Random Facts About Me - Just For Fun

I figured I'd move some posts from my other blogs over to this one - posts that I haven't seen in a long time or that I'd like to update a bit.  Here's one I occasionally add to, a whole bunch of random things about me.  Just for fun.  Because it amuses me.  Some of these are found throughout my blogs and some are not.  Some are serious and some are funny.  And some are embarrassing because ... well, that’s life.  (Friends or family or fellow church-goers who respect me and hold me in high regard might not want to read this; it's probably the most "improper" post on my blog.  But once again, that's life.)  Anyway, here goes, so enjoy ...

1.  Did you know that I once got spit on by a clam?  I was swimming in a lake as a child when I found a clam with my foot.  I thought it would be cool to get a pearl out of it (hey, I was just a kid!) and so I tried to open it.  I pulled on it with all my might and was only able to open it just a smidge.  Since I couldn’t open it to find a pearl, I thought it would be funny to fill it up with water.  So I quickly dunked it back under water, let it fill it up, and then let it close.  But when I picked it up to look at it, it spit a stream of water right in my eyes.  I am the only person I know who has been spit on by a clam.

2.  I once fell headlong into a garbage can ... in front of my whole class.  It was about 3^rd or 4^th grade or so, and it was the first time I was given the honor of leading the classroom out to the buses.  I was so excited and proud, and I walked with a bounce in my step and my head held high.  And I also walked right off the top of the 3-step staircase that I failed to see or remember that we had to walk down.  So instead of gracefully descending the staircase, I ended up tripping, losing my balance, and basically running down the staircase to keep from falling before I flipped heels over head straight into the big, black, plastic garbage can against the opposite wall.  And as the whole class filed past me, no one helped.  They were too busy snickering and laughing at the naked pair of flailing legs connected to the naked thighs (which were exposed because of my flipped-up Catholic school-girl skirt) connected to the girl inside the garbage can.  You know what they say ... Pride comes before a fall!  I just didn’t think it was meant to be so literal.

3.  I streaked naked in front of my neighbors once.  We had been in our house for a couple years and hadn’t yet met the neighbors across the street, a young couple like us.  But one day, shortly after my second son was born, I was taking a shower.  When I stepped out, I realized that all the clean towels were in our bedroom across the hall, waiting to get folded. 

            For a moment, I tinkered with the idea of popping around the corner and joking with my husband, “Look, I’m naked and standing in the hallway” or singing a song about being too sexy for my clothes.  Or something like that.  But I decided against it. 

            Instead, I simply walked naked to our bedroom to get a towel.  No sooner had I entered our room when my husband came in and said, “The neighbors came over to introduce themselves.  They are sitting on the couch.” 

            A couch which has a clear view into the hallway! 

            “What!?!” I shrieked.  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner!?!”

            “Because they just got here a couple minutes ago,” he said. 

            Thank God that I didn’t pop around the corner and sing a song about being naked in the hallway!  That would have been some introduction.  As it was, I am sure that a floppy-stomached, breastfeeding-boobed, post-pregnant woman sauntering naked across the hall was introduction enough. 

            When I came out of my room to introduce myself, I apologized for streaking naked across the hall.  They politely smiled and said they didn’t see anything.  Big, fat liars!

4.  I have never had a manicure or pedicure.  And I never wanted one.  I would rather have my hands in the dirt than get a manicure.  And I really don’t understand every other woman’s fascination with fancy shoes.  I’d rather have comfy, functional shoes.  I’m so plain and simple.

5.  And I’m a slob.  Truly.  I would leave a wrapper two feet from the garbage can.  I would even look at the garbage can and think, I should walk two steps over there and throw this out.  But then I would think, But I’m already headed in the other direction.  So I would just drop the wrapper on the counter, intending to get to it later, along with all the other wrappers and papers that I let pile up there.  To my crazy, slobby mind, it seems efficient.  It’s like, Well, there’s already one piece of garbage on the counter and I have to clean that up eventually, so I may as well just put this new piece of garbage next to it so that I can pick them both up at the same time.  It makes sense in my mind, and I have the intention to be clean and efficient, yet somehow I don’t seem to get around to doing it anytime soon.  It’s really pathetic.
            A little while ago, I was walking through the house, griping in my head about how messy it is with four young boys at home who have a “slobby mommy.”  And when I walked into the kitchen, there – crawling across the floor – was a slug!  Made my point for me!  (In my defense, he must have hitched a ride on the gardening shoes that I had just worn in the garden.  I hope!  ‘Cuz I’d sure hate to think that he had been exploring our home for awhile, going, “Gee, this place looks just right for me and my slug babies!”)
            (While I am messy with papers and clothes and wrappers, I am extremely cautious about food garbage and about coming into contact with food that’s been left out.  When I cook, I know exactly where the clean spots are on my counter so I know where I can safely put plates, cups, utensils, pot lids, and stirring spoons.  But to everyone else it looks like sheer chaos and like I’m playing a game of “Let’s see who can catch salmonella first.”) 

6.  I always wanted a tattoo and a nose ring.  My husband vetoed the tattoo way back when we were dating (it would have just been a little butterfly on my lower back), but I almost got the nose ring one day.  It was sometime after I had two or three kids, and I had finally talked myself into doing it.  And so we walked down to the tattoo/piercing parlor one fine Monday morning, $40 in my pocket.  But when we got there, the door said, “Closed on Mondays.”  As soon as I saw the sign, I didn’t want the nose ring anymore.  It was like, Well, I was ready to get one and I would have gotten one if it was open, but simply having been ready to get one if it was open was enough to satisfy my desire for a nose ring.  And while I still love seeing them on other women, I haven’t really wanted one since.

7.  I went skydiving once when I was in college.  It was amazing to climb out of airplane, hang onto the wing, let go, and glide back down to earth suspended by a ball of air trapped under some fabric.  And when they asked me to pull down hard on both toggles to come to a “stop” in midair, it felt like I was swinging from a cloud.  I have never experienced such silence and peace and solitary-ness. So glad I did it.  Would never do it again.  Hope my kids never want to do it! 

8.  My mom thought about having an abortion when she was pregnant with me as a teenager.  I’m glad I'm alive to be thankful she didn’t.     

9.  One morning this past winter, before the family woke up, I thought I felt a spider run across my thigh.  I freaked out and began to brush my thigh and the sheets around me, looking for a bug or beetle or something that might be running around the bed.  Then I wondered, What if it got inside my underwear? 

            So in the pitch blackness of a winter’s morning, I grabbed a flashlight and peered inside my underwear, just in case.  And that’s when I heard a small voice coming from the dark hallway, “Good morning, Mom!” 

            It was freakin’ 5:30 in the morning and one of my sons was standing in my doorway, peering into my room to say good morning, just in time to see a spotlight shining down his momma’s underwear.  I mean, seriously, what else is there to see in a pitch-black room but the thing that the flashlight is illuminating?  Just one more reason for therapy when he gets older and one more chapter for his “Scarred for Life: Memoirs from My Childhood” book.

10.  Yes, I am a rock-solid Christian, but sometimes I just want to do bad things.  I want to say bad words and watch bad movies and listen to bad music and drink bad things and be all mean and cranky toward annoying people.

            But what I usually end up doing is just watching my 80’s movies, listening to my 80’s music really loudly, drinking no more than an ounce-and-a-half of mildly-alcoholic hard cider (because I really don’t like alcohol ... honestly, I drink no more than one bottle of hard cider a year!), muttering bad words under my breath (and maybe over my breath), and telling my husband all of the whip-smart, snarky things I wanted to tell others but didn’t think of till it was too late. 

            And it’s a good thing that I don’t think of all the smart-mouthed things until it’s too late or else I might end up saying them out loud.  Because while I am a buttoned-up, walk-the-line, stoic, straight-arrow kind of person for the most part, I do have a really snarky and sarcastic side.  I enjoy off-the-wall, slightly improper, and semi-disrespectful kinds of things (not disrespectful toward God but toward things in general).  I can’t stand political correctness.  (Not the good political correctness, but the annoying, overly-picky, cry-baby, I want-everyone-to-do-everything-my-way-and-I-don't-care-about-anyone-else's-rights-or-feelings kind of political correctness.)  I love to go against the mainstream “herd mentality.”  (Even as I kid, I rebelled against anything trendy or "everybody's doing it.")  And I would love to rattle nerves and “stick it to people” if I had the guts and wasn’t so concerned with being nice. 

            [See, kids!  Mommy’s human, too.  Even though I want to do bad things sometimes, I choose to do the right and proper things (most times) and treat others the way I want to be treated, no matter how much they “deserve” it.]

            But my snarky-ness does come out in the metal signs I have around my house.  Signs that say things such as:

            “Do I look like the maid to you?”

            “I've got Crabby Mommy powers.  Don't make me use them!”

            “Sorry, kids, but Mommy's got a headache.  Go play in the street.”

            "I love coffee.  It makes me look like I'm paying attention."

            What I love most about many of these signs is that they have pictures of the perfect 1950’s mom/wife alongside these snarky sayings.  I love it.  The oxymoronic-ness of it.  The ideal, proper woman with a dark streak.  A beautiful rose bush with vicious thorns. 

            But I do wonder what my super gentle, sugary-sweet friends might think.  Or what my pastor would think if he came to our house and saw my sign that says something like “Believe it or not, I don’t give a sh…”  Actually, I taped a piece of paper over the last word so that it now reads, “Believe it or not, I don’t give a fig!”  (Honestly, that’s how I feel much of the time lately.  And sometimes, when I care too much about something, it's how I should feel.)

            I also have a fridge magnet of Ralphie from Christmas Story (Best Christmas movie ever!) with a bar of soap in his mouth and the famous line about how he didn't really say "Fudge."  

            Maybe my pastor or more “proper” friends would be offended to see even hints of bad words posted around my house.  I don’t know.  But I love this magnet because I see humanity in it.  We all end up sitting on a stool with a bar of soap in our mouth at some time or other because we all make fugdey, little messes of our lives in different ways.  So we should all have compassion on someone else when they mess up because someday it will be our turn.  I guess the magnet reminds me of that.  That we are all human and we will all mess up.  That it’s okay and we should all be a little more gracious!  And that the person sucking on the bar of soap is more important than the bad word they said!  I really do like this magnet, and not just because I mutter “Oh fudge!” under my breath too much.  (Only I'm not usually saying “fudge.”  Hey, I'm not saying I'm proud of it or that it's acceptable.  I'm just being honest.) 

11.  Not only do I have an improper, snarky side, but I also have a slightly improper sense of humor.  (I blame my mother!)  We once went bowling and saw this really old woman carrying a bowling ball up to the line.  And as she stood there, the weight of the bowling ball overcame her and she fell over, while still standing straight up-and-down.  Like a tree being chopped down.  She ended up face-down on the ground, still holding the bowling ball. 

            Everyone else around her was sympathetic and jumped up to help, “Oh my goodness!  Grandma, are you okay?”  I, however, began shaking like a leaf from trying to stifle the giggles that were erupting from deep within.  And when I looked over at my mom, she was shaking, too.  Tears of laughter streaming from her eyes.  We were shameless as we convulsed in a fit of giggles in our seats. 

            And then there was the time she told me about driving behind a truck that took a left turn too fast.  And when it did, the passenger door whipped open and a large pre-teen boy came flying out and began rolling down the road. 

            “Nicky, Nicky, Oh Nicky ... Are you okay?” the parents called when they stopped the truck and ran after the boy.  As my mom shared this story with me, we were laughing so hard we were crying.  And we've used the phrase “Nicky, Nicky, Oh Nicky” for years.  (Relax, the boy was fine.  Just a little scratched.  I wouldn’t be laughing if someone was really hurt.  At least I hope not.) 

12.  I think the most disgusting sound ever is when my sons slurp up their applesauce or the peach juice from their sliced peaches without a spoon, just using their mouth to suck it up right from the bowl.  It sounds like they are slurping up a big pile of snot.  And now that they know how much it grosses me out, they do it on purpose.  I once saw a cat sneeze out a big blob of snot.  And then it proceeded to eat it.  I was horrified.  And that’s what I think of when I hear them slurping up the snotty juice or applesauce.  That which has been seen cannot be unseen.

13.  I have had my fair share of injuries as a youngin’.  I was probably a mother’s worst nightmare.  I broke my arm twice in the same spot, once from a cheerleading stunt gone wrong (they threw me too hard) and once from being pushed while on roller skates.  With that one, my arm actually had a big arch where it’s not supposed to have an arch. 

            Another time, I jumped off the back steps of the same roller rink where I broke my arm and landed right on a metal pole that was sticking out of the ground.  I could tell something wasn’t right, so I pulled my sock down to see.  And when I did, I saw a bunch of skin all mushed up in a place it shouldn’t be.  So I pulled my sock down further and saw no skin where skin should be.  Apparently, the pipe ripped the skin off of that big boney-bump on the inside of my ankle.  And instead of seeing skin, I actually saw the boney-bump.  It took 26 stitches to sew me up.  Eight on the inside, eighteen on the outside.  It was my thirteenth birthday party.  (I also got a pony for my thirteenth birthday.  A real pony that I got to walk from the barn to my backyard so I could give my friends rides.  So cool!)

            I was knocked unconscious during another cheerleading stunt when they threw me in the air and then failed to catch me.  What the heck is that about!?!  And to make it more interesting, I was knocked unconscious on the gym floor, in front of the whole school as they waited for the pep rally to start.  And when I woke up a few minutes later, I saw that my skirt was up and everyone could see my spankies (that “underwear thing” that we wear under out cheerleading skirts).  No one fixed it for me during the several minutes I was unconscious in front of the whole school.  Thank God we didn’t have cell phones with cameras back then! 

            And I was electrocuted really badly once.  As a teenager, I worked at an ice-cream shop that stored the ice-cream in giant freezers.  And while I was looking into one, I reached over to grab the handle of the other.  Apparently, there was a leaky drip pan in one of them which caused the freezer to be “electrified.”  So when I grabbed onto both handles, I completed a circuit between the two freezers and the electricity coursed through my body. 
            And there’s a lot of electricity in these freezers.  They are so big that you could fit like four or five bodies into each one, if you wanted to.  Not that I ever wanted to shove some bodies in a freezer.  I’m just sayin’ that if you were playing a game of hide-and-seek, several people could fit comfortably in each of these freezers.  But, really ... who would hide in a freezer!?!  That's just stupid!  (Wow, this took a weird turn!) four or five full-grown cougars into each one.  [I’m not talking cougars like “older women on the prowl for younger men,” I mean like real cougars.  But I guess I really don’t know how big a real cougar is (the animal kind), so maybe it can’t really hold four or five.  They look kinda smallish when you are watching them on a small television.  I bet they are bigger in real life.]  You know what ... let me try it one more time ... let’s just say these freezers can hold a lot of ice cream.  So it takes a lot of electricity to keep them cold.  That was my whole point.
            It was actually like one of those cartoons where someone is stuck to the electrified thing.  As hard as I tried, I could not pull my hand off of the handles.  I screamed “DON’T! TOUCH! ME!” to my coworker who was standing there terrified (wouldn’t want her to be electrocuted too), as my face was being all contorted by the electricity. 

            As I pulled with all my might, I could see my hand slowly coming off of one handle, like a slow-motion dream sequence.  When it finally came free, I was thrown back against the wall and crumpled into a sobbing mess. 

            And yet, being the responsible kid that I was, I stayed and finished my shift.  No one took me to the hospital or called the doctor (just like no one did when I was knocked unconscious).  But I wouldn’t touch two things at the same time the rest of the night (or for many weeks).  I worked with one hand tucked behind my back. 

            (My husband says that because of this electrocution, I now have some sort of ability to screw up electrical or motor devices just by using them.  Seriously, it seems like the car only has electrical problems when I am using it.  I would love to use my powers for good, but it seems to lean more towards a “super-villain” kind of havoc.)

            I also once almost lost an eye.  I was on a swing that was hung with a plastic rope.  And my step-sister-at-the-time decided to twist me up as much as she could so that I would spin really fast when she let go.  As she kept twisting, I could hear the rope starting to make crackling noises and I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen.  A moment later, the rope broke and began to unravel really fast, whipping me in the eye.  When I got up from the ground, my step-sister freaked out at what she saw.  I ran inside and looked in the mirror and saw that the area around my eye had swelled up into a giant black-and-blue ball and my eye was swollen shut. 

            I had to wear an eye patch and look like a pirate for a while, but a couple weeks later, it was fine.  Thank God!  But I could have lost an eye or my vision that day, all because she wouldn’t stop twisting the stupid swing.  (She’s also the same person who pushed me when I was on roller skates and made me break my arm.  I stopped going over to their house shortly after that.)  

            Those are some of the bigger accidents I've had, besides the several smaller times I’ve fallen out of the trees I loved climbing or fell when running across the road and ripped my face up.  It’s no wonder I'm the kind of mom who now yells, “Stop doing that or you’ll get hurt!  You’re going to crack your head open!  Get down from there or you’ll fall and break an arm!  Don’t stand on that or it will flip out from under you and you’ll fall and break your neck!  Don’t run on the driveway or you’ll fall and rip up your face!”

            I know you may think that’s an overreaction, but let me tell you one more story.  When my friend’s husband, Jon, was a kid, his mom used to tell him and his brothers not to run on the sidewalk or else they could fall and break their wrists.  Well, one day, Jon’s brother was running on the sidewalk, and Jon reminded him not to do that.  And then in an over-exaggerated, mocking demonstration of what not to do, Jon ran down the sidewalk, swinging his arms, saying, “See, we’re not supposed to run down the sidewalk because we might ...” and then he fell and broke his wrists.  Both of them!  See, we mothers do know a thing or two.  (And, Jon, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, I love that story.  Sorry for your wrists, but it is so poetically sit-comish.  A classic!)
            [Did you ever notice how if something is crossed out, you are almost more curious and determined to read it than you would be if it wasn't crossed out?  Instead of going "Oh, that's crossed out.  It must be no big deal so I'll skip it," you go "Oh my goodness, I have to read what this says, even if it means struggling to read it with a line running through the middle."  Come on, you know it's true!]

14.  I used to get the dirtiest looks from people when I would push my twin brothers around in a stroller.  I was almost 15 years old when they were born, so people would assume they were mine if I was taking care of them.  And I tell you, the judgmental looks some older women gave me were enough to make me feel ashamed.  And they weren’t even mine!  I should have made a t-shirt saying, “I’m just the sister, so keep your judgments to yourself!” 

            (With six kids in the family, people always stared at us and made comments when my family would go out.  I'm sure my mom loved it, but I hated it.  I always felt like a circus freak show whenever we went anywhere together.  Embarrassing.)

15.  But I did once make a t-shirt after my fourth son was born which said: “Actually, I’m THRILLED ... I wanted another boy!  So save your sympathy for those who need it!”  I intended to wear it when I was out with all my children (or when my mother came over, which I did do one day).  It’s amazing how many people would express pity and sympathy because I had four boys and no girls.

16.  The three times that I remember disobeying as a kid and the one time that I cheated in school, I got caught. 

            I once wanted to cut out a picture of Rick Springfield from our TV Guide.  And I asked my mom but she said no, so I asked my step-dad and he said yes.  I got in trouble for that.  Another time, I wanted to make a cradle for my doll and I asked my mom if I could use a box.  She said no.  I can’t remember, but either I took it anyway or I asked my step-dad and he said yes.  I got caught then too.  And then once I asked my mom if I could add some Kool-aid packets to the grocery cart.  She said yes.  But when she wasn’t looking, I added some more.  I got in trouble then too.  Those are pretty much the only three times I remember deliberately doing something wrong (I was a very obedient, compliant child), and I got caught.  Figures! 

            And then in school, I once cheated by not reading the book for the book report.  Instead, I read the back cover and first and last pages, and then I wrote the report thinking it would be good enough.  But as I read my report in front of the class, the teacher said, “You didn’t read the book, did you?”  I was mortified and had to admit that I didn’t. 

            How did she know?  I said that I was doing my report on The Call of the Wind.  But the book is really called The Call of the Wild.  I blew it just because I didn’t even read the title properly.  It’s probably a good thing I didn’t cheat or disobey much.  Apparently, I wasn’t very good at it.      

17.  Things you might say if you have young boys at home:

            “You made an electric chair for your brother!?!”  One day, I went upstairs to find my three older boys “throwing the switch” as their youngest brother sat in an “electric chair.”  They had strapped him into an old booster seat, tied his arms down, put a “helmet” on his head with wires coming out of it (a pair of underwear with strings), and then they would throw the switch and their brother would pretend to convulse and shudder in the throes of a horrible “electric death.”  Don’t worry, he was having a grand old time!  They usually have the most fun together when they are doing something slightly demented.  I blame my mother and her sense of humor!  It’s genetic. 

            “If you fall and crack your head open, don’t come crying to me!  I told you not to do it!”  I said this one to my third son, R..  He’s the wild one who will try just about anything.  And if I say he shouldn’t or can’t do something – as in “it’s not possible” – he will find a way.  I believe I said this one because of some stunt he was pulling on the swing-set.  Thankfully, he never fell.  He’s got skills!

            “No, no, NO!  Don’t hang from your bunk bed in a laundry basket!!!”  This was R. again.  I went upstairs to his room one day and found him sitting in a laundry basket that he suspended from a tiny coat hook that my husband screwed onto their bunk bed.  He had made a pulley-system with the belt from a robe to raise the laundry basket up and down as he sat in it.  He was only about 6-years-old or so.  You really can't turn your back on him for too long.  Keeps me on my toes.

            “Oh no!  Not smart!  Don’t suspend a toy house four feet off the ground and then sit in it!”  R. again  He took a large section of a plastic toy-house/swing set that someone gave us for our yard – about 20-30 pounds or so – turned it sideways, attached it to the swing-set with a rope, and raised it up so that it was about four feet off the ground.  I was doing dishes when I looked out the window and saw his younger brother sitting in it like it was a jet that he was flying.  And I was there just in time to grab the rope as the knot gave way and the thing fell while his brother sat in it.  If you have boys, learn this prayer: “Dear God, please protect them from themselves!”

            “Stop farting on the birds!  You know it bothers your brother!”  The boys have to leave the table if they need to pass gas during meals.  Well, the birds are in the next room.  And one day, after being told to leave the table to pass gas, my second son, H., said, “Fine, then I’ll go fart on the birds.”  But since these birds unofficially belong to R., he got really upset.  Since then, it’s been a battle between them every time one of them leaves the table to pass gas.  We keep telling H. to stop it because he just does it just to irritate R..  And we keep telling R. that the birds can’t really smell it and don’t really care because they sit in a cage full of their own poop anyway.  Yet the battle continues!  Leave it to boys!

            “Do not ‘fart zombie’ your brother.  He gets really upset!”  My boys invented a game called “Fart Zombie.”  (Only boys would think of this.)  When one of them farted, they would begin chasing the other boys in order to tag them and yell “Fart Zombie,” thereby turning them into a “Fart Zombie.”  Well, at the time, R. was still young enough that a fun game of tag soon morphs into a terrified game of “I’m being chased by horribly violent people and they'll rip my guts out if they catch me!”  So while this game always started out with everyone running around wildly in fun to not get tagged, it doesn’t take long for R. to start running in sheer terror, screaming and crying, “NO!  Help!  I don’t wanna be ‘fart zombied!’”  We had to ban “Fart Zombie” soon after.    

            “No, I’m sorry, honey.  But we can’t drive home from vacation just so you can use our potty at home.  We are not leaving this bathroom until you poop.”  (Thank you, self-flushing toilets, for scaring the daylights out of my child and making him terrified to use a public bathroom!)

            “Seriously!?!  Why would you throw a golf club right at the window?  What were you thinking!?!”  (My second son.  “What were you thinking” is a common phrase you will use around young boys.)

            “Never throw bricks over your head and then run under them!  What were you thinking!?!”  [Yeah, R. again!]

            “Why would you run right for the swing-set glider when your brother was gliding on it?  You could have smashed your teeth in!  What were you thinking!?!” (My oldest son.  I’ll tell you what he wasn’t thinking – that while he ran towards it, it would swing back towards him and meet him full force in the face.  He said he just wanted to be by his brother.  But I always thought it would happen to one of the younger boys who wasn’t paying attention, not to the oldest one who ran right for it!)

            “Where are your pants?  Would you just go put some pants on!?!”  (Every single day!  My youngest son, J., will be stripped out of his clothes the moment our guests shut the door behind them as they leave.)

            “Would you just go put on some pajamas, please!  It’s freezing out and you're making me cold just looking at you.  You can’t just wear underwear to bed in the middle of winter!”  (Every single night!)

            “Stop asking me for more food or snacks!  You just ate lunch!  You haven’t even finished swallowing it!”  (Every single meal!  And every half-hour between meals!  Young boys think of only two things: Food and Video Games!  All day long!  When my youngest was about 2 years old, we were on vacation and he couldn’t fall asleep the first night because all he could think about was going home and playing video games.  He was in bed actually singing to himself for a long time about “I’m gonna go home and play Mario ... on the Wii ... Mario ... on the Wii!”  Cute and sad, all at the same time!)

            “I am not coming in there to wipe your butt!  You are old enough to wipe your own butt!” ... (ten minutes later) ... “Did you wipe your butt?  Why didn’t you wipe your butt?  I’ll do it for you this time, but next time wipe your own butt!  Do you want to be the only kid at church who has to have his mommy in the bathroom with him to wipe his butt?”  (This also works with tying your own shoelaces, getting your own drink of water, finding your own shirt to wear, finding your homework, zipping your jacket, etc.  The possibilities are endless.)

18.  I could listen to Disturbed’s version of “The Sound of Silence” over and over again.  It’s freakin’ amazing!  My husband is the same way.  As soon as I heard it, I ran out to buy the album, just for that song.  And I even paid way more than I should have because I found it at Barnes and Noble.  But that song alone is worth every penny!  (I don't listen to any other song on that album, but it's still worth it.)

19.  My idea of heaven includes being on a secluded, super-quiet beach and taking a really long, uninterrupted nap while hanging in a hammock.  I also envision being all alone in a really huge garden with a small studio where I can paint pictures.  Because in heaven, I will have the ability to paint.  (Do I sound like an introvert or what!) 

20.  I always wished I could play guitar.  But I can’t get my hands to do two different things at the same time.  I can’t even tap out two different rhythms on a tabletop with my fingers.  They always end up in sync.  Another wish: I wish we could have chickens, but we are not allowed to where we live.  Bummer. 

21.  You know what’s a weird thought: You get to decide tons of stuff about how you live and what your life is like, but one major factor about you gets decided by someone else – your name.  You get to pick your clothing style, your decorating style, your hair color through the miracle of hair dye, your job, where you live when you get older, who you date or marry, what you eat, etc.  But you get no say in what your name is.  You get stuck with the name that someone else liked and that they thought would fit you.  How might things have been different for you if you were named Bunny instead of Helen?  Or Bartholomew instead of John?  Or James instead of Peanut?  Or Cowboy Carl instead of Doctor Dan? 

            Although it’s probably a good thing that little children don’t get to pick their names.  If they had waited to ask my opinion, I probably would have chosen something that only a young child would like, such as Princess Sabrina. 

            I was thinking the other day about what name I would chose now as an adult, if I got to pick.  And honestly, I couldn’t think of any other name that seemed to fit me better than Heather.  So maybe my mom had it right. 
            [Although, thanks to the movie Heathers, most people think of Heather as being a ditzy, superficial blond.  However, I am much more like Janeane Garofalo’s Heather from Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, minus the cussing (at least out loud).  I wish I could be a super-sweet, floral, feminine type, but I am more of a spicy, cynical, sarcastic tomboy.  (If I was a sugar or a spice, I'd be cinnamon - a little spicy and can be sweet or savory, depending on the circumstances.)  And I guess in that way, “Heather” seems too fluffy for me.  So maybe I should have been named something more like Toni or Jerri or Rizzo, something a little less feminine.  A little more salty, more zippy.]

22.  If so much as one drop of toilet water splashes on me, I have to take a shower.  If I even think that one microscopic drop might have splashed on me even though I’m pretty sure it didn’t, I still have to take a shower.  And if it happens in a public bathroom, all I can think about until I get home is I have to take a shower as soon as I get home!
            And I can't use the first squares of toilet paper in a public bathroom.  I have to tear them off and throw them away because all I can think is They might have touched the floor or someone else's filthy hands! 
            And I always set my jacket over the headrest of movie-theater seats.  Because if I don't, all I think through the whole movie is The person before me might have had lice and rubbed their head all over the headrest.  
            (You're welcome, fellow anxiety sufferers, for new things to worry about.  Helps take your minds off of the things you normally worry about.) 

23.  I have a bit of claustrophobia.  It’s not terrible or anything, but I have to sit on aisles at the movie theater or in a seat that has no chairs in front of it.  I avoid events with huge crowds, like Black Friday shopping.  If I go to a parade, I sit in the back.  And we have started sitting out in the “overflow” section in church, watching the service on the TV while sitting on couches.  It just gets to feel like too many people around you in the sanctuary and everyone is sucking up all the oxygen and making it all hot in there.  I like open, cool spaces, breathing room, and solitude.  Not too long ago, I went to a seminar and the only seat left was in between people in the middle of the room.  I sat there for about ten minutes before getting so hot, anxious, twitchy, and suffocated-feeling that I had to get up and take a chair to the back of the room where no one was sitting.  I probably looked anti-social but at least I could breathe.   

24.  And I can’t breathe when I am changing the dryer lint-trap.  Once when I was a teen, a friend and I stuck our faces down by a black-light to look at each other and see the creepy color the light made us.  Well, we giggled for about five seconds before we both stopped and got a horrified look on our faces at the exact same time.  What we both noticed was that the other person was completely covered in fine dust.  It was on our skin, in our eyebrows, on our eyelashes, etc.  We both immediately ran to take a shower (separate showers, in a friend’s house where we were staying for the weekend) to wash off the layer of dust. 

            Since then, all I can think about when I change the dryer lint-trap is all the tiny particles of dust that are floating around the air and seeping into my lungs.  I literally hold my breath and cover my nose until I am about 10 feet away from the dryer.  Uck!  It grosses me out to even think about it.  Makes me feel like I can’t breathe and like I need to take giant gulps of fresh air and hold it in my lungs for a few seconds.

25.  You know what’s funny to imagine?  That the person riding past you on a bicycle is riding an invisible bicycle.  People would look funny if bikes were invisible, just pedaling there in midair, gliding along as they hover above the ground, sitting on nothing.

26.  I am a bit of an anxious person.  Okay, I’m actually quite anxious.  (It’s not debilitating, just bothersome.  And sometimes worse.)   And I remember discovering a new “horrible idea” when I was shopping with my newborn.  (Don’t read this if you have little ones and get anxious easily, too.)  I was in the parking lot and had loaded my groceries into the car.  And then I strapped my son into his car seat and was pushing my cart across the aisle to the cart corral when this thought hit me, If I get hit by a car right now or knocked unconscious, no one would know that my baby is strapped in a car all alone.  And while they took me to a hospital, he would die of starvation or heat.  Terrible how my mind works, isn’t it?  (And I warned you, fellow anxiety sufferers, not to read it.)    

27.  I wet my pants ... in eighth grade!  I was 13 years old.  We had a special day called “Field Day” where we played games outside and had a picnic and just had fun all day.  Well, I was way at the farthest corner of the yard eating lunch when I realized that I had to go really bad.  I guess I ignored it for too long, but it would not be ignored any longer.  So I got up to run to the building when pee began to run down my leg and soak my sock.  Since I was wearing a Catholic-uniform skirt, my friend could see it running down my leg and began pointing and laughing. 

            Unfortunately, I had nothing to change into, so I had to wear my pee-pee skirt the rest of the day.  And it wasn’t much of a problem (since we were outside all day) until it was time to line up and go inside.  I was mortified since we were all crammed really close together and had to walk up a staircase, which meant the people behind me were “butt-level.” 

            As we were going up the stairs, the boy who was behind Beth who was behind me said out loud, “Man, Beth, you stink!”  I knew it was me but couldn’t admit it.  So I just turned around, wrinkled my nose at Beth and gave a little “Yeah, she does” kind of look.  (Wow, kids are mean!) 

            I was a bad, bad girl!  Poor Beth.  God bless her heart, she never spoke up and said that it wasn’t her, that it was me.  And no one ever found out.  Not until now when I admitted it myself.    

            [In some ways, though, I considered it poetic justice because Beth had stolen my plastic charm necklace years before and never admitted it, even after I pulled her out in the hallway and told her that I knew she was wearing my necklace.  I never got it back.  But I guess I was repaid when Beth didn’t rat me out for being the one that smelled like pee.  Thank you, Beth.  And sorry!]

28.  Did you ever notice how you can say almost anything about anyone when the words “God bless his/her heart” are attached?  I don’t do this, but I did notice it. 

            “She’s just the meanest, most gossipy person I know.  But God bless her heart, she’s had a hard life herself.”

            “He always thinks he's so right about everything, that he's the smartest man out there.  God bless his heart, he just doesn’t know how wrong he is all the time.”

            “I know she means well – bless her heart – but she’s always interfering and putting her nose where it doesn’t belong.”   

            “That’s the ugliest baby I ever saw.  Bless his little heart, he looks like a drugged-up, wrinkled, old potato.”

            [It also works with “I’m just sayin’.”  As in “That dress does kinda make you look fat.  I’m just sayin’.”  Or “He’s not the smartest tool in the shed, is he?  I’m just sayin’.”  Or “That baby’s head is too large for his body.  I’m just sayin’.”  Or "I told you it'd be a bad idea.  I'm just sayin'."  It seems like you can get away with a lot if you’re “just sayin’” or if you "bless their heart."]

      

29.  Things I’ve actually had to say that I never thought I'd have to:

            “I'm sorry, but I don't think I can carry his baby.”  I wasn’t asked to hold my brother-in-law’s baby, I was asked to lend him my womb to carry his baby.  It was probably one of the most out-of-the-ordinary things I’ve been asked to do.  And it was my father-in-law who asked me.  Talk about awkward. 

            He had come over to visit me and my two sons when my husband (his other son) wasn’t even there.  And I noticed that he seemed to be hanging around a little too long, like he was hemming-and-hawing about something.  Just as he was getting ready to leave, my friend stopped by with her son.  And as my father-in-law was walking out the door, he turned and said, “Would you like to carry a baby for your brother-in-law?” 

            I am almost never speechless (as you can tell from how much I write), but no answer would form in my mind.  No words.  No thoughts.  I sat there staring with my mouth open until my friend spoke up and said, “Oh goodness, I don’t think I could ever give away a baby that I carried.”  And I just stammered something like, “Yeah, I don’t think I’d be comfortable doing that either.” 

            While others might be okay doing it, I wouldn’t be able to for many reasons, not the least of which is that I had a c-section for my first child and would be afraid of having multiples and putting stress on my incision scar.  Plus, if there were multiples, I wouldn’t allow them to do a “selective reduction.”  Plus, I can’t stand tampering with nature.  (I don’t even dye my hair or eat MSG.)  So taking a bunch of hormone shots would be out of the question.  Just too many reasons that made me say, “No, I’m sorry, but I can’t.” 

            “You’re making homemade potato chips for the first time while I’m having a baby!”  I had a c-section in a hospital for my first son.  And then I had three drug-free homebirths.  (I think we freaked out one of our church-friends once who came to pick up my older sons for a play-date while I was in labor in the living room.  When we told him that I was in labor on the couch, he got all wide-eyed and stammered something like "Oh, wow" and couldn’t get out of there fast enough.)  You could tell that it was rather commonplace for us by the third homebirth because when I was almost to the point of giving birth in our bedroom, I could smell the strong scent of coconut oil.   

            I said “What the heck is he [my husband] doing?  Why do I smell coconut oil?” to the nurse and doctor who were in the room with me, waiting for the baby to come.  Not even a couple minutes later, we called my husband upstairs because it was time.  And when he came into the bedroom (rather nonchalantly), I asked him why I smelled coconut oil.

            “Oh, I decided to try making potato chips from scratch.  And I noticed the coconut oil and thought Why not?”

            “You decided to make potato chips for the first time as I am upstairs getting ready to give birth to our baby!?!”

            “Well, we’ve been through this before and we know what to expect.  I figured I had time.”  

            (They weren’t even very good potato chips.  Don’t use coconut oil unless you like coconut-flavored potatoes.)

            “We really need to throw out that placenta that’s in the freezer!”  Yep!  In homebirths, they make you keep the placenta until you dispose of it.  And since I had no desire to plant ours under a new tree or to have my husband dig a hole in the backyard to bury it with the neighbors watching (try explaining that one to the neighbors!) or to send it off to be made into pills that I could take like vitamins (it’s totally true that some people do this, yuck!), we kept ours in a sealed bucket in the freezer until we could dispose of it.  Right next to the ice cream, ground meat, and frozen veggies.

            See, the problem for us was that we had two homebirths in the heat of the summer.  And I wasn’t about to throw a placenta into the garbage can in the heat of summer and have it rot in the heat or have some animal dig it out. 

            Could you imagine what the neighbors or garbage man would think!?! 

            It would freak them out and they would call the cops to report the body part that was strewn across the ground in front of our garbage.  And then think of the work they would have to go through to figure out which body part it was and who it belonged to.  That’s a line of questioning I just didn’t want to deal with.  So we kept it in the freezer until winter when it wouldn’t thaw out and draw animals or flies or suspicion.  But of course, we would forget about it for way too long.  (Partly on purpose.  Because who wants to deal with a frozen placenta!) 

            [Note to women who have never had a baby before or who are pregnant with their first child: There is almost nothing glamorous or dignified about having a baby except that fact that you brought a new, little life into the world.  The rest of it is ... well, just plain gross and embarrassing!  Yet no matter how gross or embarrassing it is, you will still want to talk about it with other mothers, and even with their husbands.  Because you know they've been there too.]   

            “So, Honey, do you think we could take a baby tomorrow if they don’t want her?”  I greeted my husband with that line one day when he came home from work.  A family member had a baby and wasn’t sure if they were going to keep her or not.  And my mom called me up in a bit of a panic, wondering what would happen to the baby and who could care for her.  And I said I would talk to my husband about taking her.  We knew we could never turn away a baby (especially a family member) that needed a home, but what a big change that would be overnight.  Thankfully, though, they decided to keep her, and it's probably for the best.  

            “Could you please send a cop over to my mom’s house to check on my brother because he said he'd jump from the balcony to get away from her, even if it meant suicide?”  My mom and second-step-dad were in the middle of a messy divorce.  And my mom wanted to take my preteen brother somewhere, but he didn’t want to go.  So he called me and told me that he didn’t want to go and that he would jump from the balcony, even if it meant suicide.  I didn’t have a car to go over to get him, so I called the cops.  They said they couldn’t do anything because it was a family thing and that my mom had a right to take him wherever she was going.  But when I told them that he mentioned suicide, I heard the dispatcher sigh.  And she took down my mom’s info and sent a cop over.  My brother never jumped, and he didn’t have to go with her either.

            In a call to 9-1-1: “Yes, the guy who lives in the basement of our apartment just pulled a gun on my roommate.”  This is true.  I was in the basement, looking for something in storage for a trip I was taking the next day, when the creepy guy who lived in a makeshift-room in the basement came in and began making small talk.  He was totally drunk and introduced himself over and over again.  After a few minutes of talk, he went upstairs and began banging on the door of the guys who lived across the hall from us.  He was mad because their thermostat controlled his heat, and he wanted them to turn the heat on.  The he came back downstairs to the room where I was, and he shut the door behind him.  I was freaking out, wondering what would happen to me down there with this drunk guy who was blocking my exit. 

            One of my roommates knew that I was downstairs and that Creepy Guy was down there with me and that he had a gun.  She had seen it through our peep-hole as he banged on the door across the hall with it.  And she decided to come down and check on me.  When she opened the basement door, Creepy Guy spun around, whipped out the gun, and aimed it at her head. 

            “Oh,” he said, “I thought you were the guys from upstairs who wouldn’t turn the heat on.” 

            I am so glad she wasn’t, and I am so glad that he didn’t have a twitchy trigger-finger.  But I had to call 9-1-1.  And they evacuated us from our apartment.  And it took them hours to get him out of his room, where he apparently had a stockpile of weapons and a gun like the one I described, which was loaded and had the safety off.  We made it back into our apartment an hour before we had to leave to catch a plane.  It took all night for the SWAT team to get him out, finally having to resort to pepper spray to do it.
            [Incidentally, just a few months later, my brother was robbed at knife-point at the place he worked.  But it turned out that his coworker had staged it with the robber.  So, thankfully, he wasn’t in any real danger at the time.  Kinda.
            And not too long ago, my step-father was fixing up a rental home at night when two guys (who were high on something) violently attacked him.  To them, he probably looked like on old, easy target.  But this guy is freakishly strong.  He ended up pummeling both guys, grabbing one by his long hair so he couldn’t get away and punching the other guy in the stomach with the drill he was still holding, a drill that had a nice, pointy, long, drill attachment on it.  Ouch.  They ran, but I think the cops eventually found them.  I bet they regret taking on that “old man” who was working in a house at night all by himself.
            Sometimes, I wonder if my mom’s side of the family had been cursed somewhere back in the day.  Things just happen with that side of the family.]

            “I gotta go over to my parents’ house to make sure my mom didn’t commit suicide.”  Like I said, it was a messy divorce, and suicide by my mother was a real possibility.  I had to go over one day to make sure she was still alive.  I seriously expected a body to be swinging from the rafters of their log home.  When I got there, she was laying totally still in her bed.  I scanned the dresser for pill bottles and watched for breathing.  Finally, her chest moved up and down.  Thank God, it was just a nap.  While it was a difficult change and there were lots of negative consequences from it, it was a total relief when that marriage ended.                              

30.  I threw up in the car on the way to the reception on my wedding day!  I hadn’t slept much or eaten much in the several days before the wedding as I did last minute preparations.  And then it was 95 degrees on our wedding day, and I had to go in and out of the air-conditioning to the heat to the air-conditioning to the heat.  And then, I got carsick since I was sitting in the backseat of the car.  And since I wasn’t feeling well, we stopped by our new apartment on the way to the reception to take a small break.  However, I forgot that they had just painted it.  So it was hot and sweaty in our apartment and it smelled like paint.  But I stripped out of my way-too-tight wedding dress and laid down for a few minutes anyway.  And then we got back in the car and drove 45 minutes to the reception.  At this point, the exhaustion, hunger, heat, paint fumes, tight dress, and car sickness got the best of me, and I began to throw up in a small plastic baggy that I had with me.  And then, we had to stop at a gas station so that I could run to the bathroom and throw up.  Unfortunately, the bathroom had a separate entrance on the side of the building facing the road.  So I am sure it gave all the motorists quite a laugh to see the sick woman in her wedding dress making a beeline for a dirty, public, gas-station bathroom.  And now when we pass that gas station, we say “See, kids, there’s the bathroom where Mommy threw up on her wedding day.”

 

31.  And then at the wedding, I was so sick during dinner that I couldn’t even eat the champagne chicken I had been waiting for.  Instead, when I got up to go to the bathroom to pat my face with a wet paper towel, the wedding coordinator took one look at me, grabbed me by the hand, and said, “You are going downstairs to rest in my office.” 

            I was too sick to resist.  And she led me to her cool, darkened office and shut the door behind me.  And I loosened my dress, laid down on the cool tile floor and rested there in the blue light that was coming off of the “security camera” television, while my guests and new husband all partied at my wedding reception, one floor above me. 

            I never even told anyone I was going down there, so I don’t know what my new husband thought when I never showed up to eat my dinner or to go around and greet the guests with him.  And if the guests tapped on their glasses with a spoon to get the bride and groom to kiss, he would have looked around and found no bride.  He’d have just stood there like a rejected “king of the nerds” with no one to kiss.

            About a half-hour later, he finally found me.  As I laid there with my dress undone and my face on the cool floor, I saw the door open and a pair of feet come walking in.  (It’s all I could see from my face-on-the-floor angle.)  And then he knelt down by me and gently rubbed my back, and we just sat there in the quiet, cool, blue light for awhile.  And that moment is honestly my favorite “wedding day” memory.  (If I could go back and do it again, I would elope.  No joke!  Just grab some nearby strangers as witnesses and get married on a beach somewhere.)              

32.  When I was 17, I went to Russia for a week on a mission trip.  And we got to stop in Germany for a day. 

            Then when I was 21, I went on a mission trip to Papua New Guinea for the whole summer.  We had no running water or electricity or anything.  It was the most primitive I had ever lived.  It took us a day’s ride in a canoe (with a motor) to get to the village we stayed in.  

            [I had the most interesting “bathroom” experience on that canoe.  If you had to go to the bathroom, you put your rain poncho on and had someone on the canoe hold your hands while you hung your rear-end over the edge of the canoe to relieve yourself in the river, while 30 or so other people watched and while thoughts of crocodiles chomping on your tender rear filled your head.]

            We washed clothes in the river water, bathed in the filthy brown river, caught rain water to cook with, cooked in a “mud oven” (a metal box surrounded by hardened mud with an opening underneath for the fire), slept in tents.  It was amazing!  I loved every minute of it!

            Except for the grub I ate.  It was a special gift from the village people (not “YMCA” Village People, but the people of the village Nain).  They had roasted them over a fire on a stick and graciously presented this delicacy to us, and we were all expected to eat one.  I jumped first to grab the first one on the stick, and I popped it in my mouth.  I tasted like tough, dry beef-tongue (which I tried when we were going to Russia).  Like eating chewy cardboard.  No big deal.  But I am so glad that I grabbed the first one, the one on the end that got cooked the most.  Because the rest of the team told me how theirs wasn’t fully cooked in the middle, so when they bit into it, it exploded into goo in their mouths.  I’d have been throwing up if I got one of those.  Thank God for my “Just get it over with” haste!    

            And then we got to spend a week in Australia at the end of the summer.  (If I had to live it any other country, it would be Australia, minus the heat, bugs, snakes, politics, and other poisonous things.)  That trip was one of the highlights of my life.  (I wrote about it in the first chapter of my life story, Child of Mine, on my other blog.) 

33.  I once ate a bunch of ants, although I didn’t realize it at the time.  I was a teenager and at a sleepover at a friend’s house.  Her mom set a plate of cookies by the window for us.  After awhile, my friend and I began eating the cookies.  And I stopped mid-chew when I noticed that my cookie was moving.  When I looked closer, I saw that it was completely covered in tiny ants that had come in through the window.  We both freaked out, ran to the sink, and began rinsing and rinsing our mouths out.  And the rest of the night, we were both certain that we could feel tiny ant-heads stuck between our teeth.

34.  In college, I once hiked 55 miles in a week on a mission trip through the Smoky Mountains.  I wore a backpack on my back that felt like it weighed as much as I did.  I have never been so tired and sore in my life.  And then at the end of the trip, I found out that the other teams hiked only 25 miles or so.  They put the tiniest girl with the shortest legs (me – 5’1”) on the team with the tallest people who hiked the farthest.  Not fair!  (I cried as I hiked the first couple days, out of sheer exhaustion.  So glad that no one turned around to see me whimpering like a baby.) 

35.  I love spiders!
            I got a picture of me holding a giant spider in Papua New Guinea.  Crazy thing is, I held it before I knew if it was poisonous or not.  I tried to ask the village guy who was putting it in my hand if it was poisonous, but he just nodded and smiled because he couldn’t understand a word I was saying.  But I took it anyway because I was just so anxious to get a picture of me holding it.  As a 40-year-old now, I am horrified at my foolishness.  Stupid, risky 21-year-olds.

            And I once kept a jumper spider in a small tank as a pet.  You know those small, ½-inch, black, hairy spiders that look like tiny tarantulas with a white (or orange) dot on their back?  They are my favorite spiders.  They are the largest jumpers by us and amazing to watch.  I will sit down by one I find in the garden and just watch it as it watches me.  And I can often be heard saying, “Beautiful!  Freakin’ beautiful, you gorgeous spider!”

            Well, I decided to keep one as a pet once on a shelf in my kitchen.  (And I kept a praying mantis once, too.  They're cool.  And, yes, they do bite if you grab onto them really hard when they're running up your arm.  My oldest son learned that one the hard way.)  I caught bugs for it to feed it.  And I even put another smaller jumper in with it that I found, to “give it a friend.” 

            A word to the wise: Never give your jumper spider a friend.  They eat their friends!

            While I love these spiders, they freak my mom out.  Just a short while before I began keeping this spider as a pet, my mom was bitten by a brown recluse.  And so even daddy-long-legs scare her. 
            [She ended up being bitten twice by a brown recluse while she was working among wood piles in her yard.  The first time, she got a huge, swollen, lemon-sized mass of dead tissue on her neck.  However, she failed to warn me that she had this giant growth on her neck.  It was a holiday and we had just come to visit.  And I go into the kitchen to say “Hi” when she swings around to look at me.  And this giant fleshy mass is just hanging there, like a tiny, shrunken head emerging from her neck.  (You know the goblin king in The Hobbit movie?  Yeah, like that.)  My eyes bulged out in shock, and she explained the spider bite.  Not even a few seconds later, my husband comes walking into the room.  And she turns to him to say “Hi,” and so does the tiny, shrunken head.  And I see his eyes bulge in horror.  As she goes over to the fridge for a moment, he hisses, “Why didn’t you warn me!?!”

            And the second time she got bit, she said her entire body from the neck down turned black-and-blue.  A third time will most likely kill her.  To this day, I am nervous and cautious when working among wood piles.]
            I didn't always like spiders.  But I remember the day I began to really enjoy them.  I had found a giant Orb Weaver on our yard swing.  And it freaked the daylights out of me.  But it was too big to kill because it would leave a giant blob of goo.  (I don't smash any bugs that will make a popping sound or leave a big blob of goo.  And I hate smooshing the kind where their legs fall off, like a house centipede.  Because then the legs are just laying there, twitching all over the place!  Ugh, it's making me sick to my stomach to think about it.)  And so I caught it in a jar and decided to research it so I could know if it would kill me or my children while we sat on our swing.  And as I researched spiders, I began to see how fascinating they are.  And how beautiful and helpful!  And I have loved them ever since.  A little knowledge can be a good thing!


36.  In general, I try not to kill spiders because I respect them and enjoy them.  But I did have to kill one daddy-long-legs once which seemed to be possessed.  I was in my mom’s rental house in the middle of nowhere at night when this daddy-long-legs came walking up the bed toward me.  I brushed it off.  No big deal.  Just a daddy-long-legs.  (That’s a weird name to say over and over again if you think about it.  Daddy-long-legs ... daddy-long-legs ... daddy-long-legs.) 

            Anyway, a couple minutes later, I noticed it walking the exact same path, up the edge of bed, right toward me.  So I brushed it away again.  A couple minutes later, there it was, making a bee-line straight for me.  So I smashed it.  Something just wasn't right about that spider.

37.  I got really upset once when I chopped into a giant toad while I was gardening.  [My son would be so upset about this.  He loves frogs and toads more than I do and gets really upset when they get hurt.  It also really bothers him that the overuse of pesticides is harming the eco-system and frogs and toads, so please don’t use chemicals on your lawn.]

            Anyway, I was digging in the garden bed to turn the dirt when I noticed that the shovel would not go down all the way.  I thought it must have been a tree root, so I stomped on the shovel more, over and over again, and yet it resisted. 

            Finally, I dug down with my hands to find this root, but I found a giant toad instead, about the size of a grapefruit.  I was horrified.  When I picked it up, I could see that his leg was disconnected from his body, so it just hung there all limp.  (It’s probably where I was trying to push the shovel through.)  And he had a giant slice in his belly skin which exposed his stomach muscles. 

            I knew he wouldn’t last long, but I couldn’t bring myself to put him out of his misery, so I figured Why not let nature take its course and let him be a meal for something else?  So I threw him (I actually did throw him – like a baseball – because I didn’t want him to land near me where I might see him get eaten) into the woodsy area behind my yard.  Poor guy! 

            And I was so sick to my stomach that I couldn’t eat dinner for two days.  Every time I tried to eat anything even slightly meaty, my stomach turned.  And even to this day, I get a sick feeling if I think about it.  Worst part was that I had once prayed that I would never hurt a toad or frog when I gardened, because I knew how much they loved to hide in the soft dirt of the garden bed.  Man, that sucked!

            [A couple other gross stories:

            1.  Once my husband had a big, fluid-filled blister on his finger from a burn.  We were making PB&J sandwiches, but we had to open a new jar of natural peanut butter.  So he opened the jar and mixed the layer of oil back into the peanut butter.  When he was done, he looked at his hand.
            “My blister’s gone,” he said.  “It popped.”  We both looked at the peanut butter ... and threw it out.
            2.  Another time, my neighbor was making homemade sauerkraut.  He asked my young son to come over and stomp on the cabbage in a big crock like people used to do (did they really?).  I know that my son has filthy feet because he’s always outside, so I cleaned him up as best I could.
            “Are you sure you want his feet in your food?”
            “Oh sure, he’ll be fine,” he said.
            So I sent him over to stomp in my neighbor’s food, shaking my head the whole time.
            Well, when he finished the job and came back home, I looked at his feet.
            “Wait a minute,” I said.  “Didn’t you have a big scab on that foot?  Where’d it go?”
            We never told my neighbor, and we never ate the jar of sauerkraut he gave us.

           

38.  You know that prank that people play sometimes called “Snipe hunting.”  They send someone out at night with a flashlight to go “snipe hunting,” but the joke is that there is no such thing as snipes.  Well, I’m here to say that, yes, there is such a thing as snipes.  There is a bird called a snipe.  And I know this because it once got caught in the netting in my garden.  I had never seen a bird like it (I really should've gotten a picture), but I got a good enough look at it as I set it free to identify it as a snipe when I looked it up in my bird book.  So joke’s on you, pranksters!

 

39.  My hair is prematurely gray silver!  Actually, only about half of it is silver, in like chunks around my head.  So when I put my hair in a ponytail, there are stripes on the side of my head.  My biological father was completely silver by the time he was 30, and I guess I take after him in that way.  (Figures!  I also have his “hermit” tendencies.)  I would love to have nice dark hair again, but I have read too much about hair dye and the risks of cancer.  And as I have gotten older, I have become much more concerned with doing things naturally.  It just seems safest and wisest and the most common-sense-y.  So hair dye had to go. 

            The way I see it, many of us will end up with cancer or an auto-immune disease of some kind when we are older.  And if I end up with something like that, I want to know that I did my best to not invite it.  (If I was stronger, I would cut out sugar completely too.  As it is, we eat way less sugar than most people.  But still!)  I don’t want to shave off several years of my life or health just for hair color.  I want to be as strong and healthy as I can for my children and future grandchildren.  So, I let it go silver and wear it “proudly.”  (And I avoid mirrors as much as possible.)

            Oh, and can I just say one thing?  Proverbs 16:31: "Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life."  (I'm just sayin'.) 

40.  If I could live anywhere in the world, it would be Stars Hollow.  (Gold star on your forehead if you know what I’m talking about.)  I have been watching my Gilmore Girls DVD’s religiously since it came out years ago.  It is my favorite show and I feel at home there, which is strange because it’s an imaginary place that I’ve never been to.  But I would love it if I could find a place just like it.  I love that small town charm, where neighbors actually mingle and live life together.  I, however, got a neighbor that reports you if your lawn gets too high and calls the fire department while you are enjoying a small fire in a manufactured fire-ring in your backyard.  (We had a permit and it was perfectly legal, but the fire engine still had to come check.)                 

41.  I can see ghosts!
            Oh my gosh, no!  Totally kidding.  Just seeing if you're still paying attention. 

42.  When I was growing up, we had all kinds of pets.  Cats, dogs, lizards, horses, sugar gliders, a mynah bird that said “Fudge you!” (only he didn’t say “fudge”), three orphaned raccoon babies that would crawl all over you.  My mom kept a baby deer in the kitchen once (after I had moved out) that she “rescued” because she thought it was orphaned.  And we had a monkey, the kind that tips its hat and takes a quarter from you. 

            At first, the monkey was so cool to have.  It was sweet and diapered and it sat on your shoulder and hugged around your neck and cooed and chirped when you talked to her.  But then she went through puberty and got really mean and turned on everyone.  She attacked my grandma when she saw my grandma hugging someone in the family.  She sneak-attacked my boyfriend, leaping at him from out of nowhere and attaching herself to his arm so she could chew it off.  (He threw her so hard that she slid across the whole floor.  If she had been inches over to the right, she would have smashed into the cabinets and gotten really hurt.  My boyfriend was sorry he missed.) 
            You couldn’t trust her so she wasn’t allowed out of the cage anymore.  It got to be quite sad for her.  I was one of her favorite people – she would go into a crazy, chirpy fit every time I talked to her – and now I didn’t even want to go near her because she wasn’t diapered anymore and was filthy.  Although my mom did what she could, there wasn’t much for her to play with but poop and old food and poopy-old-food and poopy-food-covered-toys.  (The monkey played with poop and old food, not my mom.)
            One day when I was watching my mom’s house, I had to feed her.  But I didn’t want to go anywhere near the cage.  So I stood back a few feet and carefully tried to wedge some food in between the bars.  But when I leaned forward to press the watermelon slice through, the monkey made a lightning-fast swipe for my eye (or maybe she was going for my glasses).  But she actually cut my eyelid a bit.  I was horrified as I searched for antiseptic because all I could think of is what kind of disgusting disease or infection I might get from a poopy, rotten-food-covered, monkey paw.  You always had to watch yourself so you didn’t drift too close to the cage because she would slash you in a heartbeat.  Lightning-fast, razor-sharp, yucky, monkey-poop fingers!
            As mean as she got to be, it’s sad now that she’s gone.  She had to get put to sleep because she had breast cancer.  RIP, Holly!
            Did you know that monkeys can get offended?  They know when they are being laughed at.  One day, my grandma came to visit.  She hadn’t seen Holly in a long time and didn’t know that Holly had grown great big monkey-boobs.  (I was actually embarrassed for her - boobs all hanging out, nothing to cover them.)  But my grandma was petting her on the back one day.  And when Holly flipped over, there was a giant pair of monkey-boobs.  And my grandma started laughing at the shock of it. 
            Well, the instant my grandma started laughing at her, Holly went from a smiling, “I’m so excited that I’m being petted” look of pure joy to a sour frown with her lips all pursed out in a “I hate you, why are you so mean to me” look.  She knew she was being laughed at and she didn’t like it.  So funny! 

            (Nowadays, we only have two birds and tank of fish.  And even then, I look at the fish sometimes and wonder, When are you just going to DIE!?!  I don’t think I’m cut out for pets.  Update: Now we've got a dog but no birds or fish (we gave them away to good homes), and as much as we enjoy him, we've already decided that this is the only dog we'll ever get.  Too high maintenance, too needy.  And I'm too old and tired.)

43.  Just after we were married, we stopped at a motel for the night on the way back home from somewhere, the kind where your door leads to outside, not into a hallway.  And we enjoyed our evening, talking, laughing, messing around.  The next morning when we got up to leave, we couldn’t find the key.  We looked everywhere for it.  Finally, my husband goes, “You wouldn’t have left it in the lock on the outside, would you?”

            Yes ... yes, I would.  When he opened the door, there was the key, right in the lock, in full view of everyone who passed by our door.  Oh, the things that could have happened but didn’t.  Thank God! 

44.  Worst movie I ever saw: Rocky Horror Picture Show.  It was so horrible that I felt like I had to scrub my eyeballs with soap and water when it was over.  And then there was Saturday Night Fever which I stopped watching because it was so bad.  And Deliverance which just leaves you feeling dirty and sick inside.  

            Why does everyone reference these movies all the time as though they are great movies?  The whole reason I watched them was because they were referenced so much that I felt left out, like I couldn’t understand an inside secret that everyone else knew.  And I thought that if everyone saw them and talked about them, it must mean they were good movies.  They’re not!  They’re wretched.  Even the dancing in Saturday Night Fever, which is supposed to be iconic or something, was like watching a bunch of drugged zombies trying to line-dance to creepy music and lighting.  It was terrible!  

            Moral of the story: If everyone else in the world loves it and talks about it, it’s probably not good!

45.  I don’t spend much time online, watching or chatting or surfing or pinging or tweeting or whatever else people do.  Other than my blogs, I'm not involved with any social media.  I've never tweeted or pinned anything or snap-chatted or done anything on Facebook or YouTube.  I'd rather read books.  Real paper, turn-the-page, make-a-bookmark-out-of-scrap-paper-to-hold-your-place books.  If I had time, I could read for hours.  

46.  My favorite Christian band right now:

            Since I struggle with emotional funks a lot and negative thoughts, I have to be careful what I listen to.  And I found a band that has reached deeply into my soul, past all the depressing thoughts, and lit a spark again.

            Can I make a music recommendation for when you are losing faith, when you’re barely hanging on and want to despair of life?  The City Harmonic.  Such a life-saver.

            I ordered their first album not too long ago.  And after listening to it once, every fiber in my being went, “I must order ALL their albums NOW!”  And I did.  And I was not disappointed!  Every song just speaks so deeply to life, to pain and fear and heartache, to the times we are weak and barely able to stand, to the faithful and the faithless.  I am often brought to tears – good tears – while listening to them.  They make my heart feel like praising even when it’s hurting.  Buy their albums and listen regularly.  It will help you hang on when you’d rather give up.

47.  My two favorite words to use: discombobulated and creepy.  And I have yet to use them in the same sentence.  Well, other than this one.

48.  Other things I’ve said:

            “Hi, Honey!  I did something stupid.  I’m alright, but can you pick up some butterfly bandages on your way home?”

            I had just said good-bye to my husband and sons as they left for a store.  And I called out to my husband as he pulled away, “Are you sure you don’t need me to go with you?”  But I really preferred to spend some time home alone, so I was relieved when he said, “No, I’ve got it covered.  You stay home and enjoy your time alone.”

            About a minute - one minute! - after they pulled away, I was trying to hang up a stupid, little, $1, plastic wind-chime.  I was standing on a log and reaching through the side of the trellis to hang it on the outer most rung at the top of the trellis.  Just as I got it into place, the log slipped out from under me, and I landed on the ground on my feet.  But as I stood there with my arm still stuck in the trellis side, I knew something was wrong.  I thought I had reached through one of the diamond-shaped holes on the trellis side and that the bottom of my upper arm was being pinched in the bottom of the diamond.

            Man, this really hurts!  Why is it hurting so bad?  Something’s not right!, I thought as I forcefully pulled my arm out of the trellis side.  I had no idea what was hurting so bad as I struggled to take my flannel shirt off so that I could check under my arm.  And when I did, I saw an inch-wide, gaping gash with fat bulging out.  It was then that I realized that I hadn’t put my arm through a diamond, but through a spot that had a decorative “dagger” that was over an inch long and pointed up.  So when I slipped off the log, my arm was impaled on the “dagger.”  And that’s why I couldn’t get my arm out easily.  (It took so much force to yank my arm out - before I realized I impaled it - that I bent the metal dagger about 35 degrees or so from when it pointed up.)     

            Barely a minute after they left!  Stupid log!  Stupid trellis!  Ouch!  Ouch!  Ouch!  And all for a stupid, dollar-store decoration.  As I examined the hole in my arm, I began to panic a little.  Hospital or not?  Emergency room for stitches or treat it myself?  Call husband or wait for him to get home?  Tetanus? 

            In my panic, I began to feel woozy, so I laid down on the couch for a few minutes.  (I've been starting to faint more and more when these kinds of things happen.  I didn't used to, but I do now.  There's so much I can't handle that I used to be able to.)

            My initial biggest fear was that I might have punctured that main artery that runs along the underside of my arm.  But when I saw that I was barely bleeding, I realized that I had missed it.  And I thanked God profusely that I wasn’t going to bleed to death.  (Thankfully, since my arm was nearly pointing up to the sky as I fell off the log, the dagger punctured along under the skin instead of stabbing straight into my arm where it would have punctured through muscles and arteries.  That would have been much worse.)

            My next fear was of infection.  The end of the dagger had gone over an inch into my arm, so I did what I could to squeeze some of the blood out of the wound to clean out any debris.  And I washed the open hole as best I could.  And then I tried to call my mom (a nurse) to get her opinion on if I should go to the hospital or not.  But I couldn’t get a hold of her.

            By this time, I was calming down.  And I figured that I was pretty safe in just treating it at home, as long as I kept an eye out for infection.  (If it was my kids, I would have taken them to the doctor in a heartbeat.  But for myself, well, I could manage.)  So I called my husband and told him I did “something stupid” and that I needed him to buy some butterfly bandages. 

            While he was applying them to my arm after he got home, my mom called.  And she agreed that I could treat it at home as long as I had antibiotic and butterfly bandages.  So that’s just what I did.  Thank You, God, for that confirmation!  It puts my mind at ease.  

            “Really!?!  Heroin!?!”  When my mom and second step-dad divorced, my ex-step-dad fled to another state and, according to my mom, got back on heroin (which she says he used before they married).  I didn’t believe her at first.  But when his father called me and said that he suspected heroin, too, I figured it must be true.  It’s really sad.  (My brother thinks it was cocaine, but I think I heard heroin.)  It shouldn’t have ended this way.  The last time I talked to him, I was five months pregnant with my now-ten-year-old.  And then he just vanished.  I think of him a lot, every time I see a tall, dark-haired, skinny guy in glasses.  So basically every day.

            “You think he robbed a bank?”  My mom also said that she thought he was the one who robbed the bank that was a few yards from his business.  I still don’t know what to think.

            “Something invisible is creeping up the bed!”  Yep!  I can't see ghosts, but I did once have something invisible creeping up my bed.  This one is explained in the “Supernatural Stuff and the Armor of God” post.  And I really did say this because it really did happen.

            “Yes, I’d like two hard-shell tacos and a medium Dr. Pecker, please!”  Yeah, I accidentally placed this order with the guy behind the Taco Bell counter when I was a teenager, just weeks after I read about someone else’s embarrassing moment of accidentally ordering a Dr. Pecker and I thought, That's gotta be fake.  Who would really do that?

            [I have a theory: Never think to yourself or say out loud, Who would do that?  Because it'll be you next.  And never say anything critical about anyone else.  Because you will eventually find yourself in that same place.  Don’t say, “Wow, that child is loud" or "That woman's kid has a really large head!”  Because you’ll get a screaming Humpty Dumpty for your next kid.]

            “It's really frustrating to me when I'm trying to talk to my boyfriend, but he won’t stop playing with the monkey.”  This is what I shared with my Interpersonal Communications class.  But I had failed to tell anyone that my family had a real monkey.  And I didn’t catch the double meaning until I heard the giggles that were making their way across the room.  “No, a real monkey.  My mom has a real monkey!”

49.  If you ever want to test your kid’s hearing, do what I do ... whisper the word “cookie” from the other room.  I kid you not, I could be in the next room while the kids are watching TV and whisper the word “cookie” and they'll come running. 

            “Cookies!  What!?!  Where are the cookies?”

            Or they will be in the backseat of the van and I’ll be in the front with my husband.  And the radio is on and the windows are down.  And if I whisper something like “How about ice cream” to my husband, they’ll be like “I heard that!  You said ice cream!”

            But get right in their face and ask them to clean their rooms and they turn into Helen Keller.

            “Honestly, Mom, I never saw you or heard you say anything about cleaning my room!”

50.  I never was good at cards when I was younger.  (I’m not much better now!)  I was in high school and playing a game with my friends called “Bullsh…,” actually let me just say that they changed it to “Bologna” for me.  The goal is to get rid of all the cards in your hand.  You discard cards from your hand and announce what you are laying down (face-down) on the table.  But you have to go in order.  So if the person before you lays down 2s, you have to lay down 3s and the next person lays down 4s.  Got it?  But if you don’t have any 3s, you might lay down a 7 and a Jack, but you’ll say “Two 3s,” meaning you claim that you are laying down two 3s.  If someone doesn’t believe you, they will say “Bologna” and check the cards you laid down on the pile.  If they were wrong, they take the cards.  If they were right, you have to take the cards back and extra cards from the deck. 

            Well, the person before me played their turn and said, “One 10.” 

            And I played my turn and said, “Two 11s.”

            And someone snickered and yelled, “Bologna.”

            I wasn't sure how they knew.     

51.  One of the first fancy dinners I made for my then-boyfriend (now-husband) made him “Yelp” in horror.  I decided to make a mushroom-and-garlic-stuffed filet mignon.  As he sat down at the table and picked up his fork and knife, I sighed in contentment and pride, feeling good about treating him to a wonderful meal. 

            But I had neglected to tell him one thing: that it was stuffed. 

            “Oh, this looks good!” he said, in anticipation.  But as he pressed his knife down into it, it exploded open with slimy, gray goo.  He actually jumped in his seat and “yelped” in horror.  (Remember the scene from Empire Strikes Back when Han Solo cuts open the taun-taun so that he can shove a frozen Luke inside?  And the guts burst out?  Yeah ... it was like that!) 

            “Warn someone when you stuff their filet with something!” he said.  Unfortunately, the awful visual of that moment ruined the flavor and made it hard to enjoy.   

52.  Sometimes, when I am at a store or in a public building, I will suddenly get the thought, What if everyone else around us in the world vanished and all that was left were the people in this building? 

            It makes you look at people a little differently when you imagine that you would have to start a whole new civilization with them.

53.  I would love to have a leg-lamp like from Christmas Story.  Maybe someday.  (Update Christmas 2020: I got my leg-lamp, a smaller version of the movie one.  And you know what's sad?  I heard of a kid the other day who saw a few big leg-lamps in windows around his neighborhood and said, "What's with all the creepy legs in the windows?"  What's wrong with kids these days!?!  I bet he's never seen The Princess Bride, Wizard of Oz, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, or Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure either.  So uncultured.)  

54.  I feel most alive and happy when it’s storming.

55.  And I love and collect rocks.  They are like God’s little art pieces.  I love that they can’t be fabricated or duplicated but can only be discovered.

56.  I have a picture on my fridge that’s been there for a year or two because it really makes me smile.  I found it in a magazine when I was going through a really dark, depressing funk.  It’s an ad for a Snuggie, you know that robe that you wear backwards.  There's this guy standing there in this blue Snuggie, holding a cup of coffee and doing a little “hitchhiker thumb” dance.  (Reminds me of Baby from Dirty Dancing when she’s substituting for that other lady and she freezes up during the dance and fails to do the lift, so she turns to the crowd and starts doing this “hitchhiker thumb” dance.  Cracks me up.)  And he just looks so happy.  I have never seen anyone look happier than that.  It’s pure joy.  And it always makes me smile to see just how much he loves that Snuggie.  (I laminated the picture so that it would last longer.)

            Another thing that always makes me smile: My solar-powered, dancing frog.  He looks so happy, just dancing there by himself on the shelf.  Not caring who's watching or not watching.  I will put on George Ezra’s song Budapest sometimes just to watch him dance to it.  It’s the perfect rhythm.
 

57.  I had an embarrassing moment the other day.  I was checking out at Trader Joes and chatting politely with the teen boy who was ringing up my groceries.  And I decided to quickly pop a tic-tac in my mouth.  But as I opened my mouth to say something (and, of course, he’s looking directly at me), the tic-tac comes flying out of my mouth and lands on the floor. 

            Well, I am mortified!  And I bend down to quickly and discreetly pick it up.  But when I do, I accidentally kick it ... and it begins to bounce across the floor.  So there I am, bent over, chasing a bouncing tic-tac full of my mouth germs across the floor. 

            When I finally get it picked up, I try to resume my polite conversation but I am laughing hysterically inside.  Because to a young high-schooler, a 40-year-old with silver hair chasing a bouncing tic-tac that just flew out of her mouth across the floor has got to be a sight.  I probably look like a disheveled, old, semi-lucid, bag-lady.

            I laughed out loud all the way to my car and all the way home as I replayed it in my mind.  And then when I told my husband about how I probably looked like a disheveled, old, bag-lady to a young kid, he said, “Yeah, and it was a white tic-tac, too, so he probably thought a tooth came flying out.”  (I’m laughing so hard right now that I can barely type!)   

58.  I have another candy story. 

            My very first counseling job was, of course, as an intern.  I was supposed to sit in with my supervisor as he counseled a reluctant teen boy.  And I was hugely pregnant with my first child. 

            Before going into the counseling room, I was passing through the office when a bowl of butterscotch candies called out to me, “Heather, you want one of us!  We look good, don’t we?  Go ahead, take one!  The baby wants butterscotch!” 

            A little voice in my head said, “Don’t do it.”  But did I listen?  No!  I grabbed a piece and popped it in my mouth.  After all, I was just going to be listening.  I wouldn’t even have to say a word.  Surely, I could just sit there quietly and suck on my candy. 

            Now, this was the first time I met this teen.  I was already feeling very conspicuous being the very large-bellied newbie and the only female in the room.  But if that wasn’t enough ... as my supervisor was discussing the boy’s issues with him, I inhaled this butterscotch candy into the back of my throat.  Immediately, I began gagging on it.  But since I didn’t want to disrupt the flow of conversation, I sat there completely still - smiling and calm - as I sputtered and slurped, trying to cough up the candy or push it back into my mouth with the back of my tongue.  (I’m sure it was really creepy!)

            When I finally pushed the candy back into my mouth, I resumed quietly sitting there, acting like nothing happened.  I gave them a wide-eyed, innocent look of “What?  What are you all looking at?”  Worst part was, I never told them that I had candy in my mouth.  And I was too embarrassed to explain it.  So I can only imagine what they must have thought was going on with the motionless, creepy, smiling, pregnant woman spontaneously choking in the middle of the room.

 

59.  Sometimes, I wonder if I’m losing my mind (or if it’s just the natural result of being home all day with four children).  Within a couple days, all of these things happened:

            1.  I left the burner on for hours when “keeping food warm.”  (I’ve done this so many times that I made red marks on the knobs so I can easily see whether it’s on or off.)

            2.  I drove for miles at ten miles under the speed limit, but I didn’t realize it until I noticed the line of cars behind me trying to climb up my rear.

            3.  I told my husband I would get him a glass of water at dinnertime.  And then I went into the kitchen, got some more food for the boys, sat back down at the table, and totally forgot about his drink until he got up to get it himself.  (I do this a lot.  Saying, “I’ll get it for you,” then walking in the other room and doing something completely different.  And there’s a lot of “Why did I come into this room again?” as I stand there and stare, contemplating.)

            4.  I’m always calling my boys by a different name.

            5.  I was checking out at Trader Joes when I noticed that some of the food in one of the bags was going bad. 

            I asked the cashier, “Can I exchange these onions for another bag?  One of them is rotten.”

            He said, “You mean lemons?”

            I looked again.  Yeah, it was a bag of lemons. 

            6.  Then I went home and was putting food away when I pulled an old bag of fruit out of the fridge and said, “These peaches don’t look so good!” 

            They were oranges! 

            (But in my defense, I was just talking about peaches, so there is a logical explanation for that.)

            7.  I went to a family gathering and was talking with someone I hadn’t talked to in a while. 

            “So how old is your husband now?” he asked.

            “He’s 41,” I said.  And we chatted a bit more.

            “Wait, no,” I interrupted. “He’s not 41.  He’s 42.  I’m 41.”  Chat, chat, chat, small talk, small talk, babble, babble.

            “No, wait!” I interrupted again.  “I’m not 41.  I’m 40.  But I’ll be 41 soon.”  Yeah, that's how things are going these days.

             

60.  I pierced my upper ear by myself.  Twice.  Just shoving an earring into it until it went through.  But it got infected and I had to take it out.

61.  I can sing every word of “Ice, Ice Baby.”  Drives my kids nuts (which, I think, is one of the responsibilities of and joys of being a parent).  I'm also trying to learn the words to "It's The End Of The World As We Know It," but I can only get to "ladder starts to clatter" so far.  

62.  I have learned the secret of being content in any of every situation.  And I’ll share it with you.  Are you ready for it?  Because here it is ...

            “The secret of being content in any and every situation is this:  It’s really hard!”

63.  You know what I think is one of life’s sickest jokes?  As women age, the hair on their heads gets lighter and grayer but the hair on their chins gets darker and thicker.  What the heck is that about!?!  And yet, while our chin hair gets darker, men's chin hair gets grayer.  What the heck!?! 

            And another one: As you age, you don’t look as young as you think you should.  It’s like your mind stops at a mental picture of you at a young, cute age.  And as you get older, you still feel young inside - insecure, unsure, and self-conscious, like a teenager.  But then you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror and you’re like, “What the heck is going on around here!?!  When did that happen?”  Or else you see a picture of yourself from behind and go, “What the ...!?!  When did someone replace my body with my mom’s body?” 

64.  I had a small panic attack three days ago (May 30, 2016).  It’s the first one I’ve ever had and I don’t plan on ever having another one.  [I also once had a minor nervous breakdown during my parents’ very messy divorce.  It was so bad that the only way I could start breathing and stop crying was to flee from everything, to jump in the car with my husband and two kids and run away to the middle of nowhere for a little while.] 

            This panic attack started after a walk I took around the block ... 

            [Find the rest of this story here, on my other blog.  I deleted it on this blog to keep this list shorter.]

65.  My idea of the perfect day is just being in the (mold-free) backyard with my family (after the neighbor’s moldy garage burns down to the ground in a freak, God-driven, lightning storm.  Wouldn’t that be nice!).  Working alongside my husband in the garden, watching the kids play, taking a walk, and grilling out.  It doesn’t get much better than that!  Unless someone else cooks the meal.  That’s even better.  And add some cheesecake.  That’s nice, too.  And maybe have some good friends pop over for a visit.  With a nice cup of coffee.  And maybe an hour or two to myself later that night watching Gilmore Girls.  Awww, yeaaahhh!       

66.  A couple years ago, I ended up having Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome for a year.  The first time it happened, I got this enormous cramp in my stomach, kind of like a super hunger pain.  So I ate something, thinking I just needed some food.  But then I threw up several times that night.

            And then it happened the next month ... and then the next month.  By this time, I noticed that it always seemed to happen the week before my period.  And then, within a couple more months, it shifted to the day before my period.  I would get the stomach cramp and then, shortly after, smells and sounds would begin to bother me.  And I would have to throw up several times and then lay down in a quiet, dark room and sleep till morning.

            I got on the internet and googled my symptoms and came up with the mysterious CVS.  No one is really sure why it happens, but in my case, it seemed to be related to hormones.  According to what I read, it is like an “abdominal migraine,” which would explain the sensitivity to lights and sounds and smells. 

            And from a few people’s experiences, I learned that the best thing to try first was to take some high-quality vitamins regularly.  I think it was Vitamin B and D that most people recommended (can’t remember for sure).  So since that seemed the easiest option to try, I went out and bought some whole-food, raw vitamins and began taking them every day.  (At half dose, though.  Two pills instead of four, because those babies are expensive!)

            The first time I took them, I vomited within the day, even though I had just had my “abdominal migraine” the week before.  But then . . . I never threw up again! 

            What vitamin deficiency causes you to vomit rhythmically, according to your hormonal cycle!?!  I have never figured that out.  All I know is that as long as I take my vitamins, I don’t throw up. 

            Sometimes, the internet is a wonderful place!  [After it scares the crap out of you by telling you about all the diseases you might have.  I could go into it looking up “pain behind my eyes” and come out with "brain tumor," “male-patterned baldness,” or “toe cancer.”  It’s really a scary place sometimes.  Never look up things “just to see.”  Don’t google symptoms unless you absolutely have to - unless the cost of not knowing is greater than the price of getting the crap scared out of you and being unable to sleep for days because you are now freaked out that you might have gangrene, scurvy, bubonic plague, or all three of them together.]

67.  I used to trust that the government was really looking out for us and for the consumer (when I was young, stupid, and naive).  I used to think that they would never allow things into our food and bodies and air and environment that would hurt us.  Oh, how wrong I was!  After doing a ton of research into healthy eating and food-processing and the power of lobbyist groups and the shady practices of trusted government organizations (such as someone working to develop a harmful product and then going to work for the government to get it approved, or companies being allowed to research, test, and monitor the safety of their own product – say what!?!), I now have a new motto:  Buyer beware!  Research it for yourself.  Never trust the government or the companies to make a decision about what’s healthy or best for you!  My goodness, what a fool I was!  My eyes have been opened!  [The bad side of knowing too much: Sometimes you wish you didn’t.  In some ways, ignorance really is bliss.] 

68.  It makes me crazy when people have their car windows rolled up on beautiful days.  Come on, people ... seriously!!!  You’ve got to be kidding me!!!  ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOW AND ENJOY THE BREEZE!!!  It almost makes me more crazy than when people text and drive.

            Yet, there is a delicious sense of rebellion and freedom and solitude when everyone else’s car windows are rolled up and mine are rolled down.  Especially so when it’s drizzling a little bit or a cool fall day. 

            So when I see that everyone else is nestled into their little “car cocoon,” insulated from the world and from all that horrible fresh air, I roll my windows down and blast some fun music, usually something from my youth like Vanilla Ice’s “Ice, Ice Baby” or Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll” or Pat Benatar’s “Shadows of the Night” or Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”  Or maybe even The Beach Boy’s “Sloop John B” or The Monkee’s “Daydream Believer” or “Son of a Preacher Man” (I don’t know who sings this).  And then there’s Simon and Garfunkel’s “Cecilia” and Mumford and Sons’ “I Will Wait” and Toploader’s “Dancin’ in the Moonlight.”  Or maybe it’s something more recent like Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” or Disturbed’s “Sound of Silence” or Pink’s (with Nate Ruess) “Just Give Me a Reason” or U2’s “Numb” or George Ezra’s “Budapest.”  (It’s fun even to just list the ones I enjoy.) 
            [I have to be careful, though.  I always start speeding – just a little bit - when fun music is on.  My son has started calling me “Lead-foot Mama” when I am listening to this music while driving to church because I end up going 39 miles per hour in a Speed Limit 30 zone.  Maybe I should stop listening to “I Love Rock and Roll” and “We’re Not Gonna Take It” on the way to church.  Yeah, I know ... but still.  It’s a little, bonding-moment tradition for my 7-year-old and me.] 
            Since everyone else’s windows are rolled up, I figure that they are not allowed to be bothered that I am hogging the air waves with my music ... not when they are rejecting the air and doing their best to keep it out of their car.  And so, while I enjoy my loud music and the delicious rebellious freedom of being the only one who is enjoying the fresh air, I stick my hand out the window and tilt it up and down like an airplane wing, letting it rise and fall on the wind.  Or I tap along to the music and simply enjoy the moment!
            But I do make sure to turn the music down when I stop next to another car or pull up next to old people or a family with young children.  I’m not an animal.  Personally, I think that the elderly and mothers of young children have earned the right to not have their peace and quiet ruined by thoughtless hoodlums like myself. 
            [You know, part of the reason I blast the music is because I like to sing along ... and I don’t want people to hear me.  I’m also afraid that I might have butt-dialed someone on my cell-phone and they are listening to me singing in my car.  But they won’t be able to hear me over loud music.  And I don't trust that OnStar thing in the car.  I was told that it never got hooked up, but I still think that green light means that they are listening.  Always listening.  So if they are going to listen to me while I sing, then I am going to blast the music so loud that it hurts their ears.  Oh, they're listening.  Probably through all your smartphone and internet-connected appliances too.  And those little cameras on your computers and phones and tablets, etc. ... they're watching you.  (I tape over all those camera spots.  I just don't trust 'em.  An even then, I wonder if there's a hidden camera I don't know about.)]

            I really do love driving by myself and listening to my music.  There’s not many healthy, fun ways for a mom to really let loose, but this is one of mine.  

69.  A little while back, my husband had taken the kids somewhere for the day.  And I decided to go to the store alone.  As I was driving, I realized that for the first time in over a decade, I didn’t have to check in with anyone.  I didn’t kiss anyone goodbye or tell them where I was going or when I would be back.  No one knew where I was or what I was doing.  I was completely “my own master.”  It was pure freedom!  Like back before I had kids or got married.  

            And then I realized ... I hated it and it was freaking me out!  No one knew where I was or when I should be home or what would've happened to me if I didn't make it home.  No one.

70.  I told my husband that there is one place I want to visit when the kids are grown: Margaritaville.  However, I don’t think I’ll ever really get there because I hate alcohol.  But sometimes, I really wish I liked it.  (Just being honest!) 

71.  Nothing is sexier than a man who is totally in love with and devoted to his wife.  Faithfulness is sexy!

72. There is a new song out that drives me crazy, even if the tune is catchy.  I don’t know who sings it, but it’s basically about how if you are the kind of girl who likes to let some guy have sex with you but without having him commit to you in any way, then he (the guy singing it) is the perfect guy for you.  And if you are the kind of girl who won’t make some guy commit to you but will let him use your body for awhile, then you are the perfect girl for him. 

            Seriously!?! 

            He sings this like she’s getting the good end of the deal!  Like she should be thankful to have found such a fun, wonderful guy – one who will use her body for awhile but not commit to her or cherish her or take care of her heart.  What a pathetic lie girls are being sold! 

            Here me now, girls ... You are worth more than that!  Have some self-respect and don’t let some guy make you feel like you are only worth the sex you give him, like you are a toy to play around with, to be used for a while and then dropped when he gets bored.  Believe that you deserve to be treated better than that and that you deserve to have some guy love, value, and cherish you – the whole you, not just your body - the rest of your life.  Don’t buy into these songs.  It’s not love.  And it won’t last.

            I remember watching a scene from one of those bachelor shows (which I never watch because it gives a totally messed-up view of what a relationship is supposed to be) where one of the women got all offended when the guy didn’t pick her but he told her that he really enjoyed having sex with her.  She acted all miffed, like he was wrong to do what he did.  (And of course, he was.) 

            But what I wanted to say to her was “Honey, he owes you nothing!  You gave him your body to play with and you didn't demand any kind of long-term commitment.  What did you expect would happen!?!  When you give away the goods for free, can you really expect him to cherish you and value you and work hard to commit to you?  Do we value trophies that we didn’t work for or earn?  Some people are more than happy to just take what you are giving, without giving anything back in return.  And if you make it easy for them, don’t be surprised if you end up not getting the kind of long-term love and loyalty you are looking for.” 

            Those shows are so sad and pathetic.  All the women fighting over a man... when I think it should be that the man is the one who should work to get the woman he loves.  Isn’t a good woman worth it!?!  Aren't you worth it, ladies!?!    

73.  Despite the fact that I have been a Christian for three decades, I am still learning how to trust God when things are bad, how to take my eyes off of my circumstances and praise Him when my heart is broken, and how to pray when the words won’t come and when I feel like prayer doesn’t make a difference. 

            Mostly, at this point though, I am simply learning how to sit quietly at His feet because I have exhausted all my efforts and had to let go of too many dreams and hopes.  I am learning to get up every day and do my job and carry on and live the life I have, trying to be thankful for the blessings I have and for the bad things that haven’t happened. 

            Life and faith have definitely gotten harder over the years.  But I guess that’s okay.  Because it’s humbling.  And because I look forward to a day when God makes all things right.  And until then, I let the pain drive me closer to Him, even when I don’t understand, and I cling to Him and sit quietly at His feet and let Him carry me through the trials.  And I hang in there, trusting that in my weakness, He will prove Himself strong and faithful.  (But I wish these lessons weren’t so painful and hard to learn.  It’s a bummer.)

74.  It’s no surprise that 2016 was a bad year for me.  (I am writing this Jan 5, 2017.)  It was one of the most stressful, joyless years.  But there was one area that shines really brightly for me (besides the fact that God got me through the year).  It’s just about the only thing that brings a smile to my face every time I think of it.  And I think of it a lot.  And I smile. 

            Last winter, months before everything went really bad, I was thinking about shutting down the garden for the year, maybe even for good.  I was just so discouraged by the moldy neighbor’s garage that is right next to my garden.  I was tired of hoping and waiting and wanting.

            But then the thought hit me to offer some of my raised beds to a wonderful neighbor two doors down for her to grow a garden in.  My garden is plenty big to offer her a good chunk of space to use.  And she has a yard full of shade and a giant blank walnut tree.  And you can’t grow veggies under a black walnut.  Plus, she has three young children.  And I think all children should experience growing their own food, planting and watering and watching the fruit grow and enjoying the efforts of their labors when the get to finally harvest it and eat it.

            And so I wrote her a letter one day in late winter and asked if she’d like to garden in our yard.  (I warned her about the moldy garage, but she would only be there for a short while whenever she came over.)  I totally expected her to politely refuse because she is such a sweet person that I thought it might make her uncomfortable to be using someone else’s yard. 

            But she surprised me when she said that she would love to.  She also said that she had just been reading the Little House on the Prairie books with her young kids and they had been asking to grow a garden of their own.  So it was perfect timing. 

            That summer (this past one, the terrible one), I got to see her and her young kids enjoying planting plants and gathering veggies and sampling the raspberries that I told them they could pick whenever they came over.  And it brought me so much delight, in an otherwise very discouraging summer. 

            I love sharing the veggies from my garden anyway, but now I got to share the space and let another family have the delight of growing their own stuff.  I got to see the excitement in the kids’ eyes when they pulled a ripe tomato.  I got to watch little eighteen-month-old hands stuffing ripe berries into a smiling, chubby-cheeked mouth.  I got to introduce them to the other plants in the garden, like onions and parsley and garlic.  I got to watch them discover new wonders, like the praying mantises that hatched from the egg sacs I bought.  (I even caught one and let it go in their yard for them to watch.)  I got to watch a three-year-old sigh in relief when he brought the abandoned baby worm that he found in his yard over to our garden and found it a big mommy worm to be its friend.  Letting them share the garden was a breath of fresh air for me, bringing life and joy into my soul when I needed it most.  I still smile every time I think of it, and I thank God for giving me that idea last winter.

            This year, I gave her more space.  And she’s daydreaming up plans for which plants she wants in her garden.  And I am daydreaming about spring, when I get to see little feet leaving soft footprints in the freshly-dug dirt, and little hands delightfully covered in mud as they dig holes for new baby plants, and a wonderful neighbor-friend carrying armloads of garden tools to work her patch of land and then carrying bowlfuls of beans and zucchini and tomatoes and other natural jewels back to her house later in the season, and God’s goodness and riches poured out on two families from one space.  It’s one of the greatest blessings to come out of a really rough year.

75.  There’s a meal that I’ve been serving at our house lately that’s good for the kids.  I call it “The Pioneer Meal.”  And the recipe is this: “You're gonna eat what we’ve got and be thankful you’ve got it.” 
            This is what I tell my kids when they complain about what I am serving and whine about why they have to eat it.  I tell them, “If the pioneers only had a can of beans, they ate the beans and were thankful for it.” 
            It’s good for kids to realize that they don’t always get what they want, that they can’t waste food just because they “don’t like it,” and that they should be grateful for whatever mom serves because at least they have food to eat.
            If you’ve got whiners in your house at mealtime, try this recipe sometime.  When they grumble about the disappointing food on their plate, you simply say, “I made Pioneer Dinner tonight.  It’s ‘you eat what we’ve got and be thankful you’ve got it!’”  It won’t stop the whining, but it makes it more fun for you. 

76.  Another thing that makes my kids crazy besides the pioneer meal is that I sing all the time.  I sing along with my favorite music.  If they whine, I sing lines from songs about not being able to always get what you want or about how they are acting like it’s the end of the world as they know it.  When I am scolding them or telling them to pick up stuff or waking them up or reminding them to brush their teeth, I sing it.  So does my husband.  It makes them crazy. 

            I even made up a whole song called “The Pee-Pee Dance.”  My older son would wait so long to go to the bathroom that he would be squirming and dancing for an hour trying to hold it in, no matter how many times I asked him if he had to go to the bathroom.  And so I made up this “Pee-Pee Dance” song (set to the tune of “The Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats), and I would sing it till he gave in and ran to the potty.  It goes like this:

            “You can dance if you want to.

            You can wet your pants, that’s fine.
            But if your friends find out,
            then your friends are gonna laugh
            when they see you’ve got a wet behind.

            You can “go” where you want to;

            you don’t need to use the can.
            But if your pants get wet
            then I’ll be upset
            ‘cuz I’ll have to wash your pants again.

            You can dance.  You can dance.

            You can lose bladder control.

            You can dance.  You can dance.
            Instead of just deciding to go, oh, oh, oh . . .
            You can Pee-Pee Dance.
            You can Pee-Pee Dance.
            That’s the Pee-Pee Dance.  Hey!”

            (Oh, I crack myself up sometimes!)  It didn’t take long for him to run for the bathroom when he heard the first few lines of it.  Singing is a very effective tool.  (And so is whispering.  Nothing's creepier than whispering to your kids when you'd rather yell.  It shuts them up every time.)  

            I even threaten to sing Abba songs (Mama Mia) when my youngest is deliberately trying to annoy me and won’t go away.  Works every time.
            It might drive them crazy now and they scream and run away when we start singing, but I know that they will appreciate it when they are older and learn how stodgy and grumpy and yell-y other families can be.
            When my kids reflect back on the mom of their youth, I want them to say, “I remember that mom was always singing.  Whether she was happy, mad, frustrated, or sad, she sang.  It drove me crazy then, but I realize now how much I really loved it.”

            I think that if you can sing even when your heart is broken, you know that life hasn't got the best of you yet.  Sometimes, life if so sucky that you've got to just sing.  And laugh.  And enjoy one good moment.  Sing, even when you don't want to.  Because when you least feel like singing is when you need to the most.

            [Also, something else I like to do - usually when my youngest son (who can make me laugh more than anyone else in the world can) looks at me and asks a question - is to look right back at him and, out of the blue, randomly start dancing in a goofy way to whatever music is on the radio instead of answering him.  It drives him crazy, and he's always like "Mom! MOM! Knock it off!"  But I want my kids to remember me being a little goofy sometimes.  I want them to know it's okay to not take life so seriously all the time.  Life's too short and too difficult some days; so have a little fun.  Be a little random.]

77.  (Can't remember if I mentioned this yet, but ...)  Right after my panic attack in 2016 (#64), I had the worst summer ever, followed by three years of terrible anxiety, written about here (the update after the panic attack stuff) and here.  It's 2020 as I write this, and we are now dealing with the fall-out of it all.  And will be for some time.  In fact, things will never be the same again.  (Not to mention all the coronavirus stuff the world is going through.  In fact, the lockdowns were almost a nice distraction.  That's how bad it was!)

78.  We left our church in May 2019 (which made me feel even more lonely during the painful years we were going through) because of the dogmatic Calvinism that was taking it over.  But the good thing is that it led me to create my anti-Calvinism blog to help others.  See my post "We Left Our Church Because Of Calvinism ...".

79.  During the lockdown, I became absolutely addicted to The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings (the books and the movie trilogies).  And it all started with this video.  I had already loved the movies and began rereading the books, but this video started the obsession.  And, oh my goodness, have you seen this hand-drawn Gandalf picture?  Incredible!  I wish I could draw like that!  (Hobbiton is the other place I'd pick if I could live anywhere - just living a quiet, simple life in my hobbit hole, reading books, tending a garden, watching a fire in the fireplace while drinking a nice cup of coffee.  That'd be the life!  One other thing: Every time I watch The Hobbit, I think "I wish Balin was my grandpa."  He'd make an awesome grandpa!  And I also think, "I'm such a Bilbo."  If any character fits me, it's Bilbo.  See this post for more on that.)  

80.  Do you wanna know what I look like?  Click here to find out.

81.  I am a huge reader, like the character Brick from The Middle and Rory from Gilmore Girls.  I always need books nearby.  A big, beautiful stack of books.  (My idea of a good day out is getting a coffee and walking around a used bookstore.  Ah, good times!)  If I go somewhere, like to pick up my son from work, and I have to sit there for a couple minutes, I get really antsy if I don't have a book to read.  My mind is always saying, "Find something to read!  Now!"  But unfortunately, I get car sick easily, and so I can't read on long car trips.  

            [I crochet in the car instead (pronounced crow-shay, not crotch-it).  I've been crocheting since I was 21, making dozen and dozens of blankets for people.  It's nice to crochet while watching TV, relaxing and doing something productive at the same time.  That is, I used to crochet ... until my shoulders started getting achy and "older" from carrying my kids too much when they were little and from doing repetitive tasks with my shoulder like gardening, shoveling, cutting small trees down with a hand saw, painting, etc.  I even gave myself a permanent "tendonitis" in my left elbow from painting the kitchen one day.  That's a bummer.]  

            Currently (March 2021), I am devouring several C.S. Lewis biographies.  Recently I've become addicted, for some reason, to reading not just his writing but also about him, about his life and the man he was.  He fascinates me.  And I've been busy collecting used books, including the classics and great children's books and theology books and C.S. Lewis books and anything else I think I might want in the future someday.  And I'm slowly working my way through the original Wizard of Oz collection, a Jane Austen collection, a Max Lucado collection, the Anne of Green Gables series, the Silmarillion (lovin' it!) and eventually all the other Tolkien books I collected.  

            My idea of true bliss is being snowed into a cabin with a stack of books and cans of soup and all the quiet time in the world.  Oh, that sounds nice!  

            [The only book I really regret reading was Orwell's Nineteen-Eighty-Four.  (Although there are some I started reading but stopped immediately because they were too disturbing.)  I mean, I'm glad I read it because it's a great "sounding the alarm" kind of book, very relevant for today.  But it gave me a near panic attack the night I finished it because it related to something going on in my life at the time.  I was falling apart from fear and anxiety all night.  That book makes me shudder.]

82. (February 15, 2021)  As I said, I think our online devices are indeed listening to us all the time, even when we don't know it.  And I think this is proof:  Our online service is used for our few tablets, phones, and laptops, but we don't have smart TV's or one of those always-on units that listens and responds when you ask it questions.  Well, yesterday we had some friends over, and we got to talking about the movie Return to Oz from 1985, about how creepy it was.  We talked about it for just a couple minutes, maybe 2-3.  Well, a couple hours after they left, I turned on a tablet, looked at the home "news page" and - lo an behold! - there was an article about why Return to Oz wasn't a bad movie.  There's NO WAY ON EARTH that could be a coincidence, not when that's such an old, obscure movie.  They're listening.  Always listening.  Even when we don't know it and didn't set it up that way.  Creepy and disturbing!  

            [Update: Last night, March 6, I was watching a DVD documentary on John Denver on the TV in my room.  I watched it on a TV that is not hooked up to the internet, and I had no internet-connected devices near me.  But when I turned on the tablet today, there were a small handful of new headlines on the "news feed" home page and - surprise, surprise - one of them (out of all the possible things they could report on in the whole world and all of history) was about a song John Denver wrote on March 6 many years ago.  Coincidence!?!  I think NOT!]  

83.  Seriously, I long for a more tech-free world, like the 80's, when things were simple and fun.  I like pens and paper and CD's and DVD's and stamps and envelopes and landlines with a central home-phone (but we can keep the cell-phones for emergencies and quick texts) and libraries full of books and having real people answer the phone when you call a business.  I think too much technology, social media, and not to mention the real media have created more bad than good.  It's sad.  And we can never get those simple times, that innocence, back again.

84.  I told the world (not out loud, but in my head) that I would never ever watch the Oscars again after Edward Norton lost Best Actor for his role in American History X (1998).  And I never did!  (He was robbed!)  Plus, I got kinda sick at the idea of watching rich and famous people celebrate other rich and famous people for being so rich and famous (or "talented," as some might call it), wearing insanely expensive clothes and jewelry, showering each other with expensive gifts and golden statues.  And yet they - Hollywood actors who have the WORST values, who make the most immoral filth out there (calling it "entertainment"), and who live in a pampered, spoiled, "out of touch" bubble - have the nerve to act like they are better than us lowly "common folk" by lecturing us about what kind of morals and political views we should have and who we should vote for.  It's sick!  (Gee, Heather, tell me how you really feel!)

85.  (Working my way to 100.  And spoiler alert coming up... even though it's many years old...)  I have never forgiven Downton Abbey for killing off Matthew in the end of season 3.😢😠  And I wouldn't watch the seasons after that, except for a very few episodes, because they lacked life and joy and integrity now that Matthew was gone.  (But I was very relieved and pleased to see Matthew's actor in Night at the Museum 3 later on, soothed my broken heart and made me feel a little bit like Matthew still lives on.😌)  

            [Message to the TV producers: Some of us have lives that are dramatic enough, filled with enough trials and pain and heartache, and we don't want to have every good storyline ruined just for the sake of drama.  Don't throw a wrench into everything just to spice things up.  Leave some good things alone.  Just let them be good.  There needs to be some bright spots in this world, even in TV shows.  Something to make us hopeful, to help us feel like not everything always goes bad all the time.  Update: I recently learned that Matthew's actor wanted to leave the show, and that's why they had to kill him off.  Okay, so I forgive them a little bit.  But I'm still not watching the rest of it.]

86.  I'm not superstitious, but ... Once my young son said to me, "You're gonna die, Mom."  And I was like, "Yeah, I know.  We're all gonna die someday.  That's what happens."  And he looks at me and says, "Yeah, but you're gonna die."  And I'm like, "Yeaahhh, someday we all will."  (I was starting to get a little uncomfortable.)  And then he stares right at me and gets all serious and says, "No ... you're gonna die, Mom.  You're gonna die."  By this point, I'm starting to freak out, and I look intently into his eyes and, a little afraid to know the answer, I ask, "What do you know that I don't?  Do you see something around me that I can't see?"  (Thankfully, it's been years since this happened, and I'm still here.  But still, weird, right?)

87.  Along similar lines, the other day, my husband calls from work and is like "Are you guys okay there?  I just felt a strong need to check in and make sure you're all safe."  After I say that we're okay, he's like, "Okay.  BE SAFE.  Love you."  And hangs up.  Yeah, thanks a lot!  The rest of the day, I was a bit freaked out.  At one point, I was standing on a chair to hang something, and the thought hit me, "Oh my goodness, this is how it's gonna happen.  He's gonna find me dead on the floor next to this chair."  My nerves were a little shaky as I tried to carefully climb down without falling.  I tell ya, sharing your "premonitions" with someone is probably going to cause the very accidents you're warning them about!

88.  I love coffee.  (Especially cafe mochas.  But I think I'm allergic to chocolate.  Oh well, doesn't stop me!)  But I rarely drank coffee until my late 20's when a friend of mine gave me a bag of Gevalia coffee she wasn't going to use.  And since I knew it was expensive (it could only be ordered through the mail back then, from what I remember), I used it every day to make sure it didn't go to waste.  And I was hooked!  And now I have to have it every day.  (Thanks a lot, Donna!)

89.  Over the years, there's been a bunch of times when random strangers would pour their hearts out to me, telling me of their painful pasts or the trials they are going through.  In parks.  At the library.  During lunch break at seminars.  You know why I think this is?  Not because there's anything special about me, but because I show that I'm willing to listen.  I can't help it, but if I sense that someone wants to talk about something, I ask a small question as a prompt or simply give an interested, "Oh really?"  And before I know it, they are pouring their story out to me.  I think people are dying to talk to others, to share their stories with someone.  Not because they want someone to fix it for them, but just because they want to be heard.  Really heard.  They want to know that someone cares.  Isn't that what we all want?  Take an extra moment someday to really listen to someone who needs to be heard.  You never know what kind of difference it might make in their life.

            [I know exactly how that feels, especially as I was going through those terrible years after my panic attack when I was dying inside and wanted to talk about it with people but couldn't.  You feel alone in a crowd, invisible.  And small talk becomes torture because you can't talk about what you desperately need to talk about, while you have to talk about stupid things you couldn't care less about.  You learn to stop talking.  To stop wanting to be around people.  To stop caring if they know you or not, if they listen or not, if they care or not.  You pull back into a shell because it's safer there and at least you don't have to deal with feeling unseen, uncared for.  Maybe if we all took the time to listen a little more, to care a little more, to ask a question, maybe we'd all feel a little less alone.  A little less overlooked, invisible, insignificant.  And maybe life wouldn't feel so depressing and overwhelming.  I think knowing the kind of deep, horrible, gut-wrenching pain I have known is why my heart breaks so easily for people nowadays, why I cry easily, why I can't read the news anymore and have to be very careful with what I watch and read and listen to.  And it's why I always want to do whatever I can, no matter how small, to help others who are in pain too.]

90.  A couple times every year since lockdown, I collect tiny snails from the garden to keep in a cup to watch and feed.  Just for fun.  To me, they are like teeny-tiny pets that require almost no commitment, because when you're bored of them, you just put them back in the yard.  And what do I name every first pair of snails I get?  Gandalf and Bilbo.  

91.  Ok, I'm gonna share something that's always bugged me but that I've never shared before (at least I don't think I did).  Very shortly after I had my second son, the phone rang and my husband picked it up (I was holding the baby on the couch, unable to easily get up).  And he mouths to me "it's your mother."  She was calling us from another state, the day before she was going to get married for the fourth time.  And then I hear him tell her the name of our wedding song, the song we danced to as husband and wife at our reception.  Our song.  My mind was like "Why does she want to know..." and instantly it hit me and my eyes shot open: No. NO! NOOOOO!  I instantly regretted that I didn't answer the phone or that I didn't know early enough to warn my husband to "forget" the name of the song.  

            "She's going to use it for her wedding," I told him after he hung up.  "Just watch and see."  I knew there was no point in calling her back and telling her not to use it.  I knew she knew it was wrong, that she didn't want to hear from me about it, that she didn't want to be talked out of it - because if it felt right, she would have asked to talk to me, instead of ambushing my husband about it and then hanging up as quickly as she could.  I was fuming.  But I hoped I was wrong.  I hoped she maybe just heard the song somewhere and wondered if it was the same one.  I prayed she couldn't find it anywhere.

            But, lo and behold, after her wedding, she bragged about how she walked down the aisle to it because "it fit my wedding so much better than yours, because we got married on the beach by the water, with the hills in the background and the sky over us, just like in the song."  

            I sighed deeply, smiled for her and said "Oh, that's nice," and felt something die inside.  And now, I can never hear that song the same way again.  It used to make me warm and gooey inside, making me reflect back on dancing with my husband, being held in his arms, the two of us lost in our own little romantic world.  And now when I hear it over a loudspeaker in a store, I go lightning-fast from "Oh, our song, how sweet" to "Oh, ugh.  My mother's song.  Her wedding.  Her husband.  Her joyful moment."  And I shudder.

            (The only consolation for me is that there are two songs I like even better, and so I'm very glad that I didn't use either of those at my wedding because she would have stolen one of those and ruined it for me.  And so in my mind, I just pretend that one of the better songs is really "our song," and she can't ruin it.  But, oh, it still bugs me every time I'm reminded of it.  You know what, I'm getting mad now.  I've gotta go clean something or whatever.  Maybe put on some "angry" music and shake it off.)