nobody loves me
everybody hates me
I'm gonna go eat worms
PROOF
She cut her clothes! With scissors!
Remember when I took Loretta shopping? Remember how painful it was? Remember how it was HOURS OF MY LIFE I WILL NEVER GET BACK?
I wanted her to have cute clothes to wear! I let her pick out the Hello Kitty clothes! Whatever you want Loretta! The Pastor said why did you do that, the kids are basically ungrateful and do not deserve your kindness and generosity, you dear sweet woman. OK, I'm embellishing a bit. But he said something like that, and I responded yes, they may be ungrateful, but I want them to at least look nice when they're with me!
Anyway, back to the story, the Hello Kitty pants and shirt had tags sewn on them. Not the tags that come on clothes when you buy them, but little fabric decorative tags that said "Hello Kitty" and had Hello Kitty's sweet little face on them. When Loretta tried her clothes on, I had a discussion with her about tags and how we don't cut the tags off of something until we are sure we are going to keep it. She said what about these tags? I told her THOSE tags are decorative. We don’t cut those off.
Can you guess what happened next?
She goes to school the next day and uses her dull-edged school scissors to saw away the tags I told her not to remove. Let me tell you, Hello Kitty does not have nine lives.
I tried to have a conversation with her about WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY would you do such a thing? Thinking maybe she had been embarrassed by the tags or had some really good reason for flagrantly disobeying me. However, the conversation only resulted in my blood pressure elevating even higher when it went something like this:
Well Loretta if the tags were bothering you, why didn’t you just wait til you got home and talk to me or your dad about it?
Response: Welllll, I don’t know where our scissors are at home.
MORE PROOF
I have an unlimited budget at Frederick’s of Hollywood and Victoria’s Secret. I can spend as much money as I want at those stores, and I am not considered to be in violation of our budget.
I made my monthly trip to VS this week. I bought the loveliest pair of pretty panties. (Sorry, CLF. I know you hate that word.) Night number one, the Pastor told me not to bother with the pretty knickers. Night number two, same thing. Night number three, I take it upon myself to dress in my new undies. I feel so cute and sassy. The Pastor walks into the bedroom while I am blow-drying my hair, and sees me in my new undergarments. His reaction?
“Honey, do you know where a screwdriver is”?
Then he doesn’t even wait for me to answer, grabs something off his dresser and walks out of the room.
3.31.2006
3.29.2006
Othello Kitty
I recently read "Othello" for lit class. Well, I was supposed to read Othello. Anyway, I know what happens in the story, and I couldn't understand why someone would take a fabulous brooch and gouge their eyes out with it. What's up with that?
Then I took younger daughter shopping.
First, I asked her where she wanted to go shopping. She said Target. Yippee for Target! That's one of my favorite places, and they have a Starbucks on-site. So we get to Target, at which time she informs me she doesn't like Target. What the??? OK, we'll try to get past that part.
When we were looking at the clothes, she informed me I was selecting items not in her size. I was getting the XL, 16/18 for her, and she was insisting she was a size 10/12. I was thinking you and I BOTH wish we were a size 10 in the little girls department, buy sadly only my bra size would qualify. It's amazing how size denial starts at such a young age.
I have taken Loretta shoe-shopping several times, and it is always painful. There is no pair of shoes she will admit to being comfortable. Not one! She claims that absolutely nothing fits her properly and complains of every single pair. I was finally like, honey, I have got your Daddy's charge card, and I'm willing to buy you stuff. So get with the program!
She hasn't mastered the two most important aspect of shoe shopping:
1. SIZE DOESN'T MATTER. It's not how they feel, it's how they look! I twisted my ankle weeks ago. It still hurts, do you think I am wearing unattractive/un-cute shoes? No!
2. Somebody's willing to buy you some shoes, pick a pair! Or two or three!
I remember my Daddy taking me shopping at Street's department store. Not only was I more than happy to allow him to buy me say, a dress, I'd try to manipulate it into TWO dresses and shoes and a purse. And probably a nice lunch.
We did manage to make it out of the store with a pair of Hello Kitty gauchos (which are more like regular pants to Ms. Petite Thang), a matching Hello Kitty tee, a pair of flip flops, and without any major self-inflicted eye injuries.
Then I took younger daughter shopping.
First, I asked her where she wanted to go shopping. She said Target. Yippee for Target! That's one of my favorite places, and they have a Starbucks on-site. So we get to Target, at which time she informs me she doesn't like Target. What the??? OK, we'll try to get past that part.
When we were looking at the clothes, she informed me I was selecting items not in her size. I was getting the XL, 16/18 for her, and she was insisting she was a size 10/12. I was thinking you and I BOTH wish we were a size 10 in the little girls department, buy sadly only my bra size would qualify. It's amazing how size denial starts at such a young age.
I have taken Loretta shoe-shopping several times, and it is always painful. There is no pair of shoes she will admit to being comfortable. Not one! She claims that absolutely nothing fits her properly and complains of every single pair. I was finally like, honey, I have got your Daddy's charge card, and I'm willing to buy you stuff. So get with the program!
She hasn't mastered the two most important aspect of shoe shopping:
1. SIZE DOESN'T MATTER. It's not how they feel, it's how they look! I twisted my ankle weeks ago. It still hurts, do you think I am wearing unattractive/un-cute shoes? No!
2. Somebody's willing to buy you some shoes, pick a pair! Or two or three!
I remember my Daddy taking me shopping at Street's department store. Not only was I more than happy to allow him to buy me say, a dress, I'd try to manipulate it into TWO dresses and shoes and a purse. And probably a nice lunch.
We did manage to make it out of the store with a pair of Hello Kitty gauchos (which are more like regular pants to Ms. Petite Thang), a matching Hello Kitty tee, a pair of flip flops, and without any major self-inflicted eye injuries.
3.27.2006
capricious
Ahhhhh! Spring! Green grass! Birdies chirping! Capri pants!
Defendant's exhibit #1 - Hair Drama
Older daughter's hair, according to professional opinion, needs to be washed every other day, and combed through every single day. She knows this, yet she does her darndest to do everything BUT comb her hair. Yesterday morning, we are getting ready to go to church and the drama-fest begins.
The older daughter's technique is to take one section of hair, close to her face, and comb that once section over and over and over and over and over again. Then she will pronounce that she is done combing her hair.
Then there are the tears. And the complaints. My arm is tired! whine whine whine I can't keep combing through my hair! whine whine whine My arm is exhausted! whine whine whine
Meanwhile, I am attempting to pull my fabulous self together for church. Hey, I have an image! And the Pastor is trying to figure out what it is he is going to say when he preaches.
Finally, after 50 minutes, several tearful outbursts, much use of the whiny voice, the hair was combed through. Or was it? A check revealed the back had not been touched. OK, there, we've got it. Exhale deeply.
We get in the car and head to church.
Defendant's exhibit #2 - Seat Belt Drama
Me, to Loretta (that's what I call the younger daughter): Put your seat belt on! (Mind you, we are already driving, and it's not as though the fact that we have to wear our seatbelt is a new revelation.)
Loretta fastens the seat belt. I turn around a few minutes later, and sure enough! She's got it off!
Me to Loretta: Loretta, I JUST TOLD YOU to put your selt belt on, whydidyoutakeitoff?
Loretta: Uhhhhhhh, because THAT'S what I do when I'm with my Pa-Paw. I don't LIKE wearing my seat belt because it chokes me.
Me, to Loretta: Well, I don't care what you do when you are with your Pa-Paw. Now, you are with me and when you are with me you wear your seat belt!
(uhhhhh, not to mention, it's the law!)
The defense rests.
So after the high dramatics, all before Sunday worship, after church the girls corner the Pastor and lodge the following complaint:
Robyn is bossy!
Did you get that? Robyn is bossy!
We get home. The Pastor tells me this. Why, oh why oh why? I say to the Pastor, watch this! We call the girls into the room and I make the following speech:
Hey girls. Your dad mentioned to me that you find me bossy. Well I just wanted to let you know that I DON'T CARE. I don't care if you think I'm bossy. I am here to help your dad, and I am here to raise responsible citizens who have nice manners and are pleasant to be around and I just really don't care if you think I'm bossy or not! OK, I'm going shopping now. Bye!
From the jury box, to the soap box. I'm on my sassy horse today people!
Am I bossy? Absolutely! Do I have feelings? Absolutely! But really, I don't care if they find me bossy. If I'm going to hang around kids, they are going to know how to comb their hair and chew with their mouths shut and wipe their own butts. Thankyouverymuch.
***
The Pastor totally does not care about weight, which is yet another way that he is the perfect man. However, that means he totally doesn't understand MY WEIGHT. But to all who want to celebrate with me, I lost 3.5 pounds last week. Yipppppeeee! And that was during my "heavy" week of the month! (I'm toning it down here just for you Mom!) : ) And and and and and I have been a good girl, getting on that treadmill every day and have changed my drink order at Starbucks from a Venti to a Tall.
Gotta fit in those capri pants.
Defendant's exhibit #1 - Hair Drama
Older daughter's hair, according to professional opinion, needs to be washed every other day, and combed through every single day. She knows this, yet she does her darndest to do everything BUT comb her hair. Yesterday morning, we are getting ready to go to church and the drama-fest begins.
The older daughter's technique is to take one section of hair, close to her face, and comb that once section over and over and over and over and over again. Then she will pronounce that she is done combing her hair.
Then there are the tears. And the complaints. My arm is tired! whine whine whine I can't keep combing through my hair! whine whine whine My arm is exhausted! whine whine whine
Meanwhile, I am attempting to pull my fabulous self together for church. Hey, I have an image! And the Pastor is trying to figure out what it is he is going to say when he preaches.
Finally, after 50 minutes, several tearful outbursts, much use of the whiny voice, the hair was combed through. Or was it? A check revealed the back had not been touched. OK, there, we've got it. Exhale deeply.
We get in the car and head to church.
Defendant's exhibit #2 - Seat Belt Drama
Me, to Loretta (that's what I call the younger daughter): Put your seat belt on! (Mind you, we are already driving, and it's not as though the fact that we have to wear our seatbelt is a new revelation.)
Loretta fastens the seat belt. I turn around a few minutes later, and sure enough! She's got it off!
Me to Loretta: Loretta, I JUST TOLD YOU to put your selt belt on, whydidyoutakeitoff?
Loretta: Uhhhhhhh, because THAT'S what I do when I'm with my Pa-Paw. I don't LIKE wearing my seat belt because it chokes me.
Me, to Loretta: Well, I don't care what you do when you are with your Pa-Paw. Now, you are with me and when you are with me you wear your seat belt!
(uhhhhh, not to mention, it's the law!)
The defense rests.
So after the high dramatics, all before Sunday worship, after church the girls corner the Pastor and lodge the following complaint:
Robyn is bossy!
Did you get that? Robyn is bossy!
We get home. The Pastor tells me this. Why, oh why oh why? I say to the Pastor, watch this! We call the girls into the room and I make the following speech:
Hey girls. Your dad mentioned to me that you find me bossy. Well I just wanted to let you know that I DON'T CARE. I don't care if you think I'm bossy. I am here to help your dad, and I am here to raise responsible citizens who have nice manners and are pleasant to be around and I just really don't care if you think I'm bossy or not! OK, I'm going shopping now. Bye!
From the jury box, to the soap box. I'm on my sassy horse today people!
Am I bossy? Absolutely! Do I have feelings? Absolutely! But really, I don't care if they find me bossy. If I'm going to hang around kids, they are going to know how to comb their hair and chew with their mouths shut and wipe their own butts. Thankyouverymuch.
***
The Pastor totally does not care about weight, which is yet another way that he is the perfect man. However, that means he totally doesn't understand MY WEIGHT. But to all who want to celebrate with me, I lost 3.5 pounds last week. Yipppppeeee! And that was during my "heavy" week of the month! (I'm toning it down here just for you Mom!) : ) And and and and and I have been a good girl, getting on that treadmill every day and have changed my drink order at Starbucks from a Venti to a Tall.
Gotta fit in those capri pants.
3.16.2006
head cold, polygamist, twins and mice
I'm sick AGAIN. It's a Spring cold. Ugh. Stupid allergies. I think my body is run-down from the travel back and forth to England. Too much travel in too short of time.
I am taking drugs, for the cold, and I'm having really weird dreams. I had a dream that the Pastor had come to the conclusion that things weren't working out between us, so he decided to become a polygamist. Then he didn't understand why I was upset about his other two wives.
Mom had a dream that I was pregnant with twins, and then I had the twins (a girl and a boy) and Mom was trying to help me take care of the twins but we didn't know what we were doing.
I cannot decide which dream is more realistic. Do you think there is some correlation with the number 2 being in each dream - two wives and two babies? Hmmmm.
Strange like the dreams, but this one's true -
The Pastor and I went to a nice restaurant the other night. After our meal, the Pastor spotted a mouse nearby. Dining the next table over. The Pastor went to find a restaurant worker. While he was gone, I flagged someone down, that is, I flagged them down from the chair I was somewhat perched on. This restaurant worker came over and I said there's a mouse! And he said yes, we know. That was it! He was ever so nonchalant about it! Hey buddy - I need you to be just a little more concerned about the mouse! This is not the middle ages when people had mice for pets and what not. This is 2006 and WE NEED TO BE CONCERNED WHEN THERE IS A MOUSE IN THE RESTAURANT!
The sweet Pastor just bought me Starbucks ice cream. As if i don't get enough Starbucks in my diet.
I am taking drugs, for the cold, and I'm having really weird dreams. I had a dream that the Pastor had come to the conclusion that things weren't working out between us, so he decided to become a polygamist. Then he didn't understand why I was upset about his other two wives.
Mom had a dream that I was pregnant with twins, and then I had the twins (a girl and a boy) and Mom was trying to help me take care of the twins but we didn't know what we were doing.
I cannot decide which dream is more realistic. Do you think there is some correlation with the number 2 being in each dream - two wives and two babies? Hmmmm.
Strange like the dreams, but this one's true -
The Pastor and I went to a nice restaurant the other night. After our meal, the Pastor spotted a mouse nearby. Dining the next table over. The Pastor went to find a restaurant worker. While he was gone, I flagged someone down, that is, I flagged them down from the chair I was somewhat perched on. This restaurant worker came over and I said there's a mouse! And he said yes, we know. That was it! He was ever so nonchalant about it! Hey buddy - I need you to be just a little more concerned about the mouse! This is not the middle ages when people had mice for pets and what not. This is 2006 and WE NEED TO BE CONCERNED WHEN THERE IS A MOUSE IN THE RESTAURANT!
The sweet Pastor just bought me Starbucks ice cream. As if i don't get enough Starbucks in my diet.
curly-headed cowboy chef with a splint on his gimp-arm
my spastic child
Nathan, for some reason, finally decided he was going to ride his bike. I was completely overjoyed. He also expressed interest in a skateboard and roller skating. Good wholesome boy-ish physical activity. Glory halleluiah!
Of course, he insisted on being helmeted. And performing 82 safety checks. And anything that can distract him while he is undertaking one of these physical acftivities is totally not a good idea. Like should he have the sun visor on his helmut up, or down? Or up? Or down? Or should he use this gear, or that gear?
He rides his bike briefly on Monday afternoon. I say briefly, because the amont of time actually spent on his bike was brief in comparison to the amount of time we had to spend listening to him complain about how much his bottom hurt from riding his bike.
Now we reach the part of our story where you find out I am THE WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD! So I took the child roller skating. He falls on his wrist. I give it the once over. Tell him to shake it off. It's fine. You're fine! Suck it up! What do I know? It's not like I'm a doctor!
He goes over to Mom's that night. I tell Mom don't let him whine on and on about the wrist! He will, if you let him! I come to pick him up later in the evening, and he is sitting in the chair with an ice pack on the wrist. What do I know? It's not like I'm a doctor!
So the next morning, the hand/wrist area is considerably swollen. I take him to the doctor and they x-ray it. That's how the doctor is one-up on me, they have that handy-dandy x-ray equipment. Whatever! The hand is so swollen, they can't tell if there's a fracture or not. There's a questionable area, so they send the x-ray off for a second opinion so we'll know whether or not he needs a cast. Right now, he's in a splint. No, unlike my initial medical examination, I will not be the one responsible for casting his arm, if needed. I will go to a licensed physician.
I'm sure this set us back light-years with the whole physical activity thing. Sigh. The doctor told Nate no biking and no skateboarding! I thought geeeeezzzz! We JUST finally got the kid to do those things! Now he'll probably just want to hide in the house and work on long division and logic problems! Or . . .
Brokeback Mountain
More Nathan stuff. He'd kill me if he knew I was writing this. Kill me dead. The other day, he found his cowboy hat and boots and decided he wanted to dress up like a cowboy. Hooray for another fine boy-ish activity! He goes into the bathroom and comes out with younger daughter's pink sponge rollers. He asks me to put them in his hair, so his hair will be curly like a cowboy's. NO, I will NOT. Then he asked me if I would use the curling iron on his hair. No, I didn't do that either.
So after this I completely abandoned all masculine, testosterone-inspired activities and took Nathan to "Pass Your Plate." They have a web-site at
www.passyourplate.com
We made 11 dishes in 1 hour and 45 minutes. I think it was a pretty good value. $159. We'll see. I figured it was worth a try.
I didn't intend for this to be a fun activity for Nate, I intended to get stuff cooked for the fam. But I hyped it up to Nathan. He had a blast. He is already asking to go back. He wanted to know if he didn't get into trouble for the rest of the school year, if that could be his special reward . . . to go back to PYP and make more meals for the family. I think that is a no-brainer.
Nathan, for some reason, finally decided he was going to ride his bike. I was completely overjoyed. He also expressed interest in a skateboard and roller skating. Good wholesome boy-ish physical activity. Glory halleluiah!
Of course, he insisted on being helmeted. And performing 82 safety checks. And anything that can distract him while he is undertaking one of these physical acftivities is totally not a good idea. Like should he have the sun visor on his helmut up, or down? Or up? Or down? Or should he use this gear, or that gear?
He rides his bike briefly on Monday afternoon. I say briefly, because the amont of time actually spent on his bike was brief in comparison to the amount of time we had to spend listening to him complain about how much his bottom hurt from riding his bike.
Now we reach the part of our story where you find out I am THE WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD! So I took the child roller skating. He falls on his wrist. I give it the once over. Tell him to shake it off. It's fine. You're fine! Suck it up! What do I know? It's not like I'm a doctor!
He goes over to Mom's that night. I tell Mom don't let him whine on and on about the wrist! He will, if you let him! I come to pick him up later in the evening, and he is sitting in the chair with an ice pack on the wrist. What do I know? It's not like I'm a doctor!
So the next morning, the hand/wrist area is considerably swollen. I take him to the doctor and they x-ray it. That's how the doctor is one-up on me, they have that handy-dandy x-ray equipment. Whatever! The hand is so swollen, they can't tell if there's a fracture or not. There's a questionable area, so they send the x-ray off for a second opinion so we'll know whether or not he needs a cast. Right now, he's in a splint. No, unlike my initial medical examination, I will not be the one responsible for casting his arm, if needed. I will go to a licensed physician.
I'm sure this set us back light-years with the whole physical activity thing. Sigh. The doctor told Nate no biking and no skateboarding! I thought geeeeezzzz! We JUST finally got the kid to do those things! Now he'll probably just want to hide in the house and work on long division and logic problems! Or . . .
Brokeback Mountain
More Nathan stuff. He'd kill me if he knew I was writing this. Kill me dead. The other day, he found his cowboy hat and boots and decided he wanted to dress up like a cowboy. Hooray for another fine boy-ish activity! He goes into the bathroom and comes out with younger daughter's pink sponge rollers. He asks me to put them in his hair, so his hair will be curly like a cowboy's. NO, I will NOT. Then he asked me if I would use the curling iron on his hair. No, I didn't do that either.
So after this I completely abandoned all masculine, testosterone-inspired activities and took Nathan to "Pass Your Plate." They have a web-site at
www.passyourplate.com
We made 11 dishes in 1 hour and 45 minutes. I think it was a pretty good value. $159. We'll see. I figured it was worth a try.
I didn't intend for this to be a fun activity for Nate, I intended to get stuff cooked for the fam. But I hyped it up to Nathan. He had a blast. He is already asking to go back. He wanted to know if he didn't get into trouble for the rest of the school year, if that could be his special reward . . . to go back to PYP and make more meals for the family. I think that is a no-brainer.
3.14.2006
the never-ending story
once upon a time
I bought a dress
it was cute
the Pastor was mad
I took it back
the end
I bought a dress
it was cute
the Pastor was mad
I took it back
the end
3.10.2006
stop, drop and roll
Have been home since Tuesday night. In case you are keeping track, since then I have had Taco Bell TWICE and On the Border ONCE. Any diet/exercise progress I made in England is gone.
Came home.
1. Was I ready for that mid-term literature test? Noooooooooooooo!
2. Am I way way way behind on my Literature homework? Yessssssssssss!
3. Did I inadvertently set the oven on FIRE when I tried to broil the Pastor a steak? Yessssssssssss!
4. Is one of the kiddos on in-school suspension? Yesssssssssssss!
5. Did the Pastor post pics on my blog out of order? Yesssssssssss!
In my defense, it WAS the first kitchen/cooking related fire I've ever had. And I was watching the steak as it engulfed in flames, so I was able to oh-so calmly turn the oven off, grab the baking soda and put the fire out. Since I'm a vegetarian, this makes the event even worse. Not only was the meat already dead, I continued to torture it.
Boobs = Stuff
When I was in England, there was this one day when I wore the push-up bra and had cleavage. So I joked with the Pastor all day that when anything good happened to us, it was because I had boobs. This was a really good day. We went to a play that day, and I bought the tickets. I told the ticket seller Wow~those were cheaper than I thought! He said that's because I charged you the UNDER AGE 25 rate! Under 25 AND boobs!
Also on this same day, we ran into this guy who believed he could figure out where the Pastor and I are from, based on listening to our accents. He nailed the Pastor as being and Oregonian on the first try. Me, he guessed as a Californian! Wrong! Ha! Of course, I told the Pastor the blonde hair and boobs had thrown the guy off. Stuff like pink clothes (I was dressed all in pink) and blonde really sticks out like a sore thumb in England.
Anywho. Under 25. Boobs. Californian. That was a good day. We must hold on to these fond memories for the times when we are back to reality and burning down the house.
Came home.
1. Was I ready for that mid-term literature test? Noooooooooooooo!
2. Am I way way way behind on my Literature homework? Yessssssssssss!
3. Did I inadvertently set the oven on FIRE when I tried to broil the Pastor a steak? Yessssssssssss!
4. Is one of the kiddos on in-school suspension? Yesssssssssssss!
5. Did the Pastor post pics on my blog out of order? Yesssssssssss!
In my defense, it WAS the first kitchen/cooking related fire I've ever had. And I was watching the steak as it engulfed in flames, so I was able to oh-so calmly turn the oven off, grab the baking soda and put the fire out. Since I'm a vegetarian, this makes the event even worse. Not only was the meat already dead, I continued to torture it.
Boobs = Stuff
When I was in England, there was this one day when I wore the push-up bra and had cleavage. So I joked with the Pastor all day that when anything good happened to us, it was because I had boobs. This was a really good day. We went to a play that day, and I bought the tickets. I told the ticket seller Wow~those were cheaper than I thought! He said that's because I charged you the UNDER AGE 25 rate! Under 25 AND boobs!
Also on this same day, we ran into this guy who believed he could figure out where the Pastor and I are from, based on listening to our accents. He nailed the Pastor as being and Oregonian on the first try. Me, he guessed as a Californian! Wrong! Ha! Of course, I told the Pastor the blonde hair and boobs had thrown the guy off. Stuff like pink clothes (I was dressed all in pink) and blonde really sticks out like a sore thumb in England.
Anywho. Under 25. Boobs. Californian. That was a good day. We must hold on to these fond memories for the times when we are back to reality and burning down the house.
me and a baby, Part II
I kept the baby out of our Mardi Gras King cake. As you can see, I'm taking good care of him/her. 
3.09.2006
3.04.2006
hot cross buns
I. am. so. tired.
It is 1:45 a.m. home time, 7:45 a.m. England time. The Pastor went to sleep as soon as we got back from dinner last night. Me, I couldn't sleep. I finally fell asleep for two blissful hours during the night, at which time the Pastor woke up and decided to share the fact that he could no longer sleep with me. Now I am awake, and he is snoozing. I am just sitting here typing, VERY LOUDLY, on the keyboard.
Hmmm, let's see. The weather . . . I can talk about the weather. It's very mild and nice here. Lush and green. Friday I walked to the coffee shop and it was just lovely outside. Later in the day, when the Pastor was finished working, we walked in the park and had a "picnic". Then not very many hours later it started snowing like crazy. Big beautiful flakes. Perfect for snowmen and snowballs. But it still never really felt cold. The Pastor and I walked to dinner in the falling snow, and when we got back we packed cups full of snow, poured cola on top and had icee's.
The same people still work at the coffee shop that worked here when I came last summer. That's good, because they remember me and it makes me feel like a "regular". My home-away-from-home Starbucks.
We went to eat an an Indian restaurant yesterday.
Stuff that's different in England:
1. There's healthy food - everywhere.
2. The desserts suck. Stuff looks good, but it's ehhhh. Like last night, we had this cheese-cakey stuff, but the filling was not cheese-cakey. It was just bland and disappointing.
3. My hair. I am without a blow-dryer or a flat iron. But check this out! The night before last, the Pastor and I came back to our room at night and we were stinky and dirty and showered before bed. I thought what am I going to do with this hair. My hair is naturally wavy, and I thought it will just be a mess in the a.m. and I really don't want to get up and go through the whole wet hair ordeal again. So I put my damp hair in a bun (Mom used to do this to my hair when I was a little girl) and in the morning I had the most awesome, fab, curly hair. And it stayed curled all day. Even this morning before I washed it, it was STILL curly. Also the English climate seems to be favorable to my skin and nails.
4. The toilets are very round. American toilets are oval. British toilets are round, like my big round bum.
5. Lots of the bathrooms don't have mirrors, which you especially notice when you are vain and want to look at your awesome hair and pretty skin.
6. I don't know where people buy stuff here. Like TV's and microwaves and dishes (crockery) and STUFF. You just don't see stuff stores here.
We were going to take a train somewhere today, maybe Liverpool. I was sorta indifferent about the whole thing and was fine to just stay here in Manchester and celebrate the Sabbath by going to the park. But the Pastor was all about wanting to take a train to explore. When he got on-line and discovered it would cost about $120 for us to go where we were thinking, we decided to stay put. Especially since it is Sunday and we don't know if we go anywhere, once we get there if anything will be open.
I'm tired. I think I'll crawl back in bed with the Pastor. That no doubt means he'll decide it's time to rise and shine.
It is 1:45 a.m. home time, 7:45 a.m. England time. The Pastor went to sleep as soon as we got back from dinner last night. Me, I couldn't sleep. I finally fell asleep for two blissful hours during the night, at which time the Pastor woke up and decided to share the fact that he could no longer sleep with me. Now I am awake, and he is snoozing. I am just sitting here typing, VERY LOUDLY, on the keyboard.
Hmmm, let's see. The weather . . . I can talk about the weather. It's very mild and nice here. Lush and green. Friday I walked to the coffee shop and it was just lovely outside. Later in the day, when the Pastor was finished working, we walked in the park and had a "picnic". Then not very many hours later it started snowing like crazy. Big beautiful flakes. Perfect for snowmen and snowballs. But it still never really felt cold. The Pastor and I walked to dinner in the falling snow, and when we got back we packed cups full of snow, poured cola on top and had icee's.
The same people still work at the coffee shop that worked here when I came last summer. That's good, because they remember me and it makes me feel like a "regular". My home-away-from-home Starbucks.
We went to eat an an Indian restaurant yesterday.
Stuff that's different in England:
1. There's healthy food - everywhere.
2. The desserts suck. Stuff looks good, but it's ehhhh. Like last night, we had this cheese-cakey stuff, but the filling was not cheese-cakey. It was just bland and disappointing.
3. My hair. I am without a blow-dryer or a flat iron. But check this out! The night before last, the Pastor and I came back to our room at night and we were stinky and dirty and showered before bed. I thought what am I going to do with this hair. My hair is naturally wavy, and I thought it will just be a mess in the a.m. and I really don't want to get up and go through the whole wet hair ordeal again. So I put my damp hair in a bun (Mom used to do this to my hair when I was a little girl) and in the morning I had the most awesome, fab, curly hair. And it stayed curled all day. Even this morning before I washed it, it was STILL curly. Also the English climate seems to be favorable to my skin and nails.
4. The toilets are very round. American toilets are oval. British toilets are round, like my big round bum.
5. Lots of the bathrooms don't have mirrors, which you especially notice when you are vain and want to look at your awesome hair and pretty skin.
6. I don't know where people buy stuff here. Like TV's and microwaves and dishes (crockery) and STUFF. You just don't see stuff stores here.
We were going to take a train somewhere today, maybe Liverpool. I was sorta indifferent about the whole thing and was fine to just stay here in Manchester and celebrate the Sabbath by going to the park. But the Pastor was all about wanting to take a train to explore. When he got on-line and discovered it would cost about $120 for us to go where we were thinking, we decided to stay put. Especially since it is Sunday and we don't know if we go anywhere, once we get there if anything will be open.
I'm tired. I think I'll crawl back in bed with the Pastor. That no doubt means he'll decide it's time to rise and shine.
3.02.2006
just nod if you can hear me
Helloooooo! Is anyone out there? Does anybody read this thing?
Greetings from England. I am presently in Manchester, sipping on English Elderflower Presse which is basically a fancy way of saying Sprite with a touch of rose flavor in it. It is 11:15 p.m. England time, and 5:15 p.m. back home time. The Pastor is asleep, and even though I took a sleeping pill I remain awake.
I was just in bed composing this blog post and wondering how on earth the Pastor can adjust to the time difference. Then I realized he hasn't adjusted, he's just finally found the right time zone for his weird self. Plus the man can sleep anywhere. It's not normally hard for me to fall asleep, but sleeping on an airplane is much different. But on the flight over, that man pulled his stocking cap over his eyes and slept practically the whole time, sitting up. Me, that's precisely when my Restless Leg Syndrome decided to kick in.
I know I haven't blogged much lately, but hey - there is only so much creative energy to go around! Here are some random tid-bits for you:
1. I am enjoying my co-ed status. However, since I last went to college I seem to have developed a mild form of retardation which means I can read something, go to sleep, and in the morning have completely forgotten what it is I was studying the night before.
2. I am enjoying the glamorous life of temping one day a week. Once per week, I "play" office. By the time I stop and get my Starbucks, I'm several dollars in the hole before I even get to work. Then I go to an office and work for a few hours at the rate of $10 an hour. I can't go out to lunch, because if I spend any more money after my cup of coffee I'm pretty sure I could be considered a "volunteer" for all practical purposes. I love being a temp because people act as though you are a non-person. As though you don't exist. It's fabulous. Also, I have the same conversation every week:
some random person or person(s) in the office: "I just don't see how you can work in such high heels"!
me, smiling and shrugging my shoulders: "Oh, I've just had lots of practice"!
3. I had the WORST kidney infection of my life. I was in bed, with throbbing kidneys, thinking of how I wanted to divide up my worldly possessions. I was going to have the Pastor send my Chocolate Loving Friend miscellaneous items of clothing and shoes to remember me by. And I had instructed the Pastor to bury me in the wrap dress. Not very good instructions though as the Pastor is easily confused and I have two wrap dresses and he'd probably bury me in the wrong one, and I'd be in the afterlife all ticked off at him. Once I asked him to get me an Eggnog Chai at Starbucks. Then I changed my mind and told him a Peppermint Mocha. He brought me back a Peppermint Chai. It's not a good idea to confuse the man with too many choices, he is a Scholar after all.
4. Speaking of the Pastor being a Scholar . . . he got to do a little presentation today on his dissertation. Great stuff if you are into Samuel, Saul, Judges, Abimelech, kingship, blah blah blah. Anywho, someone at the conference said about the Pastor "he has clearly MASTERED his material". So this is now the new catch-phrase when the Pastor does anything. Like tonight, when he jammed toast in the toaster, and was trying to get it out but only made smaller pieces of jammed up toast in the toaster and then made our room all smokey trying to burn it out, I told him he had clearly mastered his material. It really is funny ha-ha when someone really smart who has a degree and two masters degrees and almost a doctorate can't make toast.
I told the Pastor not to be too flattered. After all, one of the men at the conference listening to the Pastor pulled out his keys and proceeded to clean his ears with them. Smart people do not put sharp instruments in their ear canals.
5. More thoughts on dying. Mom and Dad drove us to the airport. I asked mom if she knew what to do if I died on the trip. She said no. And I replied me neither, but I'll be dead. She said she does know if someone dies overseas it's a giant hassle to get them back home. So I told her she should just leave me then, because I'd be dead and all. No purpose dragging me back home. But, she said, but but but! there would be no closure for Mr. Nathan. Ummmmm, alrighty then. I guess that settles it.
6. There's a wardrobe in our room. It is NOT the secret passage to Narnia.
OK, I'm going to try the whole sleep thing again. If anyone is reading this, their attention span is long-gone by now.
Greetings from England. I am presently in Manchester, sipping on English Elderflower Presse which is basically a fancy way of saying Sprite with a touch of rose flavor in it. It is 11:15 p.m. England time, and 5:15 p.m. back home time. The Pastor is asleep, and even though I took a sleeping pill I remain awake.
I was just in bed composing this blog post and wondering how on earth the Pastor can adjust to the time difference. Then I realized he hasn't adjusted, he's just finally found the right time zone for his weird self. Plus the man can sleep anywhere. It's not normally hard for me to fall asleep, but sleeping on an airplane is much different. But on the flight over, that man pulled his stocking cap over his eyes and slept practically the whole time, sitting up. Me, that's precisely when my Restless Leg Syndrome decided to kick in.
I know I haven't blogged much lately, but hey - there is only so much creative energy to go around! Here are some random tid-bits for you:
1. I am enjoying my co-ed status. However, since I last went to college I seem to have developed a mild form of retardation which means I can read something, go to sleep, and in the morning have completely forgotten what it is I was studying the night before.
2. I am enjoying the glamorous life of temping one day a week. Once per week, I "play" office. By the time I stop and get my Starbucks, I'm several dollars in the hole before I even get to work. Then I go to an office and work for a few hours at the rate of $10 an hour. I can't go out to lunch, because if I spend any more money after my cup of coffee I'm pretty sure I could be considered a "volunteer" for all practical purposes. I love being a temp because people act as though you are a non-person. As though you don't exist. It's fabulous. Also, I have the same conversation every week:
some random person or person(s) in the office: "I just don't see how you can work in such high heels"!
me, smiling and shrugging my shoulders: "Oh, I've just had lots of practice"!
3. I had the WORST kidney infection of my life. I was in bed, with throbbing kidneys, thinking of how I wanted to divide up my worldly possessions. I was going to have the Pastor send my Chocolate Loving Friend miscellaneous items of clothing and shoes to remember me by. And I had instructed the Pastor to bury me in the wrap dress. Not very good instructions though as the Pastor is easily confused and I have two wrap dresses and he'd probably bury me in the wrong one, and I'd be in the afterlife all ticked off at him. Once I asked him to get me an Eggnog Chai at Starbucks. Then I changed my mind and told him a Peppermint Mocha. He brought me back a Peppermint Chai. It's not a good idea to confuse the man with too many choices, he is a Scholar after all.
4. Speaking of the Pastor being a Scholar . . . he got to do a little presentation today on his dissertation. Great stuff if you are into Samuel, Saul, Judges, Abimelech, kingship, blah blah blah. Anywho, someone at the conference said about the Pastor "he has clearly MASTERED his material". So this is now the new catch-phrase when the Pastor does anything. Like tonight, when he jammed toast in the toaster, and was trying to get it out but only made smaller pieces of jammed up toast in the toaster and then made our room all smokey trying to burn it out, I told him he had clearly mastered his material. It really is funny ha-ha when someone really smart who has a degree and two masters degrees and almost a doctorate can't make toast.
I told the Pastor not to be too flattered. After all, one of the men at the conference listening to the Pastor pulled out his keys and proceeded to clean his ears with them. Smart people do not put sharp instruments in their ear canals.
5. More thoughts on dying. Mom and Dad drove us to the airport. I asked mom if she knew what to do if I died on the trip. She said no. And I replied me neither, but I'll be dead. She said she does know if someone dies overseas it's a giant hassle to get them back home. So I told her she should just leave me then, because I'd be dead and all. No purpose dragging me back home. But, she said, but but but! there would be no closure for Mr. Nathan. Ummmmm, alrighty then. I guess that settles it.
6. There's a wardrobe in our room. It is NOT the secret passage to Narnia.
OK, I'm going to try the whole sleep thing again. If anyone is reading this, their attention span is long-gone by now.
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