to say so I could ignore these more freaky kids who wanted to ask me questions for which I was pretty sure I had no answer.

It's much easier to move in the mad or indignant. The forward motion a good rant can give is momentarily mind clearing. What I have found lately though is blogging has also forced a certain level of accountability to thought and actualization which demands action and stillness--demands grabbing on and letting go and there's the rub.

In avoiding anything other than a rant you also get to avoid the initial sense of free fall when you let something go. Personally, I am not sure I have ever willingly let go of anything. I or someone else has always had to peel my cold, white knuckled fingers off of an idea, concern, slight, relationship or position. The true merits of any of which were never as much of a factor as the value I assigned them mostly based on emotion. Up till now I have been self preserving enough to know to surround myself with smart people willing to help me with the finger prying...lest I would function just a point or two above 'mentally disturbed.'

So back to the whole pussy thing. NO. I am not interested in digressing into the whole pc/sexist implications of the word. For my purposes here I read the working definition of said word 'pussy' as passive or receiving*. Anatomically, you really wouldn't be able to look at it in another way--I mean that's what it does or is. Right? I was only rattled by the perspective potential not the insult potential and I rather like how it did incense me. I suspect that was the intention. I tend to be more spurned to act when I am knocked about the head a little--ok--a lot. Smoke up my ass doesn't have the same kind of effect.

I have in fact been a pussy*. There have been some serious changes afoot for me that completely stroke my fur backwards and so I haven't wanted to touch them with a ten foot pole--well maybe I have given them a poke or two, but that is it.

Pokes:

My faith is not as it used to be. At the moment my religion has left me and I don't think it is coming back.

I need to think about what I am doing that contributes to my happiness and well being. I don't like to do that very much. It's not even societally acceptable if you think about it.

I remain a fighter, but my angst is more focused inward lately-- albeit reluctantly --I love kicking some ass as long as it's not my own, but it's my own that needs it right now.

On the whole hero thing. I have to say that being called that prompted me to cut through the BS as of late and at least be moderately able to try on that label.

I love my boys in Iraq and gal in Afghanistan and in writing them and rallying for them I have been unwaveringly disciplined and willing to champion their needs. Why? Because of their dedication and commitment. Because I came to know they exist. If this has made me a hero to some of them it really would be ridiculous to not apply that same level of discipline and dedication to my own endeavors.

Dear Asshole in the Camry,

There's is something about cold, dreary weather that revves up my maternal instinct which is already a bit on the abnormal side. I'll admit this for a brief moment and for the purposes of this post and then vehemently deny it, if anyone brings it up again--printed word be damned.

Whoop Creed
This is my Whoop.
There are many like it,
but this one is mine.
My Whoop is my best friend.
It is my life...

Okay so really this is a rewording of the USMC "Rifle Creed" google that--lol...and ... maybe Whoop is not my life, exactly, but aside from Tony this is the best thing that came from his stint in the Marine Corps, possession wise as far as I concerned--well, barring those extra estrogen rich times when I claim Tony as a possession...heeeee....

Whoop is an old poncho liner Tony has had since before our introduction almost 20 years ago and something he has tried to lovingly replace on my behalf with no success I might add. The Corps issued this one to Tony out of boot camp in the early 80s..I love this old ragged thing. How it came to be named Whoop I have no idea. I think Tony was already calling it that when we started dating. I only know that once we did, I took claim of it and eventually Tony ceded ownership.

It's like a blanket. It's soft and cool and silky...I looove it. When your are sick and feverish it feels cool and when you are cold it's amazing at keeping the warmth in even though it is thin. One of the kiddos, Matthew, I think, was really hot natured and we kept Whoop out all year for him the year he was born.

Each year it get lumpier and thinner in spots. It's a little like parachute material and it, at one time, was quilted. Like I said we do have the new one Tony picked up at a military surplus store a couple of years back, but you can't buy the breaking in so I keep it grudgingly since sooner or later Whoop is not going to make it out of the dryer in one piece.

We took Whoop out of the linen closet today. Looks like he's going to make it one more year. I moved the computer next to some French doors this year and the draft makes it a perfect excuse to keep him on my lap through the winter.

Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are your own fears.
Rudyard Kipling

Aside from tending to sick kids and writing my jarheads in Iraq, I have done nothing today, but nurse my own cold, read some and have a hormonal fluctuation or two. I should have known something was coming down the pike after that last post. Heh. I would like to point out, while bearing in mind that men may read this next installment of War and Peace, my contention that if there is a God, he is in fact a man and moreover, he's laughing his ass off.

Can't you just see the Big Guy upstairs sitting around the conference table with the boys doing the whole Power Point thing...

"Okay folks, up next up: fertility. Whatcha boys got for me? Huh? Dazzle me.!I'm looking for something catchy."

Some junior vp swallows hard and throws out the whole menses idea and God says..."hmmm-- not bad, not bad...what else you got?

Moodswings?

Bloating?
Good! Good! You're workin' it... you're workin' it. Okay, tell you what. Go ahead and take the development team on this and run with it. Have something firmed up for me by morning.
Now! Somebody call in lunch---we still have that whole forbidden fruit thing to flesh out."


There is no way a woman would come up with this sick little notice of monthly impending fertility...well maybe she would, but it'd be the men getting it. You follow me?


Where was I?

Where have I been? Oh. I've been reading Ayn Rand and Ann LaMott and Thomas Merton. It's an exercise in madness. Well, no, not really, but I am still trying to flesh it out enough to put it into something I can construct, or speak reasonably about, but alas, I'm not there yet.

It calls to ming when I worked as an event designer. My favorite parts of the event process were the very beginning of the project and the very end. For purposes of edification, I am going to cover the latter at another time and just focus on the former.

At the front end of a project, the introductions were made as the long, waxy shipping boxes were opened. Flowers would come in all tight and wrapped in paper and plastic. In my prep room there would be rows and rows of buckets awaiting them. The room itself smelled green and foreign--intriguing even, like the countries where they came from.


The blooms had faces like people--roses and gerbera, open and generous, haughty iris, graceful calla, friendly tulips, shy, exotic orchids. Spools of ribbon and yards of fabric would be yet uncut and stacked up without the light behind it to demonstrate what it's true role would be in my little symphony.


That would be the sound I heard as they took the water back up their stems after their long trips from Holland, Belgium, Ecuador, Columbia and the Pacific Rim. I heard music. As the blooms opened and hydrated themselves this sound in my head was always akin to the sound of an orchestra warming up before their opening piece. Petals like notes unfurling, color intensifying or lightening. It was a promising sound that left little hairs on my forearms to tingle.

My new hires would be initially dismayed at the condition the blossoms seemed to be in out of the boxes and then equally delighted and amazed at the Phoenix action these blossoms had going on after a few hours and some warmish water. You really didn't do anything- just give them time and room in the bucket to gather themselves and make a proper hello to the world.


This was my self indulgent way of saying, I have alot of new boxes of stuff left to open, inspect and prep. Greens to cut away, stems to clean, new faces to learn. The smell, too, is new.

Green, if you will.

Eighty Deuce, I have mentioned this writer before. He is a young 82nd Airborne blogger and he wrote a piece today describing a typical day. He conveys what he sees and hears while on duty in Baghdad and how he internalizes the experience. The sunset he describes is dead on with the one I found. Go check him out.

It seems innocuous. One of five a good piece of journalism will answer or allude to in the lead. In this case, turned inward, you are the only one that can ask this question and you are the only one who knows the answer.

Personal Observation #1: the first answer you come up with will probably be bullshit, maybe even the second and third one for that matter. Keep asking until you are uncomfortable and there I hazard a lot of us find our first real answers.

Do your insides match your outsides?

No?
Yes?

Why?

"...this is your life and it's ending one minute at a time."
Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Okay folks, if you haven't--you gotta.

Sgt. Grumpy had some interesting news today. Go check it out.

Today...wow...today...I went flying in a restored L19 Bird Dog. Some dear friends took all of us up one at a time while the rest of us sat in the hanger and visited or went and looked at all the incredible machines out on the tarmac. It was awesome. It's the only word I have at the moment. My hair is still tied back and in knots from all the wind and I hate to brush it out. You know?

What is an L19 you ask? Well let me tell you:

L19 Bird Dog was used extensively in the early years of the Vietnam war as an observation and a Forward Air Controller (FAC) because it could provide low, close visual reconnaissance and target marking which enabled armed aircraft or ground troops to close in on the enemy. The L19 was later redesignated the O1 Bird Dog. It was feared by the Communists because they knew that opening fire on it would expose their location and invite attack by fighters controlled by the slowly circling Bird Dog. The enemy became bold, however, when they felt their position was compromised and attacked the little aircraft with a vengeance in order to lessen the accuracy of an impending strike.

Translation: I rode around in a plane used to put the bead on a target and call in the big guns...I couldn't help but wonder who the folks may have been who sat in the same seat I sat in today...

Today I was at a breakfast where I spoke on behalf of my Marines in Iraq. (relax B., it was all very un-chicklike). Reporting on how my guys were doing was fitting given the honor and respect this particular day demands. I was glad to do it.

Afterwards, a man I hadn't met before walked up to me. His eyes were steady and his handshake was firm. He said he had served in Vietnam. He said he had rarely received mail or packages and how much of a difference it would have made, if he had had. He said insult was added to injury when he came home and he was no longer simply ignored or forgotten, but spat upon instead.

He was adamant, as well as optimistic as he pressed money in my hand this not happen to our servicemen there now. That while his return had been unkind and cruel, it was a different outcome he wanted to contribute towards now for his brothers in arms.

He went on to ask about these Marines of mine and so genuinely thanked me, I was not only at a loss for words, but also by that point, in a state (I am sure you, B. would have a few choice words for me about that) but, it was unavoidable. This man slayed me with his earnestness. As he left with his wife he promised he would be getting back to me with more backing from his VFW group.

I was humbled by the fact this vet was thanking me when really, the only one that deserved any thanks at all was him and those like him.

Marines, sailors, soldiers and airmen.
We remember you.
We honor you.
We thank you.

HAPPY 232ND BIRTHDAY, USMC!

Half a dozen people have sent me this personality quiz in the last few days. (It's floating around the blogosphere over at Blog This or something like that. I'll try to remember the source) and wanting to know where I tested so since I am wrung out today I thought I would post my results. Inquiring minds and all that. NOTE:this test is highly scientific and pinpoint in it's accuracy. 3 chimps, a gibbon and an orangutan were behind all the statistical data involved. Postscript: My apologies to the blind marmoset who I so flagrantly overlooked when I first gave scientific credit here . Antibarbie is right. Your contributions were clearly and inexcusably overlooked.
Warrior
You're a strong person and sometimes seen as intimidating.You don't give up. You're committed and brave.Truly adventuresome, you are not afraid of going to battle. Extremely protective of loved ones, you root for the underdog.You are picky about details and rigorous in your methods.You also value honesty and fairness a great deal.You can be outspoken, intimidating, headstrong, and demanding.You're a hardliner who demands the best from themselves and others.

Things I am worried about at the moment.
Pakistan and their northern borders with Afghanistan--things are heating up.
What oil hitting 100 bucks a barrel will mean for all our troops.
The Catholic Church.
What to get on for dinner. It's mundane, but will have a swifter albeit more personal and immediate consequences.

I wonder if any of this I can smite with my sword?

I have been asking myself this a lot lately. So I made a conscious decision to try to remember from the blur that is my existence.

Up about 4ish--can't sleep these days. I knew this would happen, but not until I was much older. I just hope the bladder doesn't go next.

Read, checked email. I love email. I hate email.

Swept the house. Did you know that a fry from Mc Donald's never decomposes?

Rocked Matthew awake. This I loved. The windows were already opened so I could see the sun rising over the trees and he let me hold him without trying to shove a finger up my nose for at least 2 or 3 whole minutes.

Dressed Matthew. Camouflage and stripes today. He's a regular Gianni Versace that one.

Made breakfast for the kids. Mickey Mouse pancakes. I fought the urge to make any other interesting shapes.

Supervised morning chores (read here...bellowed from the stove to my offspring not step a toe out of their room until they were squared away unless they were considering a new family.)

Wiped the refrigerator down--notice I did not say CLEANED...my HazMat gear is at the cleaners...

Cleaned the back sliding door---it's amazing where a kid will wipe a booger.

Grabbed a shower--actually I have nothing to say here. No one turned on the water in the sink, flushed the toilet or tried to open the shower curtain to demand the proceeds from my sale of a small foreign country. Of course that was inane. Do you think they ever rip the shower curtain open to ask something intelligent or well thought out? Besides Mickey Mouse had them occupied.

Made myself a smoothie. Breakfast actually sitting down never works. At least with a drink if one of the kids sticks their finger in it or manages a drink the backwash is not clearly visible...food is too often a medium which involves clues as to the culprit and the crime.

Explained the consequences of drinking syrup out of bottle.

Cleaned a child up who was experiencing the consequences of drinking syrup out of a bottle.

Blogged then stopped to read others blogs. I think this is when Matthew tried to see how much toilet paper was actually on a roll.

Packed more boxes for post office while alternately threatening homicide, if they didn't clear off the table from breakfast.

Tortured myself oop I mean located 3 year old shoes, made the others find theirs, got them on, loaded them in the car where they all promptly took them off.

Took Mr. Pete some groceries. He's a nice old guy.

Went and picked up inserts for coupon group and dropped off catfood for paperlady's kitty shelter.

Stood in line at the post office and talked to the post mistress who threatens to keep a cot for me in one of the backrooms. Hmmm I think government workers DO get frequent and scheduled breaks don't they??

Took the kids to the library---paid 10 bucks in fines because I have taken the kids to the library before.

Checked email. Fired a few off. Lobbed a few off. Blew a few off. What? We all do it.

Made pizza for lunch and stepped in some mozzarella Matthew left on the floor where he was trying to make his pizza.

Made lunch for Tony. He never says if it was alright or not. I am considering putting out "How are we doing" cards.

Looked for voter registration cards so I could go participate in the legislative process...hrumphhbullshithruumph.

Ate lunch myself. At least I think I did.

Company over to visit and sort papers and pick up inserts. I like this mama she had some good ideas for an individual in dire need of retribution.

Matthew had his bathroom freakout. It seems the boy feels one with his poop. I liken this to labor. He has his poo poo dance, yells,' ohhhhh oh ohhh', we run, he sweats, says, 'done'--which we aren't-- so the process gets repeated 2 or 3 times until his sphincter overrides his will, he turns red, shrieks and it's over. One of these days this little drama will end with CPS at the door with a clipboard and a search warrant.

Intermittently through all of this we did school--whole other blog post and I am just too bitter at the moment.

Packed new envelopes for next week with the mags from last week...I left out the porn and laid it instead on the porch of this one person I know.

Cleared off my desk and threw out massive amounts of paper. Five minutes later I covered it all up with new stuff I won't remember I have in a couple of days.

Supervised writing invitations for Jacob and Ethan's birthday party. Just think in another ten years they will be blaming me for everything.

Went to voting polls so that if I ever wind up a public figure and they want to trash me all they have is this blog and not the fact that I never took an interest in our democratic process. Yup. That could REALLY overshadow this blog alright.

More later. I am going to Mother's Night Out. There are several mamas who have not weighed in on my recent acquisition and public decimation of porn among other things...THAT commentary ought to be pretty darn good and done after a few Margaritas under my belt--- hence it being good and all.

My children's care costs us about 60K. What I would make out of the home with benefits and better hours. I am only keeping that in my head for the time it takes to write this. It has no business in there banging around with all the other thoughts I have so expertly beat into submission.

I thought of The Dwarf Slayer when I read this piece and all my dear ones I am lucky to have around...okay enough with the awwwwwws. We're done here.

True Friendship ... None of that Sissy Crap
(Author Unknown--well... you could probably google it)

Here is a series of promises that actually speak of true friendship. You will see no cutesy little smiley faces. Just the stone cold truth of our great friendship.
1. When you are sad -- I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against
the sorry bastard who made you sad.
2. When you are blue -- I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.
3. When you smile -- I will know you are plotting something that I must be involved in.
4. When you are scared -- I will rag on you about it every chance I get.
5. When you are worried -- I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be until you quit whining.
6. When you are confused -- I will use little words.
7. When you are sick -- Stay the hell away from me until you are well
again. I don't want whatever you have.
8. When you fall -- I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.
9. This is my oath.... I pledge it to the end. 'Why?' you may ask;
'because you are my friend'.

Colons, dumpsters, porn, the F bomb.

Sigh...I have nowhere to go--

but clean.

It's early in the month-- don't hold me to anything for TOO long.

I do hate to hitch a more introspective topic to this kind of line up, but...well--I 'm gonna.

At Mass this morning our priest, who I don't listen to much...what with the whole hypocritical/personality of a houseplant issue he has going, said something which made me actually reach for a pen--you thought I was going to say automatic weapon, didn't cha?.

He said,

"Pray God forgive us the limits our failings impose on hope."

I think it was part of opening prayers and maybe, because of my already considerable ego, my ears perked up. Dunno. But I heard this and I wrote it down because I knew I would not be able to sit there and be generally annoyed at him and analytical at the same time. I have tried this before, the outcome is never productive.

Incidentally, human beings like him give Catholics a bad name--which is generally the only thing which does cross my mind with any regularity, if he is the one offering the Mass that day.

Today for some reason though I was more plussed than usual. He asked God to forgive the limits our failing imposes on hope? He spoke on our behalf?

I wanted to say, "Speak for yourself, man!"

or look up and tell God, " Umm...'scuse me?" (waving hand wildly)
"Uhhhh listen uhhhh,"

(finger switching back and forth between us)

"--look we aren't together."

"K?"

"I mean---just so you know--"

"What?"

"Yeah, yeah you're omniscient.

"So what?"

"and I'm thorough."

"Shoot me for covering my own ass."

but I didn't because while I was irritated, I could not determine specifically why. Was it just a general irritation at his ongoing hypocrisy? He can be distracting like that. In his homily he complained about why people never take their tardiness to church to Confession and pointed out that it was the same people that leave early after Communion...All I could think was Dude...you can't make it up a 100 foot aisle for the Processional, but truck across a 400 ft parking lot for church breakfasts?? Let's lay off the public castigation shall we?

Okay so I did have this thought while in Mass. It sat so sideways with me off I got up and walked out. I wound up in our Church's rose garden and had time to sit and think about his first comment without being distracted by anything else spewing from his piehole.

But it struck me. He was focused on our limits in that prayer. What we are not doing and how it affects our outlook and expectations on life and others outlooks and expectations? I thought it was strange he didn't also pray in thanksgiving for the things and perspectives which we do possess which in turn affect our hope, too, but really I only thought it strange for minute--considering the source.

It prompted me to look up the word, hope. I never had before which is kinda weird considering. I mean--I have looked for my name on everything else...stationary, coffecups, jewelery, those little name license plates people make for bicycles. Shrug. Looking in a dictionary only came up today, a couple of months shy of my fortieth birthday.

The desire of something together with the expectation of obtaining it.

This definition didn't aid me in teasing out his words as much as I expected, but it was a start.

I don't think I have ever examined the word because I wear it everyday. The word is not new or old and my brain never found a reason to define it before. The only analysis I have ever crafted over the word was why my then 12 year old mother watched a TV show about a hospital ship, the USS Hope ministering to poor Third World children and decided: That's it! If I have a girl I am naming her after a seafaring vessel. I guess I should be grateful she left off the USS part.

"Pray God forgive us the limits our failings impose on hope."

Well son of a bitch sometimes I am failing so badly all I have is hope. Isn't that what hope is? You want something for yourself or another and some sort of expectation in spite of everything that things will improve?

Hope, faith and love. Those three things are acts of the will, but just because you act does not mean that the outcome you seek is what you are going to get. Right? I don't think the universe is particularly concerned with our shortcomings. They don't affect it. Shortcomings affect us. It seems more productive to be thanking the universe for those things capable of moving us forward. Yes?

Ann LaMott, an author, talks about circles of light... She says she prays not for an end, but for a small bit of light to step into and from which she can pray for another small bit to present itself and so on-- until she can reach her end. Sometimes she says this light appears just ahead and sometimes to the right or left, but at her best she is only grateful for the light and not for the manner in which it moves in front of her because it moves ahead towards an end nonetheless--not by her intentions, but because of her simple expectation of light, her hope and faith that it will be there. Not because she manufactured it.

I thought about this today in our rose garden. I left my pew today and whether it was because I knew where I was going or not, my first little patch of light was in that garden where someone had planted some beautiful roses at some point- a beautiful blossom acknowledgement of an end and another beginning.

So yes, I am irritated with my Church. The one I was born into and raised in and that I now raise my children in. We, even in our prayers insinuate these straight paths made straight by our endeavors, our heart's intentions to be the mechanism that drives our outcomes--our fulfillment.

To me this somehow leads you away from a sense that you are not the universe, but part of it. Ridiculous. That whole center of of the universe thing we generally have going is what gets us in most messes to begin with.

Happy Saturday Morning Breakfast Making...

If this post is to make too much sense and you haven't read my last post you may want to bone up now:::snort:::that verb choice will be even more relevant in a minute.

OHMIGOSH.

So while on the phone with a friend today my new foraging habits come up and I explain about my recent acquisition of magazines still sitting in their box this morning next to my desk.

She asks something like, "So what are you doing now?

"Oh I'm putting new covers on these mags so they know what they have."

"Why?"

"Because, the bookstore rips all the covers off before they throw them out."

"So? They can figure it out."

"So, I'm OCD. Okay? I want it to be easy for my Marines to look through them."

"Well are you coming to park day?"

"Oh yeah. I'll just take this box along and finish it there."

"Well hurry up!"

So off I go to Park Day with my big box of magazines.

I'm a little late and most of the mamas are there and make a hole for me at the table to lay the box down.

Much curiousity ensues. Some get up to look in themselves and those that read my blog go "ohhhhh...are those are the magazines?

"Yup"

More chattering ensues.

"Hope, where are the kids?"

"Huh? Oh...they're in the car. They gave me a full 20 of minutes of pissing and moaning on the way over about something or the other and wouldn't stop when I told them to--- so now I am taking 20 minutes from their park day."

As I am explaining and the mamas are laughing at me, I am taking crap out of the box, not paying a lot of attention and still yammering away when I notice one of my mama friends .

"Uhhh--Hope. Uhhhh. (rapid finger flicking)...what is that?"

"What?"

I look down and in my hands is a PLAYGIRL MAGAZINE. I remember looking at it, looking at her... A BUNCH of mamas heads whipping around...I dropped it like it was something out of the oven and me without my mitts.

Mama friend said again, "WHAT IS THAT?!"

Heh heh hehuuumph...yuh...pretty embarassing...well crap I didn't know it was in there?!?!?! None of that stuff had covers on it...I told the mama I had been on the phone with earlier, who was laughing the loudest, "Yeah yuk it up! You are the one who thought we should just send them as is, remember?" She just laughed louder.

So we sit there all clustered around and looking at the box, wondering what to do next when another mama comes up to sit and says, "Oh are those the magazines you were talking about..?"

"Uh huh..."
"Whadja get?"

"Ummmm...(looking around at the other mamas...shrug)go ahead and take a look."

She looks in, sees the porn and PICKS THE MAGAZINE UP OUT OF THE BOX. I looked around to see where the kids were.... She starts looking at every picture and I swear other mamas were craning and giggling-- I was cracking up.

"What are you doing?!"

"What? Haven't you all looked at this yet...oh lookit THAT......"

I coulda crawled under a rock.

Luckily there was not anymore of that kind of thing in the box, but I felt like part of an ordinance detachment going through the rest of it. I was sweating man...s-w-e-a-t-i-n-g...

So all the covers get replaced and labeled and the day all and all was pretty nice--considering..::eyeroll::.

Fast forward to eveningtime...

When I get home. I am late and Tony wants to know how the day went. The look on my face prompted a "What?" from him.

"Ummm, Tony, remember that box of magazines? "

"Yeah... what about it?"

"Well--- uhhh let's just say there were some unusual magazines in there and I inadvertantly shared them with 10 of my closest friends."

His ears perk up, he knew EXACTLY what I was talking about...well not exacty....but he sure thought he did..."Oh yeah?- insert big dirty grin and dancing eyes here- "Wherezit at?!"

"It's in the car, but..."...my voice trails off and I start to snicker...

ZIP...too late anyway...he's out the door...(ok so I didn't try TOO hard to stop him heeeeee)

He comes back in a couple minutes later and booms..."Hope! That sh** ain't right. That just AIN'T RIGHT.

Should I mention now that my dear husband is big on personal retribution?

We layed around like slugs until midafternoon. It was pathetic. A Halloween hangover. That's what it was.

Incidentally, Halloween called up some things that I hadn't ruminated on in awhile...

worry

fear

and generally having the shit scared out of you.

You can do it to yourself, have it happen inadvertantly or someone can do it to you. (shameless segue, but thank you MizMell..)

Yesterday, I was minding my own business, fairly pleased that MizMell enjoyed my posting of crude jokes and so accepted her invitation to look at an eerie video on her blog.

Eerie my ass.
It cleaned my colon, man.
No lie.
I was soooooooo not ready for the freak out...hence it being a freak out...yeah...ok...gotcha...but really--- while I was experiencing the adrenalin rush and all that that entailed including the changing of my chones and of course, hell yeah posting the same vid to my blog, it called something to mind.

When was the last time I had had the pants scared off of me? Dunno. I hate scary movies and haunted houses. In the last almost 40 years I can count on one hand the scary ones I have seen. My mom tells family I was the only kid she knew that watched the Munsters with my hands over my face.

In my mind purposefully scaring the bejeebers out of myself is not a worthwhile endeavor. I do think though I may have to reconsider this now.

Last night I took the kids to extort candy from the neighbors and had time to think about this. I watched kids sucking around for a fright as they approached doors where ambushes were clearly suspected. Obligatory shrieks emanated from said bushes and little squeals met in reply, "Do it again! Do it again!

There were some children with their heads buried up their parents butt though their candy bucket arms stayed extended. They, whether at a high rate of speed or with comforter nearby, were totally into the experience and the subsequent payoff.

Today I went to a bookstore dumpster where I had it on good authority I would find magazines I could use for my jarheads in Iraq. I looked around the dumpster where they were supposed to be-- no luck...then I saw them inside just out of reach. Jackpot.

There had to be 300 bucks worth sitting there...I wanted them bad. Now at this particular Mall there is is rent a cop in a grey flat top haircut who is not crazy to see homeschoolers around before 3 when local schools are out. I know it bugs him--he's said as much in several public reflections of what "the laws SHOULD be around here." (Incidentally, I think if the man just got laid occasionally it would be good for all concerned--well save the layee.)

I stood there at the dumpster, considered how much his belly would slow him down should he happen upon me, what would happen if he did catch me with my ass hanging out of dumpster...and I felt the rush start. Not the underwear filling jolt of the day before, but the seep of adrenalin nonetheless. Somehow, because my brain had been refamiliarized so recently it was a mirthful not dreadul kind of sensation.

I kept thinking, "What do I do?"...I want those magazines...I can almost reach them...where is that guy? what if I get caught?"

Simultaneously, I am deducing that my 10 year old could definitely fit through the hatch in it and get my quarry.

"Hey Jake!"
Looking around and gesturing him out of the car.

"C'mere! C'mere! C'mere!"

"Hurryup!"

10 year old curiousity got the better of him 'cause I knew if I had said point blank,"Hey Jake, come climb in this dumpster for me," he would have locked me out of the car.

Anyway so I get him in there and keep telling him, "Hurryup!hurryup! just get'em-- get'em..." In the meantime, the peanut gallery in the car is squealing with glee,"Ewwwwwww Jake is in a dumpster! Grooooooooooooss!!!...

The sibling commentary slows down Jake a bit as he considers his predicament and vacillates between the enjoyment of seeing his mother in this hopped up state, doing something that borders on the illegal or at the very least unseemly and what kind of grief he is and will be getting from his sibs for knocking around in a dumpster. He hesitates. I cajole.

"Boy get in that dumpster before we get caught!"

"How am I gonna get out?"

"I'll get you out for chrissakes!! (looking around)HURRYUP!"

We do get all the mags out in a box and in the car. He got into the front seat and smiled sideways at me, but refused to let me off the hook completely...afterall his mother did stick him in a dumpster...albeit an empty one save for the box of magazines. Now had we been behind a clinic or a restaurant, of course I wouldn't have slid my 1st born into one--though The Flowchart for Determining Dumpsters, Their Circumstances and Whether I would Place the Fruit of My Womb in One is another post.

I have a new perspective where fear is concerned. Some of it can sneak up on you, some you suck around for and some--the kind I am most familiar with never gets past a general worry. I have that kind DOWN.

The fear I am used to is over a kid with a high temp on a Friday night, why Ethan has taken to hair twirling and will this mean therapy or if I can make it through Thanksgiving with the sisters in law. Or it's what I feel when I see on my milsupport boards that a fellow supporter has lost one of their guys. Leave me with no emails from Iraq for three or four days and all sorts of scenarios get built slowly in a corner of my head only to get knocked down like a house of cards when I get some kind of smart ass email about being attacked by dwarves (translation...things have been busy here and boring...but we are fine.) Wheeeeew. The fear I am most familiar with is the slow kind, not the in-your-face kind whether I have found a way to put myself there or I am pushed.

If I am so used to the worry kind of fear, I really should reconsider the colon cleansing kind and the kind that I can deliberately choose to participate in...kids like it don't they? Generally they haven't screwed things up in their minds as much as an adult has. Maybe I should take a lesson from them.