Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Beer Drama

On Sunday, my husband went to the liquor store to pick up a six pack of his favorite beer before heading to his Mom's house. They didn't have a six pack, so he bought a twelver. He probably drank one or two and left the rest there.
Later that night, I met him at our friend's house. He asked me to stop at a different place to pick up a six pack of his favorite beer before heading over. They didn't have a six pack, so I bought a twelver. We each drank one or two and again, left the rest there.

And then yesterday, after work, even though we had bought collectively a case of his favorite beer over the weekend, we still had none at home, so he stopped to get a twelver.

He handed the cashier his debit card. Declined. Impossible he said. To the non- English speaking cashier. He asked him to please punch in the numbers. Declined.

He handed the cashier his credit card. Declined. Impossible he said.

The owner came out and saw what was happening. HE then explained the "system" was down.

By now, my husband was on a mission. He emptied his pockets of cash and coin and then realized, embarrassed, that he only had enough cash for a six-pack of his favorite beer. So he returned the twelver to the cooler. And got out a six pack.

He said he felt like some kind of addict, going through all that to "get his beer".

I enjoyed one with him to celebrate his efforts. I mean two. As did he.

If you are a mathematical genius, you will figure that now we have two beers in our refrigerator.

Which is not how we roll around here.

So today, after school, I will stop at the liquor store to pick up a twelver, after stopping at the ATM to get out cash.

Now I am starting to feel like some sort of addict.

What is with all of the beer issues?

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Teacher-Parent Conferences

Does it mean I am a terrible teacher if I admit I am much more concerned about what I will wear for Parent-Teacher Conferences ( and yes- I have been conditioned to capitalize it) than I do about my actual conversations with parents?
Is it even worse to admit that this particular night, in which I am ambushed by parental concern, are two of the worst of my school year?
It is a rather odd meeting of the minds anyway. Half the time you come in with pre-conceived ideas. And I too, come in with pre-coneived ideas, about what you are like. What you are going to say. How you are going to defend or offend your child.
And the last time I met with parents I had a horrible experience. Truly horrible. It's definitely time to think about hiring a babysitter for your little ones. Just saying. And really, while I don't expect you to shower and primp, I do expect your general person to be in decent smelling order. You should probably keep one eye on the clock, because ten minutes really is a short time, and NO... I don't want to shop with you OR have coffee with you or UGH.... have dinner by your place some night to "talk further". Oh- yeah- and go ahead and brush your teeth for me. That is a plus. And in case anyone has found me at my NEW school, let's just say this all happened at my old school. Because voicing my opinion on that isn't really worth losing my job. Need I not remind you that as a teacher, my soul DOES belong to the state, first and foremost.
And now that I am ranting, I need to bring up that having a label means that there is something about you that is outstanding. Some say special. Regardless.
And changing the name of what the state has labeled you every few years so you don't get too comfortable with the term is an effort in futility. Because if you are super duper small and used to be a midget, and then you were a dwarf, and now you a little person, you are still really short. And really, changing the name of that doesn't make you taller. Or give you the right to stare down the offender who used LAST years term, like "midget"- as if they just threatened to jab you with a weapon and toss you into an alley. It's not like that.
So if you come to my table, I mean if you DID come to my table in the past, I will speak( I mean spoke) openly and honestly. No sugar coating. I call it like I see it. Sorry if it hurts. I don't mean to hurt you. Really. But I am over the lolly-gagging around what your child is and is not.
And for the record. IF your child is thinking about becoming a professional football player, I suggest he go ahead and go out for the team and get suited up or call a family roundtable about "other" career options. Because at five two and 90 pounds, I was thinking more like dressage jocky. Just saying.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Huntress in the Making

Something happened yesterday that could be life changing. I got my Christmas present early beacause there was a super sale at Dick's.
I got a 12 gauge Mossberg 500 shotgun. I also threw in a camo tee and some "outdoor" pants. So I could be fully outfitted for our upcoming Pheasant hunting adventure. And when I got home last night I tried my entire hunting outfit on out of excitement. And my husband was so proud he took a picture.
And I think I look like a real huntress. Except for the fact that you cannot see in this picture that I would never shoot a deer. Or a pig or a cow. Or put a worm on a hook. Or clean a pheasant even. Heck, I still gag when I cut up chicken breasts from a store bought styrofome package.
Philosophically speaking, my husband firmly believes we should only hunt animals that will starve or get hit by cars unless we help with the population control. In addition, he thinks we should not hunt things we will not eat. And logically I can agree he's right. But that does not convince me to want to partake for the same reasons. Because admittedly, I believe I should hunt all rodents that simply bother me, like rats, geese, raccoons, skunks and possums.
I think he is a little scared I will get arrested for a felony for shooting "willy nilly" at pesky varmints in our yard. Or in our house. Because yesterday when we found a beetle on the wall I asked him for the 12 gauge. He smiled at me in a scared way. A very scared way.
And I must admit I have a some desire to be very Hillbilly about the whole thing.

Facebook Warning

So there is a certain someone out there ( you will recognize yourself ) that only told me a half-truth, so to speak.
She told me to join Facebook. Becuase it's fun. And addicting. Which I suppose it just might be. IF you are given all of the early warning labels. Sound warning horn here. Enter strobes.
I didn't know it would be like contacting everyone I went to high school with, then college with, then worked a myriad of jobs with, and then went to church with in one foul swoop. Like a high school reunion on crack.
And while I can see that once the early onslaught of "friend contacts" calms down it could be fun. But I couldn't sleep last night. I tossed and turned and awoke violently several times from dreams that included people I haven't talked to in years. For a reason. Except for one lovely dream which didn't have certain people per say, but encompassed the overall... feeling..if you will. That was the one that entailed me pulling handful after handful of dirty hair out of my clogged bathtub drain.
Now don't get me wrong. The people who have contacted me thus far, have made me smile. Remembering all of the fun times we shared or their quirky personality or even a confidance. Some people you love dearly but time and distance and circumstance causes a seperation.
But others, well others, you simply manage to extract from your every day communication because you would just rather not be burdened.
And quite frankly some of those relationships ended because I straight up said so for valid reasons and I needed to "weed my garden" of just that... the weeds. Life is too short to spend it with people who don't appreciate us fully, or even partially, no?
Maybe I should just write under my information "section" that if you have had the same problem for ten-plus years and have done nothing about it OR you have never heard yourself say you are sorry, please don't contact me to be your friend. Because seeing your face everyday, even in a thumbnail, makes me nauseous.
Chances are these people feel the same way about me and will not even attempt to contact me... but I DO have my pointer finger at the ready- to deny! the friend contact if necassary with one little push of the key.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Something Has Come Up

As a teacher of high school emotionally disabled students, you run across a lot of... odd stuff. And I wouldn't dare to make or poke fun at them to the world because I would seem crass and uncaring. But I do to thier faces. Because it often times helps us all cope with... the weird stuff.
For example, one of my students has Pica. Which means he will eat just about anything. Like tacks, or staples or his plastic binder. Loan him a pen? Forget about it. Give him paper? It's gone. He gives a whole new meaning to the saying "I ate my homework". Oh wait... that's dog.
But I love this kid, and we joke about his eating of "stuff" and we laugh together, because what else are you suppsed to do? And when we played a trick on the other students and had him jump up and down and had the teaching aide shake a box of paper clips so it seemed like all the metal was jangling in his tummy, it went down in history as one of our favorite moments in all of time. Because he can't control the Pica and so he must learn to laugh about it. Or else he will become a murderer just because he can't quit sucking on his Algebra book.
At any rate, one thing about most high school boys that is universal is the onset of puberty. And all of the "things" that "grow" from it.
And in my classroom I have had my fair share of what some guys refer to as the NRB ( No Reason Boner ) and believe me when I say I do my best to turn a blind eye.
But at the moment I have a student that tends to be... "going through puberty without control" and it's making me feel a little on the hinky side. Becuase I can tell a kid he needs to shower when he really stinks. I can tell a girl that her shirt reveals too much boob fat and needs to cover herself. I can even tell the pica eater to "stay away from my paper clips"... but I dont' dare confront the boy with the... risen appendage... with anything.
So this boy keeps "getting himself into this situation" and then standing in the middle of the room by the half-wall room divider. Hiding "certain parts" of his body. Which is inappropriate- as in CLASS IS STARTING. And I am GIVING A LESSON. But I just can't say it. Because I don't really know what it's like. And frankly, I don't want to know anything more about it.
I asked my husband about it and he informed that this is sorta normal at certain ages. And the wearing of baggy pants might help. And that I should leave him alone.
But when your classroom is all about structure and then the Boner Boy is over against the half-wall rubbing it out, what is the female teacher to do... when already the boy is ostracized for a myriad of other eccentricities. Because honestly, at this point in the game, if you made it into my classroom? You are most likely already on the "outside", if you will. So the "group" confrontation would be beyond humiliation. And there sure as hell ain't going to be no "private confrontation" between me and a boy and his... grody thingy.
So I am hoping this phase passes by sooner rather than later.

Babies to Min Pins?

First of all, I hate leaving a depressing blog standing alone. Because then the five or six people who read it might think that I am laying in a human puddle heap on my bed, sobbing and sad. When actually the reverse is true... I lay in a human bawling puddle in my bed BEFORE I think to blog and then the cathartic transition occurs and I am... better.

That being said, I have had a busy week. At least in my world "busy", which means my computer sucked and I committed to going to the high school play and I had dinner with friends ( which is a whole OTHER blog-worthy story) and some other super duper boring crap.

But some people around here have made a decision.

And somewhere between the corn-maze, wherein my husband decided at the petting zoo we should seriously consider raising Pygmy Goats, and the Miscarriage, where I seriously considered raising a child.. ( I can joke about this people... I am the who missed carrying my child!) we opted for a "tweener".

Which is the phase between goat and human. Dog. Miniature Pinscher Dog. A little tiny yapper that needs adorable sweaters and can hunt prey. The breed sounds like a perfect combo between my husband and myself. Oh yeah, and our condo association. Because that is starting to qualify as the third party in our family making decisions.

Which is weird, because I can have a baby... which could grow to be 150 plus pounds, but I can't have a dog that grows past what, 22 pounds?

At any rate- for anyone that thinks they have a "better dog idea", please don't. We have done our research. We have taken at least five "which dog suits you best" quizzes and this adorable little bee-yatch is what is going to happen. And we are most likely going to be getting just that. A bitch. Man, nothing like using an appropriate swear. Because when you talk to dog breeders they throw the "B-word" around like a gyno saying the Va-j-j word. And I know I should grow up, but seriously? I always stifle a giggle like a girl hearing her papa fart in church.

Anyway- it's Miniature Pinscher around here folks. Come June, I will actually be busy because me and the "Pin" are going shopping.

PS- after the "husband" reviewed my blog- he clarified the dog would be a "dude-dog honey, and you are NOT taking him shopping"...
I say we will see.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Silver Linings

I should have known this morning when I dropped my plastic laptop onto my hard wooden floor that it wasn't going to be my most favorite of days. It is what I would end up calling a day of second chances.

Becuase luckily the laptop is still under waurantee, so aside from my hard drive crashing, it's completely replaceable. And is nothing like the other news I would ingest later in the day. From a borrowed computer. And humbled my frustration.

Because my friend. She is dying. Of cancer. And I am sick. But I have a second chance. She was sent home from the hospital to die in some weeks time.

I am going to compose a letter to her tonight. I am not sure what it is I am going to say. Or what it would be I would want to hear if I were her. But it is definitely time to pour my heart out to her. To say everything I wouldn't want to regret not saying.

There are not too many opportunities for us to do that.

And while I don't mean to minimize or compare the two in any way, I do know that we should take silver linings when we can get them.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Corn What?

Sunday I awoke to a beautiful crisp Fall day. The agenda was empty and the energy level was high. Before I could hear myself think right I asked ( begged) my husband if he would take me to a corn maze. That's right- a corn maze.
Growing up in a corn-town, it was every adolescent's rite of passage to rise before dawn, garn a garbage bag and old tennis shoes, board a bus with a cooler full of Gatorade, and head out to the fields to pick and pull the tassels off the top of the wet, sharp-edged corn stalks.

It was brutal work and paid slightly more than minumum wage. The "season" would last from 1-5 weeks and your schedule was unpredictable. But at the end of the summer, you and all of your friends walked away with a few hundred bucks in the bank, some serious corn-leaf scars, and a knowledge of corn that would leave you recieving odd stares anytime you dropped a "corn fact".

So a few years back when the corn-maze concept began to sweep the midwest, I was intrigued. Unfortunately, I couldn't seem to garner the interest of my fellow city folk to actually drive the one hour from the Chicago with me to explore any such thing.

Therefore, it has been one of my secret burning desires. To go to a corn-maze. I never said I was hard to please OR exciting...

So off we went, with our maps and coffees and high expectations.

There were actually THREE mazes to go through. One being a pirate, the other two McCain and Obama. As we neared the entrance to the first one, the pirate, I could feel my heart start to race. I retied my shoes. I hiked up my jeans. I took a deep breath. We waited in line for our turn and were asked if we would like the one dollar map.
"Why, yes!! " I exclaimed with reckless abandon. "Umm, Billy, do you have a dollar? Will you give her a dollar?"

We set off.... looking at our map directing us to the first of ten "clue posts".

Maybe right around now I would look around myself and realize that most of the patrons were under the age of 10. But no.

Within about ten feet we found the first "clue post"...

Hmm, that was easy.

The cleverly written clue, while cute and "pirate-y", was basic. Something like...
"Ahoy my friend, take a right to get to the end".

I looked at the ground.

The correct "paths" were thick slabs of matted down mud.

The incorrect "paths" were freshly plowed field.

Hmmm. I think we follow the slabs of matted mud. Don't you honey?

Things were fairly anti-climactic from there. We sort of race-walked the rest of the way through. When we neared the first finish, I asked Billy if we should try the other two. His response, " I think we have seen enough, don't you? "

I had to admit, we had.

Not that the corn-maze wasn't great fun and nice date with my husband on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. It's just that I think it was actually more fun to detassle the corn than walk on a path through it.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

I Need an Intervention*

Will someone PLEASE come over here NOW and place a padlocked chain on the refrigerator? Or at least black ball me from all of the local eateries? Please? 'Cause there is some kind of eatin' frenzy goin' on over here and I am afraid I am in the eye of that there storm!
It all started last night with the "big night out"... DAMN those mini crab cakes! They got my sugar and fat free palate all stirred up with emotion. And then today when I woke up and weighed myself I saw that the scale was reading one of the lowest numbers I have, I mean HAD, seen in a long time.
And excitedly, to stay on course, I followed one of the Weight Watcher commandments and ate a sandwich before going to the bridal shower at Maggiano's today- so I would feel satiated and not overeat. Ha ha... satiated my ass! Apparently this person has never been to a bridal shower at Maggiano's.
The bread came. I skipped the butter. Score one for lean me!
The chopped salad came, along with the spinach one, and fried calamari and the bruschetta. I loaded on the salad and bruschetta- and blew off the fried stuff. Scores are tied.
THEN came the lasagna, the cream sauce pasta, some... what was the healthy thing I blew off again? Oh yeah- somewhere among the pasta there lingered some fish. But I feasted heavily on the pasta-particularly the lasagna. Hmmm, let's check the score now... oh yeah...? How about I am down. WAY down.
So by the time the cheesecake came and landed squarely in front of my plate, I knew it was a complete blow out. Bite after delicious bite it went down. Gulp. I couldn't even see straight it was so good. I was like a crack addict, knocking the other well-dressed ladies aside and spilling waters to get dibs on some seconds.
As I lumbered to my car I thought may pants my explode right off of me. Leaving decayed shreds of black cotton schrapnel on windshields everywhere. This walk, while precarious, and thankfully incident free, would be what is henceforth refererred to as my exercise for the day.
Then there were the goody bags. And believe it or not, the smell emanating from the bag tantalized me so much that I actually opened it, because by now I am a complete sugar whore. And I managed to devour an entire coconut brownie on the car ride home.... even though my poor tummy was screaming for my sweat pants, a break, and a couch.
And in the truest of Lori fashion, I decided to say screw it... and ordered up some deep dish sausage pizza for dinner. Oh - and a side salad. To keep it lean and healthy. If that isn't the joke of the frickin day. I mean what kind of facade is that? A SIDE salad?
Did I hear someone mutter the words "addictive personality"? Just be thankful that your fingers were nowhere NEAR my mouth today.

*To spare myself any further humiliation, there will not be any pictures in this post.

Big Night Out

I wondered how last night would turn out all week. My husband and I hadn't been to a bar in the city in over a year. To prepare for my big night out I hit up Target for a cute shirt ( note to self: Don't go to Target to get "going out" clothes, better to save it for teacher clothes and underwear). I also ate a husband encouraged sandwich, so as not to get loopy after one beer. I stroked on the eyeliner thickly, like a four year olds' crayon. I busted out my hoop earrings that are large enough to hula in.

And when we got there I felt a little bad for the host. We were celebrating his wife's 40th birthday and the guest list didn't seem to be matching up with the attendees. But the food was delicious ( how can you NOT like mini fried crab cakes that you dip into a Mayonnaise sauce? ).

We ordered our beers and quickly fell in line with the beer drinking cadence around us.

We found ourselves socializing with another couple for the majority of our time. They were nice enough. The woman had a buzz cut. I kept staring at it when we talked. I had to stop myself many times from asking her how she felt about her hair cut. Because I went through a phase where I wanted to look like Sinead O'Conner but never had the cojones to go beyond a trim. And I kept thinking about the time when I was in church with my mother and I had on jeans that "had a long rise" and when I sat the bulge in the crotch suggested I was sporting a penis in there. And I began to panic and kept whispering to my Mom that "These jeans make me look like a boy!!"... in that completley horrific way that only adolescent teenage girls do.

I digress.

The conversation rolled into the "What actor would play you?" variety. My husband said ,"That guy from the Sopranos". And I have to admit he's pretty spot on. I hoped no one would ask me, because I have no idea who I would say. My mind seems to get trapped somewhere between who I would want to be like versus who is actually a likeness of me... Because I would say Fergie but the people would be thinking Kirstie Alley.... And the words Fat Actress come to mind. Which by the way, the season is readily available on DVD at my local library. Seriously. ?? ( I mean is it just me or is this kind of thing not exactly a bedrock of literature?).
Anyway, a good time was had by all. Uneventful, but pleasant. We left at 10:30 ( I know what you are thinkging! Party animals!! ) as the beer bus rolled up to take off the others to a night of Salsa dancing and who knows what at Excaliber ( umm... NIGHTMARE...). I am sure by now that most of them are laying in bed right now dying for a glass of water and a cheeseburger, and trying to recall the details.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Dear Mr.Baseball God Guy

I am seriously beginning to think that baseball season is delaying the onset of a Fall around here. Not global warming. Baseball. When is this season OVER already? The droning voice. The grody mouthpieces they sling in and out of the mouth with the tongue. The painstaking batting rituals. I can't take it anymore. And maybe, coming from Chicago and all, I am soooo over it since neither of our teams made it to the play-offs or whatever the heck they are called. I know- ultimately it's the World Series 750 or something or other. But I want football to start.
And after spending the weekend in the Wisconsin Northwoods, I am feeling pretty tough. (Well, sort of tough. Not exactly tough enough to sport my Bear's t-shirt deep in Packer land. I took it off after I brushed my teeth but before I walked outside.) And those baseball guys are just lame to me now.
But anyway- I like what football season means. Chili. Sunday papers. Cozy sweatshirts and oddly enough.. baseball hats with football logos. Jeans and relaxing Sunday afternoons.
Here in the midwest, I have always lived under the assumption that school was "off" for the summer so the kids could help on the farm. And you could plant AND harvest the crops in the interim of the school break. Meaning when school started back up, it was cool out. Or at least not HOT.
But not now!
There are still 70 plus degree days. I am scouring my closet for short sleeved Fall shades of summer style shirts. I am staring out the window dreaming of the beach while finishing up the first quarter of school, and it's October! I am unable to wear any Bear's clothes because they are dark and long-sleeved and it's hot. There are no cozy Football Sundays because we have our sliding doors open and I hear the airplanes. There is no chili because I would still rather be eating ice cream.
So please, Mr. Baseball God. Make it end soon. Leave me and my Fall weather and my coolish football season alone.
Thanks very much.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Crock of What?

I think since I have been married I have really had the chance to hone my culinary skills. I tackle, one by one, meats and sides I didn't think possible from the likes of my clumsy mits... orange roughy to venison. Cole slaw to roasted Greek potatoes. Things usually turn out, well, ummm fair to "middlin"- as in I am not the best chef but I can crank out a meal you can eat.

And now that the late Fall weather is starting to turn I decided to try my hand at an Old Fashion Guinness Stew. It's a crock pot "situtation"- so I went ahead and cut the three pound grody to the max hunk of beef gut on Sunday- as well as the potatoes, carrots, and onion. I then, as the recipe called, lightly browned the beef for two hours.

On Monday night, I added the potatoes and carrots and what not- and let her simmer.... for hours. And it wasn't done. We had frozzen pizza.

On Tuesday night- I let her simmer again. For hours. STILL not done. Back in the fridge she went. How about some fish?

On Wednesday night... I came home before my salon appointment and let her simmer again. For hours. And when I came home, it was cooked enough to be eaten. But I was so annoyed at the ordeal I didn't even want any. Instead I ladled up a big fat bowl for my husband- who almost immediately asked, "What kind of MEAT is this?". Oh NO you didn't. You LIKE it my man- because that is about five pounds of food that I have been slaving over for the last FOUR days and you have to like it... pretty please... like it? PLEASE like IT.

"It's just stew meat, do you like it?"

"I dont' know."

And then within thirty minutes he was puking up my Old Fashion Guinness Stew in the bathroom.

And I didn't have the heart to throw it all out last night. Or aplogize to my husband. I almost took it to my students. But then thought better of the possible food poisoning accusations and the ensuing lawsuit.

So my creation sits. Dismally, in a huge crock pot on the bottom shelf of my fridge.

Maybe I will take it to the farm this weekend and feed it to the pigs.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

NO pictures

Admit it. You know we have all done a "little something" in our pants that we shouldn't... number 1, number 2, whatever. It's probably happened to you. And I say that because it's true and also because it makes me feel better that I crapped myself at work once.
I would like to blame it on my mother... but we all know that it's obnoxious when we continually blame our parents for things.... ( but seriously, it's gotta sorta be her fault somehow-because who does that.. at work? ).
So... when I was in college- my entire family was feeling thick... so to slim down we opted to go on a Mom-proposed one week cabbage soup diet. I will spare you the specifics of that because I have not yet gotten consent from all the participating parties. At any rate... it works.
Years later- when late night burriots seemed to have earned their stay on my butt, I decided to yank it out of it's dusty place and try it again. Day one was fine. Eat soup. Eat soup. And then eat the damn soup.
Day two? Annoying to wake and slurp but down the soup went.
I was teaching at a really shady and notoriously dumpy high school. I actually didn't think twice about running out to the lot during my break to have a cigarette in my car and call my long lost pal in LA. As I inhaled and sank low in my seat, soaking in all of her latest drama... my tummy rumbled a bit. I wanted to interrupt her but she was so ex-boyfriend and job hating deep I just couldn't. My tummy rumbled a bit more. Another drag and then suddenly something clammy came over me. Something HORRIBLE had just happened. I screamed... NATALIE I JUST SHIT MY PANTS.... "What?" she said, "What? I can't hear you... ( giggle) it sounded like you just said I SHIT my pants ( guffaw!)." NATALIE... I DID... I DID JUST SHIT MY PANTS. I AM AT WORK IN THE PARKING LOT... SMOKING AND I JUST SHIT MY PANTS. I GOTTA GO!

I found a sweatshirt in the back seat. I wrapped it around my waist. I hesitantly walked into the building and found the first female teacher I could find. I peered into her room and although she was teaching I softly rapped on the door. I waited. I rapped again. This time, the students started telling her, "There is a teacher at the door! There is a teacher at the door!".

I looked into her unforgiving eyes and belted out ( to a woman I didn't know- the school had 6000 kids in it... ) "Ummm... I just shit my pants and can't go back to my class. You are going to need to find somebody and tell them I had to leave. Sorry and thanks!" And ran like the wind back to my car. Her speechlessness would have pleased me at another time... but this was not the time to enjoy it.

I don't think I ever talked to that teacher lady again. But I wonder what she told her family at dinner that night.

The best part of the whole ordeal was calling my very gay friend while driving home- because that's what you do when you crap pant at work... is call your best gay guy friend... and told him... I am driving down the highway with shat pants right now! ... And him saying... "I will be over STAT!"... and he left work and came over. We spent the rest of the evening dumping the pants, the leftover "soup" and him pretending like we were having fun while he leered at me with disgust and excitement and sporadically saying...," I just can't believe you TOLD people...".

Hunting to Hair dye

I am not too fussy as long as I have food, decent sleep, and something to drink. Oh, and of course the perfect outfit. Not even bathrooms are important to me, as I will happily pee in the woods. I don't mind getting dressed up, I know all about forks and spoons. ( Seriously, when I was eight I thought I was adopted, or going to be put up, so I studied all socioeconomic cultures- to be prepared- thank you Miss Manners!! ).

So, when my husband offered to take me, this past weekend, clay pigeon shooting with the 'ole twelve gauge, I shrugged my shoulders... :

I did pretty good. So good in fact that he deemed me worthy enough to take pheasant hunting in a month. And wildly enough- I am EX-cited! And I am looking forward to it. Because pulling that trigger and hitting those targets made me more satisfied than Elly Mae Clampet wrestling a pig on a hot summer day.

It's that kind of thing that when you are done and sipping your beer you think to yourself... this is one of the most well-deserved, appropriate placed beers of my whole life... sigh...

Today after school, when I went to have my monster thick hair highlighted, I was going to bring it up to my stylist. But there were an unually high number of women around us. And it didn't sound right. So I kept it to myself and instead told her about the style of dress I want for an upcoming wedding. And I can tell already it's going to be a shopping disaster. Becuase I have already picked out what I want and the only dresses I see like that are Herve Leger and WAY way WAY out of my league. And require a little less ass than I currently possess. But it's in the Sear's Tower and it's fancy and I will see lots of old friends and know that looking my best is SUPER duper CRUCIAL. To maximize on the "good times".

Either way, I am excited for both. I think my Christmas list will read: Camo pants from Cabelas, a 12 gauge shot gun, gift card to Kohler Water Spa and two tickets to the Steppenwolf Theater.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

One Year Later...

When I first had the miscarriage, I allowed myself the precaution of setting up milestones. For example, I told myself that it was totally okay if I felt sad at Thanksgiving ( which I must have because I don't remember it ). I told myself it was okay to be sad on the due date. Which I wasn't really. I told myself it was alright if I felt sorrow when hearing the news of all of the babies being born that were in utero at the same time as mine. Which I sometimes was- depending on my womanly cycle, of course, which would exaggerate the sadness.

And now, I sometimes feel sad for no reason in particular, other than that I just do.

I have given up trying to control or understand all of that.

What I didn't expect was the onslaught of emotion I have begun to feel a year later.

It has struck me like a bolt of lightning.

I feel thick.

And in hindsight I realize that the one year anniversary of the death of someone we care about is hard. And while I may not have ever carried the little one in my arms, I carried them in my heart. And for whatever it's worth, I gave it my everything.

A while back I thought the sadness came from a selfish feeling of failure. Or maybe even more selfishly because I couldn't get what I wanted.

But I am realizing now that it is more simple. It's Mother love.

I am sure it grows stronger as our children age. Goes without saying can wax and wane through puberty. But overall, strong, unbridled, consistent. Unconditional.

And I felt that.

I feel like I lost my child.

It's annoying because I don't want to continue to deal with this. I want things to go back. But I feel like even though I have never had to wake up in the night to feed him or spend my last sixty bucks on diapers while eating macaroni that on some level I get it. I am wiser for it. I feel older from it. I am softer because of it and for that we can all be thankful.

And while it might be easier to move on from it if I "tried" again, we might not. So this may have been my closest shot at motherhood. And I don't want to forget the beauty in that.

I was thinking to do something to commemorate the experience. Not to dwell but something I can seek when I need to. I just have no idea what.

One lady sells pillows? Not really my thing.

I could get a necklace, but I have the feeling that it would get lost among all the others.

I would plant a tree, but we live in a condo.

I don't know, but I think it would help.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Time To Crank It UP!

If you read my blog with any regulariity- you are probably well aware of the fact that I never post pictures, download YouTubes, or add links. This is not for the lack of want. This is computer illiteracy.

And I like to write but I DON'T like to figure out technical computer-ey stuff. But literaldan made a point when he commented a picture of my "cool postal-worker" would have been enhancing...

So I decided to tackle the image demon once and for all.

At this point I am stealing images from Google. Because it's so easy. Eventually the other stuff will come. It WILL! In time.

And I admit, after re-teaching myself how to do this this morning I went a little nuts and started going back in time and posting images on as many posts as I could. But then I realized it's too late. I will just focus on the future.

But I sort of feel excited about it. Like I am wearing new shoes or something. Maybe I am starting to get it. The technical "drive" anyway.
Besides, these computer nerds seem like a pretty easy crowd.

What Exactly Does Struggle Mean?

We watched the debates. Kind of. I feel asleep halfway through and my husband was antsing around like a four year old on crack. I think because he knew Ultimate Fighter was on. But since I am usually not interested in what is blaring out of our TV set, it was hard for him to deny me this one request.

And at one point I heard one of the two yahoos mention "struggling"... financially. After it sank in a bit my husband said, "Are we struggling?"... I answered with a resounding, "NO!".

It's true- we need to be careful with our money, or lack of it. We would never make it if someone around here lost thier job. We DO live paycheck to paycheck. We owe more on our condo than it is actually worth. We don't eat out and we "go camping" for vacation because we refuse to go places where we wish we could partake in the "cool" stuff. It's not really a vacation if all you can afford is the hotel, and you sit around and watch other excited folks go on helicopter rides, eat fat steaks and watch broadway shows. While we hone in on our vending machine chips and the TV.

But we can buy clothes we need, I mean want, I mean need, ( gotta be careful with the verbiage on that one ). We have enough money to buy the food we want, and then cook it at home. We have money for gas and to pay all of our bills. We have cable and internet and gym memberships. We have two cars and allow ourselves entertainment, ( like Netflix and US Weekly ) with restraint.

To me that is not struggling. That catapults us into the "making it" category.

I hate election year. It's like when someone else shows up with a fresh manicure and you look down at your own chipped, bitten and cuticle garbled nails, that were okay by you ten minutes ago, and decide right then and there that you ALSO need a manicure...and STAT!

I don't think the new president is going to change all that much for me. I will still be middle class and making it regardless of what the puppet heads say up there.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

I Am Not Nearly as Cool as I Think I Am

I know I talk about fashion more than your regular gal, but less than a true "fashionista". I am overly concerned with my clothing and I know it. But I cannot help it. So finding a stain on my button down blows. And the day I wore navy tights with my black skirt and boots to work was terrible for me. The day I crapped my pants, literally, while at work, was a complete nightmare. Well, even fashion aside on that one. But really, my pants looked pretty awful.
So deciding to bite the bullet this morning and going for school spirit was hard for me. To purposefully look wierd during our Homecoming Spirit Week. The title was "Decade Throwback" or something along those lines. Basically dress in your favorite era. Easy one for me. I mean, my name is Lori for goodness sake. Even my NAME reeks of the seventies.
I busted out my red suede jacket. Buttoned up my lightly floralled cowboy shirt. Wore my flare jeans. Threw on a necklace and slid into my brown suede shoes. For extra uumph I parted my long curly hair right down the middle of my head. Voila. "The Seventies".
Not so much.
When I needed to pop into the gas station this morning I giddily walked in and wondered "What must they think of my ridiculous costume! Haha! I am just SOOO wacky! " The attendant greeted me with the usual.
When I walked into the building and ran into a co-worker I asked, "What era are you?" She smiled brightly, "Oh-the eighties!" ( Like I couldn't tell!!) No response on MY era.
When I ran around the school during my "free" period I waited patiently for someone to comment. But nary a word was heard regarding my "craziness" today.
I sat down in my classroom with my aide during our lunch period and said, "No one seems to notice my outfit!" Her stifled giggle response was reassuring that I didn't look nearly as "70's" as I thought I did. And even worse... I look like the "70's" ...a lot. So much that not even a red suede jacket on throwback day could illicit a single comment.
Tomorrow is "Dress like a student day"... I am SO going for it because the way I see it, I can don a hoodie and jeans.
Surely then tomorrow someone will tell me that Throwback Day was yesterday.