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.

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.

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.

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.

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.