This week is Operation Rejoin The Human Race. Oh, I know, you weren't aware that I left. But I did! Every now and then my natural tendencies towards hermit-tude intersect with massive life suckage and then I go underground (metaphorically---the clay in Georgia is far too hard for actual tunneling) and the extent of what I say in public is limited to things like, "The sunlight! IT BURNS!" At a certain point, my darling husband starts looking at me with a gaze tinged with equal parts pity and fear, and then I know it's time to pull myself up by my bootstraps. Or shave my legs again. Whatever....
I used to pray for patience, you know, because I figured that was what I needed. But it turns out that if you pray for patience you get a whole lot of "character building" experiences wherein your patience is "tested" and you want to say "lots of blasphemous and profane things" to whoever's in charge. Go figure. (I swear to you I just typed "Fo gigure," and almost left it like that, but after admitting to such poor behavior, I reasoned it was best not to further tempt fate just now.) But hey, sometimes I learn things! Slowly, sure---always pretty slowly---but I am capable of learning and...
I've been to hours of rehearsals and have missed hours of rehearsals. I've driven to rehearsal and wiped tears off my cheeks the whole way there because it was my only time alone to vent the frustration and sadness I was feeling over my oldest being sick and scared and beyond the fixing I used to be able to do with band-aids and boo-boo kisses. I've laid awake at night while Otto gently snored next to me, my prayers for strength and patience and grace all tangled up with mental repetitions of my lines for the show---lines I could've easily learned in an afternoon back when I was in college,...
Chickadee's been home for a week and a half, has successfully managed two half-days at school (and is attempting the whole day today), and while life stubbornly refuses to stop or even slow down while we find our new normal, over here, I am rediscovering the healing power of frozen dairy confections. The list of things I can control at this point would probably fit on a post-it, with room to spare. The list of things I CAN'T control (but desperately wish I could) is a lot longer. Go figure! On any given day, I sandwich small stints of actual work between doctors' appointments and carpool and...
... how The Vagina Monologues is going. It's going! I am rusty, much rustier than I expected. I mean, sure, getting up on stage is just like riding a bike in that I guess you kind of have this kinesthetic memory that doesn't forget how it all works, but on the other hand, I'm guessing that if you hadn't ridden a bike for twenty years and then hopped on one, it wouldn't be the smoothest ride, either. I'm working on it (and feeling ooooold). But! The people are great, the show is fabulous, and I am having oodles of fun. Also: I now own faux-snakeskin skinny jeans. YES. Purchased specifically...
We had a pretty uneventful weekend, here. We watched football (go Patriots!). We grumbled about the weather. I swore I was going to do laundry and go grocery shopping and then I did lots of laundry but neglected to go grocery shopping, which meant that this morning I packed everyone a delicious lunch of various odds and ends, and have hereby sworn that TODAY, no really, today, I SWEAR, I'll go get groceries. The kids saw their dad. Chickadee's quiz bowl team defeated their most loathed rival team at Regionals but ultimately didn't go on to State. While they were doing that, I was at play...
Hey, guess what. I like the Internet. I like freedom of speech. I do not like SOPA or PIPA. Rather than blacking out my site or lecturing you, allow me to refer you to The Oatmeal's excellent explanation of why this matters. Enjoy.
But at least today I'm not putting it here. It's actually over at Off Our Chests, because writing about our little saga this weekend got me thinking about various tampon-related issues from my youth. Or, rather, the youth of those who honestly had no clue what was going on when they finally came of age. C'mon over and join the conversation. I happen to know from yesterday's post that y'all have PLENTY of stories to share.
"I would never blog this," I told her, after. "What? You HAVE to blog about it!" she said. "People should KNOW. It's DANGEROUS." I asked if she was sure, and she said yes. So please be mindful of the fact that my easily-mortified teenager gave me the green light on this one, and let's acknowledge first and foremost that she 1) is a rockstar for overcoming possible embarrassment to let me share and 2) has delicate little feelings which I would ask you not to hurt if you feel the need to comment. Also, if you are male and ESPECIALLY if you are related to my teenager (Otto, my dad, and her dad...
