Because it really is personal…

It’s probably a reaction to my childhood. When I was a kid, I had just the minimum amount of clothes my parents thought I could get away with. I had a 3 drawer dresser, and if the clothes couldn’t fit, then I had too many. My closet was the family storage closet, filled with boxes of old National Geographics and sleeping bags, with a small spot to hang 2 church dresses. I had a pair of sneakers for school, and Mary Janes for church. We weren’t poor, by any stretch of the imagination, my parents just thought clothes were something necessary for covering the body, and that was it.

So now, I Like Clothes. I don’t have heaps and heaps, but my closet is comfortably full and my dresser has 5 BIG drawers, filled with pretty things. I have winter shoes and summer shoes, in colors like red, pink and baby blue. My clothes hang neatly by season and color. Most are pinks and blues, or a print variation on the 2. The prints are floral, I favor roses. I also prefer natural fibers, cotton, linen and silk, tho I have recently discovered microfibers and rayon.

Sweet Daddio has been blissfully accomodating of my fashion whims. For many early years of our marriage, he had to hog-tie me and drag me to the store to get new clothes. Sometimes he’d show up with an outfit or two, always exactly the right size, color and style. Silly man, he never EVER bought anything on sale. Now I can buy new clothes without guilt, but only after I’ve done something around the house to justify the expense, like a weeks worth of fabulous meals or uncomplaining accomodation of his work schedule.

Recently I bought myself some pink keds. Since half my closet is pink, I felt pink shoes were in order. Then I decided seersucker was necessary for these East Georgia summers, and purchased 2 pair of pants-pink stripes and blue stripes, which required new sleevelss tops, coral pink and palest blue. Now I need a couple of new baseball hats, for wearing whilst driving Little Martha topless. That’s the exent of my clothes buying frenzy. I’m a crazy woman, a shopaholic, a fool for a pretty outfit.

I think, by purchasing clothes that fit, I have guarenteed that I’ll lose weight. The trick is finding the right mix of new-clothes, without spending so much that I’d feel guilt about not being able to wear them, but spending enough that I’m sure they won’t fit more than one long season.

I’m not sure, at this size, I’d look good in anything, really. I am experiencing some trepidation about striped pants, that I’ll look like Obelix (Asterix the Gaul) or some kind of circus tent. Sometimes I wish the styles involved yards and yards of dark gauze, fastened to the top of the head and floating around, rendering one’s shape nebulous. But no. Instead the fashion is to wear clothes sized for your 12 year old daughter. I console myself by saying that, now I’m nearly 41, I don’t have to concern myself with such silliness. Unfortunately, the only clothes available in my size either make me look like a 75 year old member of a Gated Community, or a 50 yr old crazy cat lady in a 30 yr old housetrailer.

7:51am in the morning, and #2 comes in, wearing the clothes he wore yesterday and slept in last night, and the back of his head looking like a porcupine on speed. He says to me, says he, “Mom, did you hear that Kanye West said if the Bible were written today he’d be in it?”

That has me thinking. Ok, in what capacity would he be in the Bible? He wouldn’t be Christ, because everyone knows Christ was a white man with light brown hair. Just look at all the pictures of Him.

He wouldn’t be Moses, because he looks absolutely NOTHING like Charleton Heston.

He’s not hairy enough to be Cain.

He’s too young to be Noah because Noah had grown kids. Maybe he’d be Ham, because legend has it Ham was the father of the African people. I’ve yet to figure out the genetics of that one, how Noah and his wife could produce children who are the forebears of both Africans and Swedes. That anomaly goes into the file labeled “Ask God When I Get There”.

Maybe he’d be one of those anonymous people God gets irritated with, a Pharisee or some Egyptian Guard who’se been rude to a Hebrew.

Still, the abject arrogance of someone to say something like that…the mind boggles. Yeah, I’d probably be in the Bible as well, hopefully in an anonymous role, a nameless woman at the well, perhaps.

From time to time I wonder what would happen if I met Christ face-to-face. From what I’ve read, he’s a really nice guy, and people seem to fall right in love with Him. I have this philosophy about my house: Would I be willing to let Christ come in, and not be ashamed of anything here? It’s not a matter of cleanliness, He made his position on that well known when He fussed at Martha for spending too much time in the kitchen. It’s a matter of what’s laying around. I am not so naive as to think my teenage boys never look at Nekkid Ladies in Magazines, and have even found a playboy (January 2006, the month my eldest turned 18 and it was legal for him to purchase such). I have drilled into their heads that such stuff dishonors me, the household, and God, and it was not to come into these walls. Oh yeah right, it’s a “celebration of the beauty of the female form”. Well, such celebrations will have to take place elsewhere, and if I find evidence of porn on the computer I’ll change all the passwords and lock you out.

I’d love for Christ to show up for dinner. I’d fix a simple and tasty meal, have a couple of bottles of wine, and we’d laugh.

I have a recurring dream about Him, and Heaven. No winged angels and clouds, except the clouds in the sky of a bright spring day. You know the Roman concept of Heaven- where there is the Styx River and the Elysian Fields that the fallen warriors get to play in? That’s what this dream looks like, rolling hills dotted with massive oak trees, and a river. Folks are sitting aroud in clusters, or playing kickball and frisbee. Picnics are busting out, with old quilts and wicker baskets, coolers full of cold drinks and tupperware containers of potato salad and deviled eggs (there’s no salmonella in Heaven). Jesus is networking, snitching a chicken wing from here, an egg from there, playing an inning of kickball, and rolling on the ground with children and dogs. (my heaven has dogs, tons of them, all well trained and poop-less). That’s all there is to the dream. No plot, just a grand Saturday. I get a little goofy and teary eyed when I think of it, hopeful, I guess. It’s what I hope for more than anything else.

Oh, I know. I’ve read all the James Randi debunking of the Heaven myth, how when we die our brain fights the idea of anihilation by telling itself there’s more, and once the lights go out we’re done for. I can’t believe that. I have to believe there is more to us that seratonin and dopamine and synapses. Maybe I am deluding myself, but I’ve read both sides and chosen mine. I think I’ve made an informed decision.

It’s amazing what my mind can concoct before the second cup of java.

I’m sitting here on the couch, 2pm in the afternoon with a multitude of “doggage” (as put by #3) next to me and I’m watching Carly and Jack’s marriage break up because Carly’s a dumb, impetuous blonde who got a job at a strip club so as to frame a police officer so as to help Jack get his job back and he’s pissed about her methods and can’t live with her anymore. In the mean time, Emily, another dumb, impetuous blonde, is holding Dusty hostage because he and the Love of Her Life For This Week, Paul, got into a knock-down -drag-out fight and Paul admitted to killing Dusty for some reason I missed because I went a few days watching Divine Design on HGTV instead.

Whilst watching these relational trainwrecks, I am drinking a fresh cup of coffee and indulging in 2 Dove Dark Chocolates. Yes, people. I am a 40 year old wife of 1 and mother of 4, watching soap operas and eating chocolates while my children spend Quality Time at other people’s houses. Life is very, very good.

I planted a rose bush earlier today. “Royal Wedding”, advertised as amber-pink and fragrant. I have 2 more to plant but I can’t decide if I want to put them in pots or put them in the ground by the vegetable beds. I like mixing flowers and veggies.

Man. Carly is pathetic. What a maroon.

I have a nice eye of round roast for supper. I’ll grill it, crusted in garlic and white pepper. Potatoes along side, roasted with herbs and parmesan cheese, and mixed vegetables steamed with lemon oil.

I’m on a diet now. I started Monday. I woke up and jest decided to do it. I’ve been needing to lose a good 50 pounds now since #4 was born, 7 years ago. I went to a gym for a couple of years, and loved it. I didn’t lose any weight but developed some nice muscle. I tried Atkins and lasted about 2 weeks- it grossed me out. Now I am on a calorie-reduced diet that has me eating 6 times a day so I don’t ever really get hungry. I may get tired of eating leafy greens all the time, but I can make milkshakes out of frozen berries and skim milk- those are nice. We’ll see how it goes. I am taking it one day at a time, and I think this time I won’t beat myself up if I break down and eat a peanut butter sandwich. I don’t think I’m going to bother weighing myself, but instead I’ll let my clothes tell the tale. Right now I’m a size 18-20 (depending on the brand). I’d like to see size 14. My favorite catalog only carries clothes up to size 16, so that’s a good incentive.

I know someone is going to invite me to get off the couch at 2pm in the afternoon and exercise. I did that this morning. 30 minutes on the bike and 30 minutes of weights. I can’t say I do it all the time, but at least 3 times a week. See, the thing is, I may be overweight, but I am not weak and flabby. I’m just very well upholstered. I have muscles, but I’m cuddly. Yeah…that’s it. I’m cuddly. Just ask Sweet Daddio. Plus I’m forever digging holes or raking pinestraw or chasing dogs or hauling groceries. I’ve decided I’d rather be a sleek mod upholstered sofa instead of a mid-80’s overstuffed poofy teal leather job.

Oh gag, Carly seems to have convinced Jack she was working at a strip club All For Him. What a maroon.

I just entered in Food TV’s $75,000 Kitchen Makeover Plus $10,000 To Eat Out Once A Week For A Year sweepstakes. What I could do with $75,000 in my kitchen. I’d move the airhandler and ductwork to open things up. Then I’d make room for a commercial range. Subzero fridge, the kind with the drawers built into the cabinets. I’d have a big single stainless sink, with the high arching faucet and sprayer. Some of the counters would be rolled stainless and others would be maple butcherblock. the cabinets would be maple with art glass doors on the uppers. The floor would be thick industrial rubber, cushy for my knees, hip and back. Mod light fixtures- colorful and fun. I’d put a little greenhouse window over the sink, for African violets and small glass animals, and that silly prism I’ve been dragging around since I was 9. The counter with the range in it would be extra wide, so people could pony up to the bar while I fry garlic and make jalapeno johnnycakes. I’d move the washer and dryer out of the kitchen and put them elsewhere, and take that spot and make a huge-arsed pantry. Then I’d take the pantry area out and make a built in desk with shelves for my cookbooks and a spot for my computer. I’d want us to do the bulk of the work ourselves, not to save money, but to enjoy the satisfaction of doing it ourselves. Yes indeed. I’ve given it some thought.

Friday is #4’s 7th birthday. I am baking him a cake! He requested a Spiderman cake, but since Spiderman is SOOO 6 months ago, it’s quite hard to find the
necessary parts. So…because he is big into warfare, I am making him a Battle Cake.

It will be chocolate, with chocolate icing. I aquired 4 teeny tanks, WW2 replica German and American. Then I went into the candy aisle to see what could be
used. MapleNut Goodies will serve as boulders. Sugar wafers make excellent roadbeds (they will be broken up as if bombs were dropped on them). Vanilla wafers
will be used to construct a bunker or two, then coated with frosting. One will have red licorice flames from a recent mortar attack. There might even be a
crashed airplane. If it turns out, I’ll take pictures. Thing is, these sorts of projects always look better in my head than in reality.

Sweet Daddio found him a couple of BIG airplanes= World War 2 type- a Messerschmidt and another one that if I weren’t so lazy I’d get up and walk into the
other room to remind myself what it is. But they are big- the body is a footish long and the wingspan is even more so. He can either play with them or hang
them from the ceiling. It will be up to him.

He requested a fleet of battleships, when asked what gifts he desired. My initial reaction was “I doubt the zoning board would approve.” When I expressed my
misgivings about an entire fleet, he said “Nooooo Mom! Not a REAL fleet! A Little fleet!” I felt better then. So he dug out SD’s copy of Janes Fighting
Ships of WW2, and pointed out the ships he had in mind. No sweat, SD and #2 have it in hand.

I am giving him an aquarium. He had one when he was a baby, but it was dismantled when we moved, with the resident goldfish gifted to the municipal pond
designated just for such occasions. He has hinted on multiple occasions that he’d like another one. There is an excellent pet store with the healthiest fish
I’ve seen in a long time, so I spent this morning getting a tank set up just right with a blackmoor all googlyeyed and silly, and a shy calico fantail. He’ll
love it.

My best friend (other than SD) and her 3 younguns are coming Saturday for a few days visit. We’re going to have the Birthday Bash that evening. His
requested menu : chicken fingers (be still my heart! He requested chicken fingers! I don’t think he was even aware there was anything else to eat util he
was 5 and went to Kindergarten), hot dogs and chips, and salted asparagus. I don’t know how he came up with asparagus, but he thought long and hard about
it, and that’s what he wants, grilled and sprinkled with kosher salt. My little gourmand.

Sunday we’re going to The Beach. Tybee Island, to be specific. It’s a great place, close enough to Hilton Head that all the pretty people go there and leave
Tybee alone. Thus, the beaches are inhabited by overweight housewives and young men wanting a sparsely inhabited beach to windsurf or whatever that thing
they do with the strap on shorty-boards and sail-kites. It looks like fun and #3 intends to Give It A Try. We will pack a picnic, and then go to River
Street to witness Big Boats coming in and maybe even catch a tugboat in action.

I have trouble sometimes imagining #4 as a 7 yr old. He is leaving the realms of “Little Boy” and entering in to “Big Boy” territory. He wants to pick out
his own clothes now. He knows what he likes to eat, and what he doesn’t. He has some permanent teeth. He knows he wants to go to the mountains and ride in
an airplane. He knows enough to know he doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up, but he is certain that he wants to be married and have a houseful
of kids. He is starting to read chapter books. He gets embarrassed if you walk in on him and catch him in his underpants. He can take a bath without
assistance. He is learning to play pool. He can defeat 4 levels of Halo, The Incredibles, and Lego Star Wars on the X-Box.

My baby. Growing up. I am trying not to think about him becoming a hulking, surly teenager.

Yes! Here in East Bumfart, Georgia, I actually found flash-frozen ahi tuna steaks in the frozen seafood case at StuffMart. Now, I realize a purist would only use absolutely fresh, caught just an hour ago ahi tuna. However, we here do not have ready access to tuna caught an hour ago and must make do. Since flash frozen steaks are processed within an hour or so of being caught, I figure they are the next best thing.

Tonight, I will make sushi. Spicy tuna rolls, california rolls, and something else as yet undetermined. Yum, in a big way.

In the mean time, the 2 children remaining here are naught to be seen. #1 is sleeping. I don’t know if he’s sleeping off a bender or just tired in general. It’s something I’d like to not think about. #2 is either playing an excessively violent video game (borrowed, since we don’t allow such in the house when #4 is around), or posting neferious Republican thoughts on his blog
( www.echoesofreason.blogspot.com/ ), or doing small chores as ordered by me. I give him credit for this: I sent him to grocery store for a couple of avocados and some imitation crab sticks, and he picked perfectly ripe avocados. I mean perfect. No bruises, not too hard, not too soft, just right. How many 16 yr old males do YOU know that know how to choose an avocado?

Ee! I’m excited! Sushi for supper!

Try this one instead:
www.wienerdogbliss.blogspot.com

Well, not really in the park, but it is Sunday, and our yard is rather park-like, with it’s numerous trees and blooming stuffs. Yesterday was the first day of Spring Break. My parents and their 2 uber-spoiled weinerdogs, Coco and Maggie (visit www.Weinerdogbliss.blogspot.com ) came for a short visit with the purpose of aquiring 2 of my children and removing them to Alabama for the week. #3 and #4 plan to spend the day shooting small innocent woodland creatures, fishing for bass and panfish, and playing with dachshunds. My father (known as “Gramps”) wants to help #4 build battleships, and help #3 learn the finer points of trap-shooting with #3’s recently aquired 20-gauge shotgun. That’s what boys love best…things that go BOOM. #4 had the bright idea of making disposable battleships and floating them in the pond so they can shoot at them with bb guns. #3 wants to shoot at them with his new 20-gauge, but then he’d want to shoot at them with Gramp’s 30.06 if he thought he’d get away with it.

The point is, with the noisiest half of the children 300 miles away, it is mighty quiet here. Sweet Daddio took me to Nikko’s last night for sushi. YUM! Who’da thought East ButtScar, Georgia would have decent Sushi, made by a Mexican, no less. I mean, a Japanese restaurant where the waitresses call you ’sugah’ and say things like ‘y’all want sweet tea?’ is not confidence inspiring. But seriously, the tuna in the spicy tuna roll was succulent and sweet, and the spicy was just spicy enough to required washing down with sweet tea. They even offer masago, if you want it. The waitress caught me munching the pickled ginger and was delighted that I liked it.

After dinner (spicy tuna roll, california roll, chicken teriyaki and vegetables but I wished I’d ordered more sushi instead), we wandered to the other end of the strip mall and poked around the pet store. I mentally noted the remarkable health of the aquariums, as next Friday will be #4’s 7th birthday and I want to set him up a fishtank. We also noted the presence of good dog toys, heated and chilled dog beds (chilled are particularly important in this clime).

Today, since it is Sunday, we went to the Second Capitalist Church of Lowes, and aquired Stuff. A piece of this, a 1/2 sheet of that, then to the First Church of Capitalism, Walmart Division. Some oil, some spray paint, a little perusal of small household appliances to see what’s what and prepare ourselves for the upcoming #1. Small household appliances are suprisingly reasonable. For about $100, he can have a crockpot, coffee maker, toaster oven, hotplate, and microwave. What more does an independant, single young person need? We’ll pay a visit to Goodwill for dishes and pots, and the Dollar Store for stuff.

Man, it feels good to be prepping for someone to leave the nest. I mean, that’s the whole goal with kids, isn’t it? For them to be on their own and learning how to survive. I haven’ seen Failure to Launch, but I’ve caught enough of the previews to catch the gist. Unless he is handicapped and unable to care for himself enough to live in a group home, my children will not be living with me when they are 35. I’ll sell the house and buy a motor home before I’ll let that happen. My mother in law has always said she’d pay rent on an apartment before she’d let one of her kids move home. She definitely has a point.

I am going to get pictures. Youd have to see it to believe it, what’s going on in my backyard.
Have a nice rest of the Sunday.

I have things I want to say, lots of them, but I can’t. I am muzzled by the censorship of people who would react negatively to what I wish to say, and would make life miserable for me if I said it. So I won’t. I will comfort myself with the knowledge that anything that happens in life is temporary. It might be long-term temporary, lasting 90 years or more, but what’s 90 years in the face of eternity?

It will be like looking back on toddlerhood. When the boys were tots life felt interminable, that they’d never grow up and for the next eon or so I’d be cleaning up and keeping someone from running in front of a car. Now they’re teenagers, with a totally different set of problems, and looking back on toddlerhood is almost nostalgic. Not quite, but almost. I remember people coming up to me in the store, me with 2 kids in the buggy and 1 more walking beside me, and saying “oooh honey they’re so precious! You’d better enjoy it because it don’t last!” I would grit my teeth and thank them. See, when the boys were toddlers, I was deep in the dark pit of depression, and time crawled.

Now they’re teens. I don’t have to worry about them running in front of a car. I have to worry about them being the one driving the car. I don’t worry about them getting into the medicine cabinet and drinking an entire bottle of Dimetapp. Now I worry about the other stuff they’re probably drinking, or smoking, or snorting. And I get yelled at for my concern. “DON’T YOU TRUST ME?!?!” and “I DON’T WANT YOU TO GO THROUGH MY STUFF!!” and “WHY DOES IT MATTER WHAT TIME I GET HOME??”

No amount of explaining will convince anyone. Obviously my actions and words are motivated by an intense desire to control. They couldn’t possibly be motivated by anything else, like experience, or love, or a desire to see one succeed. No.

So, I back off. I give him no limits. Everything I want to say is held in check, as per request. I pay for doctors appointments and medications, I buy car parts and food…

I am doing exactly what I said i wouldn’t do and I am getting maudlin. Nope. Not gonna go there. Instead, I’ll talk about #4 and his stellar report card! All A’s! I am proud of him. The teacher is recommending him for Quest- this county’s version of a gifted program. I don’t think being gifted is All That, not since another person in this family qualified and managed to…no. Stop it. I’m not going there.

So! Wisteria is blooming, and so are azaleas, dogwoods, and redbuds. Pollen is thick and green all over everything, and I have fresh cut flowers on my dining table.

I Am Going To Be Content. I Am Not Going To Whine. I Am Going To Behave In A Mature Fashion. I Am Not Going To Throw Things Or Yell. well…I won’t throw thing, anyway. I might still yell. Surely I am entitled to that much.

I know, you’re saying out loud “Mother’s Day is the second weekend in May…get it straight Rootie”

Well, in the Household and World of Sweet Daddio and his progeny, Mother’s Day comes in mid-March. The reason for this is sensible and logical, especially since it means more presents for me. My birthday is May 4. If we celebrated Mother’s Day the second sunday in May like the rest of the country, the 2 events would get blended together and I’d just get 1 batch of presents “to cover both holidays”. Sweet Daddio apparently lives to give me stuff (yah, I know, hard life) so he makes sure the day’s are far apart. Alo, my gift of preference tends to involve gardens and plants, and May is too late to get stuff in the ground around here. March is Just Right.

So here’s what happened:
We went to Lowes and purchased cinder blocks, rabbit fencing, cow manure, and topsoil. Then most everyone helped clear the intended garden area. Tough work thanks to rampant wisteria and bay laurel. It got mostly cleared (I am going to have to spend several days working on the wisteria, as it is tenacious and grows about a foot a week). They built me 2 beds-4×8 feet, and filled them with the dirt. I then planted (Oh! Joys! Happy Day!) tomatoes- 3 kinds, cayenne peppers, and basil in one bed, with nasturtiums around the perimeter in the cinderblock holes. In the other bed, mesclun, pattypan squash, with cilantro, chamomile and carrots in the cinderblock holes. The thing I like best about raised bed gardening is that you can plant things about twice as dense and still get good production. In the garden area (rabbit fenced 24×24) I’ll have room for 4 more slightly smaller beds, in the future. I imagine beans, peas, odd variety squashes, constant growth of baby lettuces. I love fresh squash, picked while they’re still tiny and steamed with a sprinkle of fresh chopped herbs. In the winter I can grow kale, spinach, broccoli and such.

Then Sunday (SD always stretches the day out for the whole weekend) he and most of the boys did almost all the laundry INCLUDING folding, and baked me a CHERRY PIE!

I LOVE PIE! I DOUBLE LOVE CHERRY PIE!

small wonder my physique qualifies as “Rubenesque”

I have roses coming this week. Jackson and Perkins has me pegged as a sucker, because they call me twice a years with Fabulous Bargains and I can never refuse. I ordered 3 roses- 2 are kind of amber-pink colored, and the third is reputed to be Highly Fragrant yellow rose. All are floribundas. This means they will make lotsa flowers. They will go in pots on the patio, with the other roses I have there.

Rose Tip: Make an effective and non toxic spray for aphids and fungus by mixing 1 teaaspoon Dawn dish soap and 1 tablespoon baking soda in a quart of water. The soap kills the aphids by washing away the greasy coating on their skin, and they dehydrate. The soda changes the pH on the surface of the leaves so fungus (black spot, rust, mildew) can’t adhere. You have to spray after rain, because it washes off. The beauty of this spray, for me, is that I can plant shallow rooted herbs (parsley, mint, thyme, oregano) and edible flowers(pansies, violets, nasturtiums) under the bush, and not worry. Spray in the morning, and by evening the aphids will be dried up little brown specks, and you can toss off a villainous laugh.

There was a collegiate golf tournament on the course where we live (200 yards down the fairway on a par 4 hole). #3 put on his Auburn sweatshirt and hat, and sat on the fence, murmuring “war eagle” He received a serious thrill when one of the golfers came up to the fence and gave him an Auburn ball. The wienerdogs also got much exercise running along the fence barking softly at the players. Yes, softly I say, because our dogs know better than to foam at the mouth and get frantic like other, lesser behaved pets. By the end of the day they were bored with golfers and ignored them except when one poor soul knocked his ball into our yard. #3 kept that ball as well. He looked like some kind of rich kid orphan, sitting on the fence quietly hooting and being team-specificly obnoxious. When I put him to work raking up pinecones he acted as tho I made him come away from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in order to fold my underwear.

So that’s Mother’s day in the Rootietoot household.

Today, coming home from school, #1 informed me that he’d read my most recent post. “Mom,” he said, “You have a bad case of Betty Friedanitis.”
Imagine that, I thought, an 18 year old knowing who Betty Friedan is and what she stood for.

I explained to him how, in my line of work, there comes a time when the people you are in charge of looking after, keeping safe, feeding and playing games of checkers with outgrow the need for constant attention, and the housewife grows bored.

So he asked why I didn’t go to work. I explained to him about my complete lack of formal education, and job experience. The last job I held was waitressing at a steak house, 20 years ago. The only jobs I am overtly qualified for involve making burritos or wiping tables. I don’t need that aggravation. It would also be supremely embarrasing to Sweet Daddio in his Upper Management position if I were doing night shift at Taco Bell. He doesn’t need that.

Then he asked why I didn’t go to school, get educated, and do something cool and interesting. I explained that there are 3 people in the house teetering on the edge of going to college. If I were to go to school, it would be like taking food out of their mouths. I can’t do that.

I’d love to go to school. If I had money free and clear, I’d go in a heartbeat, get a PhD in Psychology or an MSN and be a psychiatric nurse. But I just can’t do it right now. I don’t want to jepardize (sp?) the collective future of my kids.

He admitted that it was a quandary.

I just need to find something meaningful and interesting. It doesn’t have to pay, I just have to feel like I’m helping out somehow. It’s just that when I look into something interesting, and they find out I’m a housewife with good organizational skills, I wind up being responsible for keeping the supply closet in order. I don’t want to clean supply closets. I do enough of that at home. I want to be with PEOPLE. Human beans flawed and limping, that I can limp along with and make them feel a little less invisible. Like it would be great if someone did that with me. It’s amazing how helping a person probably does as much or more for the helper as it does for the helped.

So I’ve thought about volunteering somewhere. I’ve worked at a crisis pregnancy center before, but I felt like slapping the 16 yr old girls who came in wanting handouts. This place had connections to a Pampers factory and we gave free diapers for the first couple of months after a client’s baby was born. There was no kind of counseling given, to keep the girls from getting in this situation again. That frustrated me and I don’t want to go there.

I thought about Literacy programs, but I am a hopeless teacher, absolutely clueless and with little tolerance for people who aren’t as smart as I am. Which, unfortunately, is most people who can’t read by the time they’re adults.

I’d go to the hospital, but all the Pink Lady slots are filled with 70 yr old widows.

I thought about a home day care situation, but I don’t really care for other people’s children.
People don’t need their dogs walked here, they just turn them loose.

It seems like everywhere I turn, they want you to either be 16 and completely ignorant, or have advanced degrees and many years experience.

Am I the ONLY 40 yr old housewife in this spot?

Please don’t suggest I sell tupperware or Longaberger.

Don’t get me wrong, my family is my priority and I enjoy taking care of them. I just want, somehow, to take care of my own self as well.