transparency

My husband has been traveling a lot. Tomorrow is the 5th week and next week is the last of his commuting to Manhattan on Monday and then back Friday night. I'm tired and just realized in the last few days that I'm lapsing into survival mode. I don't want to cook. I don't want to clean. I don't want to blog or do anything that uses my brain. I don't want to exercise. I don't want to make my kids do their school. I just want to escape through novels, movies, or mind-numbing internet time wasting. (i.e.- My daughter is grounded from the computer for the week and in order for her to get this certain pig for logging on to Happy Pets 14 days in a row I'm having to do it for her. And I'm doing it! Sometimes even twice a day I will feed, clean and play with her little virtual animals. How depraved is that?)

I know I have only a short time left but it's always the last bit that's the hardest. When it gets like this my auto response is to clear my schedule and quit all commitments. I don't want anything going on that I have to do. The idea of having to get all five of my kids ready for something and be somewhere by a certain time overwhelms me.

I'm at my parents' house in San Antonio right now. It's over 100 every day and I have no a/c in my car. (long story) In order to get back tomorrow without getting sick from the heat, I have to leave by no later than eight am. Eight AM!  It would be best if I could leave by 6 or 7 but that's pertneer impossible. Eight is even pushing the reality barrier.

But I've got to. My favoritist person, my best friend, the absolute love of my life is coming home tomorrow night and I must see him. There is no option. It would break my heart to miss a second of his weekend time home. So it's tomorrow morning, eight o'clock. 8:00am even though everything in me revolts at the thought of waking up earlier, getting the kids around and packing up the car to leave in time.

I'm realizing that this has just  been a one of those therapeutic, verbal puking sessions. I shouldn't post it. Especially if I want to maintain the facade that most bloggers keep: My life is peachy keen and even the bad things are funny. Ha, ha ha!

But to keep this honest I will hit the "PUBLISH POST" button. This is me, folks. And right now ain't so hot.

goodbye, sweet death machine

We're selling our beloved Honda CBR, the bike I learned to ride on.

Some guy's picking her up tomorrow. I'm so sad. Her beautiful red body always made my pink Doc Martens pop.

What's worse is that I got to know her intimately tonight. My hubsters cleaned out her carburetor, changed her spark plugs and fuel filter and I helped him put her back together. I may not know the names of all the tubes and parts or even what they do specifically, but I think now I could put her back together starting with the carburetor.*sniff, sniff*

And then when she roared to life...it broke my heart. I just wanted to take out her to the interstate and open her up. Let her do her thing...and try not to kill myself.

That low rumble of idle...the high whine of speed...I'll miss you, Zinger.

husbandly advice

"I never hold back on sneezes, Tricia...it could kill you." - Douglas Potter

Texas: an Oregonian's view

In September 2008, I left my home state of Oregon for SE Texas. Since then, I've noticed a few differences between these states. Here are the biggest ones (Their order is based on when they popped from my brain to the keyboard.):


1. Where once I saw Priuses Prii Prius cars and Subaru Outbacks, now the streets runneth over with Hummers, motorcycles (without helmets!) and Corvettes, with nary a hippie car to be seen. (Seriously, I haven't seen one Outback since moving here. Not true for the steakhouse though.)

2. Instead of your choice between 6 Starbucks, 8 hip little local chains, 11 stand-alone drive-thru shacks, and 4 independent fair trade shops with organic beans roasted in the back in a recycled barrel, my coffee choices are reduced to McCafe, the one Starbucks in town or the one independent coffee shop that will probably be going out of business soon because everyone would rather have a Sonic cherry-limeade anyway.

3. The variety that is missing in coffee is made up for in doughnuts. While College Town, Oregon could support only one doughnut shop (In ten years I witnessed the failure of three separate ventures, one right after the other, and recently the sole survivor just threw in the towel.) Our Small Houston Suburb has six and they are all fiscally sound.

4. Texans are apparently very self-conscious about their nails. I did a search on my NavCenter in my car and in a 1/2 mile radius there were 15 nail salons, not including full-service hair salons. These were strictly nail places. I honestly can not remember one salon solely for nails in Oregon. Every strip mall, no matter the size, has a donut shop and a nail salon. Okay, that's not exactly accurate, but it's surprising how many of both there are.

5. If you find a sidewalk you are one lucky critter. Most of the small, old downtowns have them and a few subdivisions, but in general, the few people you see walking are in the grass on the shoulder. The reason I'm given: It's hot. Come on people! It's too hot for three, maybe four months of the year. The rest of the time it is perfecto! For every vehicle road, Oregon has about four other ways to arrive there under your own power and without causing increased carbon emissions. And all that with only about three months of dry weather per year. This is probably the main difference between the two places that really bothers me.

6. Feelings about children - In Oregon, children are a way to ensure that someone carries on your ideals for planet-tending. You really only need one for that and it can still be a positive experience if you branch out and have two. But that's the limit. Anymore than that and you are condemning our sweet Mother Earth to an early grave. And apparently it's best to roll your eyes or glance disapprovingly at anyone who doesn't conform to your ideal in the hopes that this will alert them to their error and keep them from repeating it. In Texas, on the other hand, many people actually think of children as a blessing, something to cherish for their own sake, even in large numbers, and they appear to admire a mother who can sanely care for them all.

7. Texas is flat. Really flat. Not Kansas-flat, but compared to Oregon...flat. They have a "Hill Country," but that is, shall we say, a bit of an exaggeration.

8. In Texas, everything stings, bites or irritates. Fire ants, coral snakes, nettles, gigantic red wasps, scorpions you name it. Oregon has a lot of these things but they are the benign versions. I used to get irritated with sugar ants because they would make a trail along the baseboard of my wall. Now I have to deal with mounds of fire ants that, once disturbed, form an attack wave thousands strong. It's like they took the slightly annoying innocent bugs of the Northwest and dosed them with Venom's symbiote goo. Now they are bigger and stronger with evil intent.

9. They really do say "y'all" here. A lot. But they most assuredly do not tell me to "come back now, y'hear." I purposely say "you guys" (that's my independent streak (read: stubborn) coming through) but y'all is a mighty useful phrase and I know that my y'all-less days are numbered.

10. The sun shines most every day. I was born on the Oregon coast, moved to the Willamette Valley for college and then settled down to raise my family there. I know rain and I know overcast. Intimately. I mean, I got a degree in atmospheric science. Gloomy, gray months just meant snuggly cups of tea and lots of good books. And if I wanted to get out, I'd just understand that I'd be wet. That was life. Then I moved to a land where, on average, there are three more months of sunny skies. It's only taken a year and a half and now I'm accustomed to sunshine. We recently returned to Oregon for a few weeks and the dreariness really got me down. What!? Only 18 months to undo thirty-one years of acclimation?! Ridiculous but true.


There you have it. Our Small Houston Suburb vs Oregon College Town. I miss certain parts of Oregon, but to be honest, I love it here. (The half-the-price-of-Oregon real estate doesn't hurt.) And now our family gets to explore a whole other side of the country. It's awesome. We've met real Cajuns and have seen the sun set parallel with the beach. We've tasted fried pickles and can spot a fire ant nest from across the yard. What else is in store? I'll keep y'all posted... (I know, that was cheesy wasn't it?)

it was there all along

I've found it. Proof that aliens are here on the planet. Compare these two pictures. One is a real alien skull. (Yes, it's real, I found this picture on the internet with the caption "Real Alien Skull." That's all the proof I need.) The other, a profile of Victoria Beckham. Coincidence that they are perfect matches? I don't think so. Go with your gut on this one. You've noticed how Posh Spice isn't "quite normal" haven't you? How she is always a bit too perfect. Like she doesn't ever look like she lives, but that she is just there. Stilettos every second of every day, not one hair out of place, beautifully perfect clothing at all times. She is masquerading as a human to collect information for her distant planet as well as guarding Earth's most treasured possession, David Beckham's right leg.

Let this be a lesson to us all: Those conspiracy nut jobs are right! Aliens are here. And if they are right about that, they're probably right about everything! (Except the moon landing, Mythbusters busted that one.) Denver airport is a New World Order prison facility/underground bunker. Smoking doesn't cause lung cancer, it protects us from airborne radiation. The US did bring down the twin towers with missile-armed airliners and Lee Harvey Oswald didn't act alone, he had helper buddies at the grassy knoll. (Well maybe not the JFK one, that's just crazy.)



What do we do with this information? I'm not quite sure at this point. But if you ever run into Mrs. Beckham treat her with the utmost respect. If I were you I'd give her a knowing look while slowly nodding my head and then submissively bowing. I'm pretty sure aliens are friendly if we just let on that we know they are superior and we're okay with it.

it's enough to disgust ya...

Just when I get going again, tragedy strikes. My blogging may have a bare spot for a bit. (Not that you're not used to it.) I turned off the computer before I went to bed last night and the computer refuses to light its little blue lights and whir into action. *sniff, sniff* It's not fair! So I'm off to start the day having snuck onto Dug's computer before he gets up for work. That's my update. See you soon! (I hope.)

an experience only angels have known...

I have a secret. And while you may think revealing it online with the possibility of millions of people learning it will change my circumstances, I would beg to differ. You knowing my secret means nothing unless you are in a position to affect my situation. More than likely you're not. And so revealing it, doesn't necessarily reveal it. Oh! the irony! But onwards...

I'm willing to share this with you because it will improve your life. Drastically. Are you sufficiently curious? Is your appetite whetted? Very well...

I have found that a dried pear from a bag of Mariani Orchard Delight (snagged at Costco) dipped rather generously in God's almost-perfect nut spread, Nutella (we're talking at least a tablespoon, folks), is sinfully heavenly. Only an oxymoron could be used to describe the marriage of these two ingredients. There is no other way to communicate to you the splendor that your mouth experiences when you cram the entire combination in your mouth in one bite. (And yes, I'm aware that Nutella is made with hydrogenation, hence the descriptor "almost-perfect.")

But technically, that's only half of the privileged information that up until now only I knew. Part B being that I consume this delightful treat in my pantry. Never have I eaten it in the full-disclosure of my kitchen. Once, I brought a sample to the Dug, but he was playing LOTRO and while he commented on how good it was, his focus was not entirely centered on his mouth. Obviously. If he had used even a tenth of his powers of concentration he would have been unable to keep his thoughts on the peril his Captain was currently facing, outnumbered by angry, blood-thirsty Uruk-hai.

And while I do not fear my hubbers having full knowledge of the joy that can be had in the confines of my pantry, I can not allow my children this understanding. That could lead only to certain disaster. I've already had to move the Nutella up and out of sight to keep my shelves from obtaining small chocolate-hazelnut flavored fingerprints during the morning hours of which I'm unable to extricate myself from the comfort of my cream-colored, paisley sateen sheets.

So, now you have full disclosure. And in doing so and sharing the deliciousness that I have come to know, I also make myself vulnerable. You have power. If my children are made aware of this hidden pleasure the current amount of elbow grease I own will not be sufficient for the cleaning that will ensue, which will also decrease the available Nutella, bringing on the wrath of the Dug. For to Dug, Nutella is a sacred spread to be savored, slowly. (Ahhh. Alliteration.)

What will you do with this knowledge? In the words of the Templar Knight, "Choose wisely."

As for me, I'm off to my pantry...