First off, according to wikipedia, I need to thank Levi's for creating the first jean jacket! Denim jackets have been a staple in my wardrobe since I can remember...and you never forget your first.
My first jean jacket was a wonderful light, acid-wash ladies jacket - size L. Now keep in mind...I was in second grade. But, this was not just any 'ol jean jacket. This jean jacket had come from the "bedazzled" era. And it. was. glorious. (at the time, I thought so). For whatever reason, just because I "loved" something (i.e. - barbies, cabbage patch dolls, school supplies), then that also meant I had to wear it.
I've already created the canvas for you...light, acid-wash, size L. Now for the art. This jean jacket had an array of wooden school supplies and rhinestones casually hot-glued over the entirety of the jacket. There were crayons, chalkboards, alarm clocks - all made of wood and painted. There were cloth iron-ons of cheerleaders, football helmets, pennets. There was every size and shape of rhinestone in blues, reds, yellows, and greens. I'm sure you're thinking so far that it can't be that bad...oh, it was. For whatever reason, there was one of the wooden alarm clocks right between the sholder blades - forget trying to lean back in your chair! (Being a teacher now, I think I might have come up with a solution to my student's leaning/almost-sliding-out-of-the-desk problem...glue a wooden alarm clock on the backrest). Did this alarm clock deter me from wearing said jean jacket? Um, no. I wore it with flair! Sometimes I would wear my school supply jean jack with a sweater that looked like notebook paper with kid drawings (no lie). Sometimes I'd wear it with my Osh'kosh B'gosh overalls, train conducter stripes and all. Sometimes I'd wear it over my jammies...thinking I'd sleep on my stomach (but, no, there's a wooden alarm clock over the heart). Funny thing is, and I think this is how life works, the darn thing was several sizes too big...but nothing kept me from sporting two of my favorite things - jean jackets and school supplies.
I still have my school supply jean jacket. And when I use to talk about it, I think people thought I was kidding...that this "thing" actually existed. I keep it in my closet in my classroom. I've been chilly in class a few times, and it's made an appearance...BUT I was really, really cold. I've also used it as a consequence - "oh yeah, if you're late to class one more time I'm going to make you wear the jacket!".
Maybe I'll pass it down to my children someday. Nah, I'll spare them the embarrassment. :)
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
phobia
Everyone has a fear or a phobia, although most have a phobia towards a living "something" (i.e. - spider, cockroach, wasps, etc.). Mine, however, is broken glass.
This past weekend, the hubs and I ventured to a mall to buy me a new bike helmet. Yep, you read right. Me, buying a helemt. That can (and should) mean only one thing...my clumsy self will be attempting to ride a mountain bike! On dirt!
Anyhow, the hubs picked out a vibrant, hot pink helmet for me. And honestly, I just didn't care to find a different one. Any of you that know me personally, know that I don't truly like to stand out - especially in a sport that I have no experience in. Wearing a hot pink helmet just yells "hey, you really awesome rider over there, watch at me fall into that rocky cravese!".
When we were leaving the mall, I happened to step on a grassy curb and looked down to see broken shards of glass. Instantly, I was paralyzed in my spot...and I yelled. Not a yell so loud that others around us thought I might be dying, but loud enough to gain awkward stares. It felt as though my legs had turned from jello to concrete in a matter of milliseconds.
Knowing my fear, hubby kindly walked over and pointed out a path that would take me out of the valley of death and around the shards. Once we were in the car (and a second of welled eyes later), I had him look over my flippies (3 times) to make sure none of the pieces made it into the soles or the bottom of my feet.
For some people, they don't know where their phobia originates; mine, however, all stems from an emergency room visit and no sight of a promised ice cream treat if I didn't cry. And I didn't cry.
This past weekend, the hubs and I ventured to a mall to buy me a new bike helmet. Yep, you read right. Me, buying a helemt. That can (and should) mean only one thing...my clumsy self will be attempting to ride a mountain bike! On dirt!
Anyhow, the hubs picked out a vibrant, hot pink helmet for me. And honestly, I just didn't care to find a different one. Any of you that know me personally, know that I don't truly like to stand out - especially in a sport that I have no experience in. Wearing a hot pink helmet just yells "hey, you really awesome rider over there, watch at me fall into that rocky cravese!".
When we were leaving the mall, I happened to step on a grassy curb and looked down to see broken shards of glass. Instantly, I was paralyzed in my spot...and I yelled. Not a yell so loud that others around us thought I might be dying, but loud enough to gain awkward stares. It felt as though my legs had turned from jello to concrete in a matter of milliseconds.
Knowing my fear, hubby kindly walked over and pointed out a path that would take me out of the valley of death and around the shards. Once we were in the car (and a second of welled eyes later), I had him look over my flippies (3 times) to make sure none of the pieces made it into the soles or the bottom of my feet.
For some people, they don't know where their phobia originates; mine, however, all stems from an emergency room visit and no sight of a promised ice cream treat if I didn't cry. And I didn't cry.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
guilty shopper
My mother taught me at the young age of three right from wrong when shopping; don't steal, always use coupons, and it's easier to return it if you decide later you don't want it. I was reminded of the one about "don't steal" today, and it brought back a terrible memory of my very first shopping experience.
I'll start by saying this: To the Stores, don't put small, easy-to-be-grab objects at children's eye level or reach. We were picking up something at a Walgreen's-type store, and while we were checking out I noticed the gleaming silver wrapper of a york peppermint patty. I'd never had a york peppermint patty before, but the wrapper alone sold me. So, I put it in my pocket.
Mom was treating me to McDonald's that day, and for whatever reason, she let us sit out in the playground area. For those of you with kids, I don't know how you can stand those playground areas; yuck. Anyhow, I was more interested in playing than eating, but knew that I had to finish my Happy Meal before I could play. Then I remembered my little treat waiting for me in my pocket. So, I pulled it out and ate it.
Mom: "Where did you get that?!"
Me: "Um, at the Walgreen's-type store."
Mom: "Let me ask you again, where did you get that? I did not buy that for you!"
So, I told her: It was calling my name at eye level with it's shinny, silver wrapper that was just within my three foot reach.
Needless to say, I did not get to play. Mom quickly drove me back to the Walgreen's-type store, asked for the manager, and told me to explain what happened. I was mortified. I was in tears. And I knew I was in trouble with the law.
The manager thought all of this was quite cute, and said that if I apologized to every store employee that it would pay off the 5 cents I stole from the store. It was literally only 5 cents, but I learned my lesson - do not steal!
This brings me back to my present-day story. It's Memorial Day weekend, and how does the mass majority of the market economy celebrate? With SALES! So, I received a 15% Off coupon and a $10 Gift, both from the same store! Someone in their marketing distribution team must have been fired over that one. Anyhow, I decided to treat myself to a little "set" (if you truely must know what said "set" is, you'll have to ask me in person or hopefully, figure it out yourself).
However, when I got in the car I noticed that the $10 Gift only applied to certain states, and one of them was not mine. Well! Then why the H would you send it to my address if the Gift didn't apply to my state! Mom taught me another lesson: to raise cane, so I was going to use the coupon regardless.
I found a set I really liked; it was already 40% Off, which was a good deal to start with. Then I deliberately went to a line with a male cashier hoping to embarrass him a bit with my purchase - perhaps he won't see that my Gift did not apply to our state. He hesitated a bit with the tags - good, he's getting antsy. I told him I had two coupons and could I use both. He said, "Yes". Great! Told me my original total would have been $40, then with the 40% Off it came to $36, and somehow, SOMEHOW, with the use of my coupon and my gift, my total cam down to $4.59! Holy Tiffany Blue (beacuse that's the color I picked out)! I didn't ask questions, in fact I asked for a gift receipt and told him it was for a bridal shower. He was sweating (or perhaps that was me). And I left.
When I got to the car, I checked the receipt to figure out just how awesome I am - and to look at the math of it all. Shoot. He didn't charge me for the bottom half of the set. Panic set it. Did I just steal that bottom half of the set? Do I go back in and tell them? But I only spent $4.59, it was such a deal! And then I drove off. The whole way home I tried justifying it; it was his fault, he's the cashier...and that's about as far as I got with justifications.
I feel mortified. I did shed some tears. I feel terrible for inadvertantly (see still justifying) getting away with the bottom half of my set.
{Don't tell my mom}.
I'll start by saying this: To the Stores, don't put small, easy-to-be-grab objects at children's eye level or reach. We were picking up something at a Walgreen's-type store, and while we were checking out I noticed the gleaming silver wrapper of a york peppermint patty. I'd never had a york peppermint patty before, but the wrapper alone sold me. So, I put it in my pocket.
Mom was treating me to McDonald's that day, and for whatever reason, she let us sit out in the playground area. For those of you with kids, I don't know how you can stand those playground areas; yuck. Anyhow, I was more interested in playing than eating, but knew that I had to finish my Happy Meal before I could play. Then I remembered my little treat waiting for me in my pocket. So, I pulled it out and ate it.
Mom: "Where did you get that?!"
Me: "Um, at the Walgreen's-type store."
Mom: "Let me ask you again, where did you get that? I did not buy that for you!"
So, I told her: It was calling my name at eye level with it's shinny, silver wrapper that was just within my three foot reach.
Needless to say, I did not get to play. Mom quickly drove me back to the Walgreen's-type store, asked for the manager, and told me to explain what happened. I was mortified. I was in tears. And I knew I was in trouble with the law.
The manager thought all of this was quite cute, and said that if I apologized to every store employee that it would pay off the 5 cents I stole from the store. It was literally only 5 cents, but I learned my lesson - do not steal!
This brings me back to my present-day story. It's Memorial Day weekend, and how does the mass majority of the market economy celebrate? With SALES! So, I received a 15% Off coupon and a $10 Gift, both from the same store! Someone in their marketing distribution team must have been fired over that one. Anyhow, I decided to treat myself to a little "set" (if you truely must know what said "set" is, you'll have to ask me in person or hopefully, figure it out yourself).
However, when I got in the car I noticed that the $10 Gift only applied to certain states, and one of them was not mine. Well! Then why the H would you send it to my address if the Gift didn't apply to my state! Mom taught me another lesson: to raise cane, so I was going to use the coupon regardless.
I found a set I really liked; it was already 40% Off, which was a good deal to start with. Then I deliberately went to a line with a male cashier hoping to embarrass him a bit with my purchase - perhaps he won't see that my Gift did not apply to our state. He hesitated a bit with the tags - good, he's getting antsy. I told him I had two coupons and could I use both. He said, "Yes". Great! Told me my original total would have been $40, then with the 40% Off it came to $36, and somehow, SOMEHOW, with the use of my coupon and my gift, my total cam down to $4.59! Holy Tiffany Blue (beacuse that's the color I picked out)! I didn't ask questions, in fact I asked for a gift receipt and told him it was for a bridal shower. He was sweating (or perhaps that was me). And I left.
When I got to the car, I checked the receipt to figure out just how awesome I am - and to look at the math of it all. Shoot. He didn't charge me for the bottom half of the set. Panic set it. Did I just steal that bottom half of the set? Do I go back in and tell them? But I only spent $4.59, it was such a deal! And then I drove off. The whole way home I tried justifying it; it was his fault, he's the cashier...and that's about as far as I got with justifications.
I feel mortified. I did shed some tears. I feel terrible for inadvertantly (see still justifying) getting away with the bottom half of my set.
{Don't tell my mom}.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
doughnut holes.
According to Shipley's, the average doughnut hole is 16/20". That is 16/20" of awesomeness in 12 bites (if you get a dozen, which I do).
I treated myself to doughnut holes yesterday morning; 1) because I love doughnut holes and I had restrained myself for several weeks, and 2) because I had to get up for school on a Saturday (thank you inclement weather). Anyhow, they were pure, glazed bliss! It's a good thing they only put a certain amount in each bag (i.e. - a dozen), otherwise I wouldn't be able to control myself.
Ever since I can remember getting doughnut holes, I've always had this odd idiosyncrasy associated with them. Early on, I realized that Shipley's creates abnormal doughnut holes (surely by accident, and for my satisfaction). This 1 in 4 dozen doughnut hole aberration has an inside that is purely caramelized sugar (the glazed icing), so that when you bite into it, it's heaven. Think original Cadbury bunny egg, but better and without a hard, chocolate shell. Always having an affinity for science and investigation, I discovered that the abnormal doughnut holes are more dense than the normal glazed perfections...and knowing this allowed me to assort my dozen doughnut holes from the normal doughnut hole to surely the greatest (less dense to more dense). And that's how I eat them. Hoping that the most dense doughnut hole will, in fact, be one of the abnormal, sugar-filled confections. Most of the time, my doughnut hole line-up works; in fact, it's been working since 2nd grade.
However, since Shipley's closed in our neighborhood I have turned my doughnut hole affections to a new donut store. And although their doughnut holes are good...they just can't compete with Shipley's. I have yet to discover a single doughnut hole like Shipley's produced (on accident).
Will I stop eating doughnut holes? Um, definitely no. But the Shipley's denser doughnut holes hold a much dearer spot in my heart!
I treated myself to doughnut holes yesterday morning; 1) because I love doughnut holes and I had restrained myself for several weeks, and 2) because I had to get up for school on a Saturday (thank you inclement weather). Anyhow, they were pure, glazed bliss! It's a good thing they only put a certain amount in each bag (i.e. - a dozen), otherwise I wouldn't be able to control myself.
Ever since I can remember getting doughnut holes, I've always had this odd idiosyncrasy associated with them. Early on, I realized that Shipley's creates abnormal doughnut holes (surely by accident, and for my satisfaction). This 1 in 4 dozen doughnut hole aberration has an inside that is purely caramelized sugar (the glazed icing), so that when you bite into it, it's heaven. Think original Cadbury bunny egg, but better and without a hard, chocolate shell. Always having an affinity for science and investigation, I discovered that the abnormal doughnut holes are more dense than the normal glazed perfections...and knowing this allowed me to assort my dozen doughnut holes from the normal doughnut hole to surely the greatest (less dense to more dense). And that's how I eat them. Hoping that the most dense doughnut hole will, in fact, be one of the abnormal, sugar-filled confections. Most of the time, my doughnut hole line-up works; in fact, it's been working since 2nd grade.
However, since Shipley's closed in our neighborhood I have turned my doughnut hole affections to a new donut store. And although their doughnut holes are good...they just can't compete with Shipley's. I have yet to discover a single doughnut hole like Shipley's produced (on accident).
Will I stop eating doughnut holes? Um, definitely no. But the Shipley's denser doughnut holes hold a much dearer spot in my heart!
Monday, April 12, 2010
sweet.
Some households fight over finances or chores or children. My household fights over desserts.
My mom made my favorite cookies last week - peanut butter white chocolate chip - they make my mouth water just thinking about them. She gave me two bags; one with 6 cookies and one with 7 cookies. Never did she specify that one bag was for me or one bag was for my husband...I just assumed that all the cookies wouldn't fit in one bag. Nor at the time did I realize that the bags were unproportioned.
These cookies are so good that you can't just have one at a time, they're a take-2-cookies-at-a-time kinda goodness. So over the past couple of days I saw the bags dwindle. But I wasn't panicked. I had proportioned my rations so that Sunday night I would still have one after dinner and one for the next day's lunch. At least I planned, and I placed (hid) them in the fridge.
After dinner, the husband walks into the kitchen and looks at the empty location where the cookies had once been. He's livid. This avid, "I don't eat sweets" person is mad that the cookies are missing. I calmly, and simply, explain to him that one is for dessert and one is for MY lunch the next day. He proceeds to tell me that I have eaten ALL the cookies. NO!? I couldn't have - there were 13 cookies! Then I remembered that he had, in fact, eaten 2 of them. This is where he mathematically reminds me that that means I've eaten 9 of the cookies. Um, yikes.
He decides to compromise - he'll eat the last ice cream drumstick. What?! The last one?! This is where the argument ensues and he tells me that I cannot have my cake and eat it too.
So he got the last two cookies. I got the last ice cream drumstick. He likes to think that he won, but in reality I feel like I've won. I ate 9 of the 13 cookies...and I got the last drumstick (the kind with the little bit of chocolate-filled cone at the end).
All of this happens the same week after Easter - in which case I decide the day after Easter that I need a Cadbury Egg. Monday we travelled to a multitude of Targets, Walgreens, Wal-Marts, and CVSs in search for the last remaining Cadbury eggs in DFW. At our 7th location, a Walgreens close to our house, we spot boxes upon boxes of Cadbury eggs...but not the cream ones, lots of orange cream and carmel, but no original cream. Then. Shoved in the back of a shelf I see a hint of primary-colored foil gleaming in the fluorescent light. Could. it. be! The last remaining original, cream-filled Cadbury eggs in DFW?!
{I need to mention that our hunt for these eggs was vocalized at every location, so individuals in a 2-aisle radius could hear the desperation in my voice}
As soon as I go to reach for the last container of Cadbury eggs, a crazy grandma sneaks in like a lurking ninja and plops them in her basket. What?! But those were mine. She knew they were mine. I spotted them first!! It took everything that the good Lord gave me to not steal this grandma's basket...or slap her.
Needless to say, I was upset. So upset that FB and my school friends got to hear about it. Some of them even went on a quest to find the last remaining Cadbury eggs in their neck of the woods.
One friend introduced me to Lindt chocolate. Let me tell you, if you've not experienced these little bits of edible heaven, you are missing out. She surprised me several days in a row by putting one in my box. They were scrumptious.
Another friend surprised me this morning with my very own collection of Cadbury eggs! It made my Monday (and Tuesday - Friday)! Four little containers of mini-Cadbury eggs - a dozen each. I was doing pretty good, until 4:15 pm. The nutritional label (that's almost oxymoronic on a chocolate box) said that a serving size was 4 mini-eggs. So I ate a serving size. +1. +3. +5. What?! I ate 9 mini-eggs?! Gaw, they were so good! I feel that since I didn't eat ALL of the dozen that I could still eat dessert tonight.
And I didn't bring them home to share.
{After this post, I am giving up sweets in order to fit into my clothes...once again.}
My mom made my favorite cookies last week - peanut butter white chocolate chip - they make my mouth water just thinking about them. She gave me two bags; one with 6 cookies and one with 7 cookies. Never did she specify that one bag was for me or one bag was for my husband...I just assumed that all the cookies wouldn't fit in one bag. Nor at the time did I realize that the bags were unproportioned.
These cookies are so good that you can't just have one at a time, they're a take-2-cookies-at-a-time kinda goodness. So over the past couple of days I saw the bags dwindle. But I wasn't panicked. I had proportioned my rations so that Sunday night I would still have one after dinner and one for the next day's lunch. At least I planned, and I placed (hid) them in the fridge.
After dinner, the husband walks into the kitchen and looks at the empty location where the cookies had once been. He's livid. This avid, "I don't eat sweets" person is mad that the cookies are missing. I calmly, and simply, explain to him that one is for dessert and one is for MY lunch the next day. He proceeds to tell me that I have eaten ALL the cookies. NO!? I couldn't have - there were 13 cookies! Then I remembered that he had, in fact, eaten 2 of them. This is where he mathematically reminds me that that means I've eaten 9 of the cookies. Um, yikes.
He decides to compromise - he'll eat the last ice cream drumstick. What?! The last one?! This is where the argument ensues and he tells me that I cannot have my cake and eat it too.
So he got the last two cookies. I got the last ice cream drumstick. He likes to think that he won, but in reality I feel like I've won. I ate 9 of the 13 cookies...and I got the last drumstick (the kind with the little bit of chocolate-filled cone at the end).
All of this happens the same week after Easter - in which case I decide the day after Easter that I need a Cadbury Egg. Monday we travelled to a multitude of Targets, Walgreens, Wal-Marts, and CVSs in search for the last remaining Cadbury eggs in DFW. At our 7th location, a Walgreens close to our house, we spot boxes upon boxes of Cadbury eggs...but not the cream ones, lots of orange cream and carmel, but no original cream. Then. Shoved in the back of a shelf I see a hint of primary-colored foil gleaming in the fluorescent light. Could. it. be! The last remaining original, cream-filled Cadbury eggs in DFW?!
{I need to mention that our hunt for these eggs was vocalized at every location, so individuals in a 2-aisle radius could hear the desperation in my voice}
As soon as I go to reach for the last container of Cadbury eggs, a crazy grandma sneaks in like a lurking ninja and plops them in her basket. What?! But those were mine. She knew they were mine. I spotted them first!! It took everything that the good Lord gave me to not steal this grandma's basket...or slap her.
Needless to say, I was upset. So upset that FB and my school friends got to hear about it. Some of them even went on a quest to find the last remaining Cadbury eggs in their neck of the woods.
One friend introduced me to Lindt chocolate. Let me tell you, if you've not experienced these little bits of edible heaven, you are missing out. She surprised me several days in a row by putting one in my box. They were scrumptious.
Another friend surprised me this morning with my very own collection of Cadbury eggs! It made my Monday (and Tuesday - Friday)! Four little containers of mini-Cadbury eggs - a dozen each. I was doing pretty good, until 4:15 pm. The nutritional label (that's almost oxymoronic on a chocolate box) said that a serving size was 4 mini-eggs. So I ate a serving size. +1. +3. +5. What?! I ate 9 mini-eggs?! Gaw, they were so good! I feel that since I didn't eat ALL of the dozen that I could still eat dessert tonight.
And I didn't bring them home to share.
{After this post, I am giving up sweets in order to fit into my clothes...once again.}
Saturday, March 27, 2010
wizzwhoppers lead to mosquitoes
Plain and simple: wizzwhoppers lead to mosquitoes. You may be asking yourself "what the heck is a wizzwhopper?!"...well, in my family, that's what we call mosquito-eaters. Your family may use another name (i.e. - skeeters, skeeter-eaters, gollywhoppers, atc). Either way they lead right to mosquitoes, and therefore mosquito season. We've had quite a bit of wet weather this winter and early spring, so I suspect that mosquito season will be here before we know it (or before Target has their "OFF" section declared for summer). And I know mosquito season is fast approaching by the amount of wizzwhoppers slipping into my home when I let Roxie (our dog) in and out...and when Chuck Norris (our cat {I feel like I have to remind you that our cat's name is CN, just in case}) is intently starring at a corner of our wall - that's how I know it's time to prepare myself for the dreaded mosquito season.
Mosquitoes and I have battles of epic proportion - think Holyfield vs. Tyson. Except unlike Holyfield who gets his ear bitten by another human, I get mine bit by bugs. And it's not just the ear.
I'll never forget the summer my parents sent me to girl scout camp (well, actually they sent me to girl scout camp for a period of five years, then I think they finally figured out that "camping was not my thing").
The first year I went to girl scout camp was at Camp T, where someone thought it would be fantastic that I actually got to stay in covered wagons (literally). Being in the 3rd grade, I was a bit excited and terrified at the same time. The week before I arrived at camp it had rained, and rained, and rained, and left stagnant puddles around my wagon - generally what we in Texas like to call a breeding ground. When we arrived at camp, Pebbles (my camp counselor) showed me to a wagon that I was going to share with three other girls. Upon looking at my wagon, my excitement transformed into petrification. Holy thin mints - I had a 4-poster bed...for mosquito netting!! As I pouted on the ramp of my wagon, my mom went to work putting up netting - it was a horrific concoction of army green and fishnet pantyhose (apparently we'd bought the off-brand netting). My parents waved goodbye and I was left with my wagon, mosquito netting, and loosely-called latrine. The next morning one of my wagon-mates wakes me up: I'm on the "floor" of our wagon and tangled in my netting, which had been ripped off my 4-poster bed along with two of the posts. Pebbles comes to assess the damage and my netting is beyond repair...as well as the bed's posts. She assures me that I will be just fine without the netting, and that maybe I'll win the camp's award for "best camper" (whatever the heck that entailed). The next several nights were filled with ending up on the floor again, wetting my pants, and getting stuck in the latrine. Finally it was time to go home. My parents were appalled when they picked me up from camp to count over 120+ mosquito bites all over my body. With all the horror I'd dealt with during the week, I hadn't even noticed the bites, but I was ready to go home.
Two years later, my parents drop me off at Camp SR. This time I was staying in covered tents slightly elevated off the dirt. There was netting again - the brand the camp recommended. At least this time I made it two nights without winding up tangled in my netting; however, this year I did notice the mosquito bites that soon followed and reacted the only way I knew how - I scratched...with a ferocity that landed me in the nurses station. I thought "Hallelujah! I get to go home early!", but the nurse couldn't get a hold of my parents. So with her best judgement, and my medical release form in hand, she figured the best bet was to give me some Benadryll.
Nurse, (think raspy, smokes-too-much voice): "Sweetheart, can you swallow pills?"
Me: "Uh, no, we've been practicing with M&Ms, but I always spit them up."
Nurse (puzzled): "Huh."
She turns around to a cabinet and fiddles in there for a while. I was hoping she was looking for the good, pink stuff (calamine lotion and/or the bubblegum-flavored penicillin that had to be kept in the fridge). When she faces me she's holding two Benadryll and a straw.
Nurse: "Open up. I'm going to put the Benadryll in the end of the straw and blow it down your throat. It won't hurt. It'll be over in no time."
She was right, it didn't hurt (that I remember) and it was over too fast - I had to go back to my tent. {Disclaimer: I realize now that this was in no way, shape, or form legal, but I do not hold Camp SR liable of any damage at this time}. I can't remember if the nurse did finally get a hold of my parents, but they didn't come to pick me up any sooner then the end date - and again, they counted the bites.
That was not the last year they sent me to camp.
So, as I see wizzwhoppers buzzing about my home I am reminded that mosquito season is coming...and I don't do well with mosquitoes.
Mosquitoes and I have battles of epic proportion - think Holyfield vs. Tyson. Except unlike Holyfield who gets his ear bitten by another human, I get mine bit by bugs. And it's not just the ear.
I'll never forget the summer my parents sent me to girl scout camp (well, actually they sent me to girl scout camp for a period of five years, then I think they finally figured out that "camping was not my thing").
The first year I went to girl scout camp was at Camp T, where someone thought it would be fantastic that I actually got to stay in covered wagons (literally). Being in the 3rd grade, I was a bit excited and terrified at the same time. The week before I arrived at camp it had rained, and rained, and rained, and left stagnant puddles around my wagon - generally what we in Texas like to call a breeding ground. When we arrived at camp, Pebbles (my camp counselor) showed me to a wagon that I was going to share with three other girls. Upon looking at my wagon, my excitement transformed into petrification. Holy thin mints - I had a 4-poster bed...for mosquito netting!! As I pouted on the ramp of my wagon, my mom went to work putting up netting - it was a horrific concoction of army green and fishnet pantyhose (apparently we'd bought the off-brand netting). My parents waved goodbye and I was left with my wagon, mosquito netting, and loosely-called latrine. The next morning one of my wagon-mates wakes me up: I'm on the "floor" of our wagon and tangled in my netting, which had been ripped off my 4-poster bed along with two of the posts. Pebbles comes to assess the damage and my netting is beyond repair...as well as the bed's posts. She assures me that I will be just fine without the netting, and that maybe I'll win the camp's award for "best camper" (whatever the heck that entailed). The next several nights were filled with ending up on the floor again, wetting my pants, and getting stuck in the latrine. Finally it was time to go home. My parents were appalled when they picked me up from camp to count over 120+ mosquito bites all over my body. With all the horror I'd dealt with during the week, I hadn't even noticed the bites, but I was ready to go home.
Two years later, my parents drop me off at Camp SR. This time I was staying in covered tents slightly elevated off the dirt. There was netting again - the brand the camp recommended. At least this time I made it two nights without winding up tangled in my netting; however, this year I did notice the mosquito bites that soon followed and reacted the only way I knew how - I scratched...with a ferocity that landed me in the nurses station. I thought "Hallelujah! I get to go home early!", but the nurse couldn't get a hold of my parents. So with her best judgement, and my medical release form in hand, she figured the best bet was to give me some Benadryll.
Nurse, (think raspy, smokes-too-much voice): "Sweetheart, can you swallow pills?"
Me: "Uh, no, we've been practicing with M&Ms, but I always spit them up."
Nurse (puzzled): "Huh."
She turns around to a cabinet and fiddles in there for a while. I was hoping she was looking for the good, pink stuff (calamine lotion and/or the bubblegum-flavored penicillin that had to be kept in the fridge). When she faces me she's holding two Benadryll and a straw.
Nurse: "Open up. I'm going to put the Benadryll in the end of the straw and blow it down your throat. It won't hurt. It'll be over in no time."
She was right, it didn't hurt (that I remember) and it was over too fast - I had to go back to my tent. {Disclaimer: I realize now that this was in no way, shape, or form legal, but I do not hold Camp SR liable of any damage at this time}. I can't remember if the nurse did finally get a hold of my parents, but they didn't come to pick me up any sooner then the end date - and again, they counted the bites.
That was not the last year they sent me to camp.
So, as I see wizzwhoppers buzzing about my home I am reminded that mosquito season is coming...and I don't do well with mosquitoes.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
lost, then found
Since it's spring, we've been doing a lot of cleaning. I have to admit that I'm a bit of a pack rat - not that I save everything, but I tend to find a senitmental value to most things and think that I might need it in the future. Today I found out that I was wrong...I do not need to keep everything, because I end up saving a lot of junk. And towards the end of the day, things I once thought held some sentimental fascination no longer strike the same chord in me...and thus it ends up in the trash.
Anyhow, while I was cleaning out a desk I came across a glasses container - the case from 3rd grade. I couldn't believe it! Could this actually hold the one physical reminder of my "tortured" (and I say that in quotations simply because anyone who survived elementary and middle school as a self-professed nerd would say that they were tourtured in school by those more "fortunate" then they)?! If anything can take me down memory lane, it's my glasses I had from 3rd through 8th grade.
It all began when my 3rd grade teacher told the school nurse that I was squinting in class, so the nurse pulled me out of class to do a simple vision test. I failed. The nurse sent home a letter to my parents (before cell phones they still sent home letters) stating that I needed to see an optomitrist due to my inability to see 20/20. I don't remember physically giving my parents the letter, but somehow I ended up at my parent's optomitrist - and he was fairly new to the profession and eager to see any and everyone who wanted to see him - we'll call him Dr. H. Sure enough, Dr. H determined that at the age 8 I had vision problems and needed glasses to wear daily. I was upset, I didn't want anything to be wrong...and let's face it, being "big boned" in the 3rd grade wasn't going to help my new acquisition of glasses (might as well add head gear...well, that does come later).
After informing me of what was already determined at school, Dr. H told me and my parents that I was going to get (that's in italics and you'll find out why) to pick out my first pair of glasses. Seeing the wide array of colors and shapes outside his office made me a little excited! Back then Guess was a very popular brand, and sure enough the company had expanded to making eyewear for kids. And there. they. were. The most spectacular Guess glasses! They were perfect! Petite frame, color: cotten candy (a speckling of periwinkle, pink, and turquoise)! So I picked them up and took them back to where my parents and Dr. H were sitting, waiting for me.
Right away, my mother already thought they were heinous: "Ee gads, those colors?!".
My dad was a bit more encouraging: "Well, try them on".
My mother gasps just loud enough for me to notice and I turn to her, she looks horrified. "Really?", I think to myself, "they couldn't be that bad". As I turn back around, Dr. H has placed the portable mirror in front of me. Aw, man, they were that bad. The petite frames were stretched enough arcoss my face that the ear peices were bent as far as they could go, as if they might pop off - screws holding them together as best as they could. I told my parents "But, I really like them" (at this point I am near tears because, well frankly, I wanted the ones called cotten candy - perhaps that's why they didn't fit...I'd had too much cotten candy to wear the kids frames).
Dr. H rumages around in some other frames while I sit there trying to bend the Guess, cotten candy, kid frams back to their normal position. He pulls out a pair of adult, red-framed glasses and asks me to put them on. They slide on and I immediately feel bug-like, as if my eyes are protruding off of my face.
Mom: "Oh, those are wonderful!"
Dad: "And they are so becoming."
Dr. H: "Yes, so becoming."
Before I realize it, the order is being written up and I am told that they will be in within 3-5 business days. All I can do as I sit there is, "wait! Did I really only get to try on 2 pairs of glasses", and then we're off to the next errand. And my parents keep repeating to me: they're so becoming. At age 8, I don't have any idea what this means, except for the fact that I trust them...that maybe these glasses will transform me into a more noticable 3rd grader (the one that Josh H. would notice).
And...I was wrong. The red-framed glasses came in, Dr. H adjusts them a bit so they sit straight on the bridge of my nose, and I'm sent back to school. The first thing out of Josh H.'s mouth is "Sally Jesse Raphael! You look like Sally Jesse Raphael! Bwaaa Haahh!" Soon most of my 3rd grade class is laughing along.
I did everything I could to get rid of those glasses: sat on them, put them in my backpack without their case, bent the earpeice too far back, rolled over them with the teacher's chair. And they broke 3 times. Each time they broke, I received the same red-framed glasses. Each time! So my nickname through the rest of elementary school and early junior high was Sally Jesse Raphael (I also earned David Letterman, but you'll hear about that when I tell you about the head gear).
{If I was blog-savvy this is where I would insert my 3rd grade class picture}
I did finally get contacts...and moved on from the SJR nickname...but finding those glasses brought it all back. It is funny now - to think how much I hated them, and I still have a phobia of red glasses (which Dr. H and his practice still like to remind me of) - but now I can laugh at it. I may not have gotten the Guess, cotten candy glasses, and it's fine - I made my husband buy me a pair of Coach glasses just recently. I can wear those with a bit more pride.
No, they are not red.
Anyhow, while I was cleaning out a desk I came across a glasses container - the case from 3rd grade. I couldn't believe it! Could this actually hold the one physical reminder of my "tortured" (and I say that in quotations simply because anyone who survived elementary and middle school as a self-professed nerd would say that they were tourtured in school by those more "fortunate" then they)?! If anything can take me down memory lane, it's my glasses I had from 3rd through 8th grade.
It all began when my 3rd grade teacher told the school nurse that I was squinting in class, so the nurse pulled me out of class to do a simple vision test. I failed. The nurse sent home a letter to my parents (before cell phones they still sent home letters) stating that I needed to see an optomitrist due to my inability to see 20/20. I don't remember physically giving my parents the letter, but somehow I ended up at my parent's optomitrist - and he was fairly new to the profession and eager to see any and everyone who wanted to see him - we'll call him Dr. H. Sure enough, Dr. H determined that at the age 8 I had vision problems and needed glasses to wear daily. I was upset, I didn't want anything to be wrong...and let's face it, being "big boned" in the 3rd grade wasn't going to help my new acquisition of glasses (might as well add head gear...well, that does come later).
After informing me of what was already determined at school, Dr. H told me and my parents that I was going to get (that's in italics and you'll find out why) to pick out my first pair of glasses. Seeing the wide array of colors and shapes outside his office made me a little excited! Back then Guess was a very popular brand, and sure enough the company had expanded to making eyewear for kids. And there. they. were. The most spectacular Guess glasses! They were perfect! Petite frame, color: cotten candy (a speckling of periwinkle, pink, and turquoise)! So I picked them up and took them back to where my parents and Dr. H were sitting, waiting for me.
Right away, my mother already thought they were heinous: "Ee gads, those colors?!".
My dad was a bit more encouraging: "Well, try them on".
My mother gasps just loud enough for me to notice and I turn to her, she looks horrified. "Really?", I think to myself, "they couldn't be that bad". As I turn back around, Dr. H has placed the portable mirror in front of me. Aw, man, they were that bad. The petite frames were stretched enough arcoss my face that the ear peices were bent as far as they could go, as if they might pop off - screws holding them together as best as they could. I told my parents "But, I really like them" (at this point I am near tears because, well frankly, I wanted the ones called cotten candy - perhaps that's why they didn't fit...I'd had too much cotten candy to wear the kids frames).
Dr. H rumages around in some other frames while I sit there trying to bend the Guess, cotten candy, kid frams back to their normal position. He pulls out a pair of adult, red-framed glasses and asks me to put them on. They slide on and I immediately feel bug-like, as if my eyes are protruding off of my face.
Mom: "Oh, those are wonderful!"
Dad: "And they are so becoming."
Dr. H: "Yes, so becoming."
Before I realize it, the order is being written up and I am told that they will be in within 3-5 business days. All I can do as I sit there is, "wait! Did I really only get to try on 2 pairs of glasses", and then we're off to the next errand. And my parents keep repeating to me: they're so becoming. At age 8, I don't have any idea what this means, except for the fact that I trust them...that maybe these glasses will transform me into a more noticable 3rd grader (the one that Josh H. would notice).
And...I was wrong. The red-framed glasses came in, Dr. H adjusts them a bit so they sit straight on the bridge of my nose, and I'm sent back to school. The first thing out of Josh H.'s mouth is "Sally Jesse Raphael! You look like Sally Jesse Raphael! Bwaaa Haahh!" Soon most of my 3rd grade class is laughing along.
I did everything I could to get rid of those glasses: sat on them, put them in my backpack without their case, bent the earpeice too far back, rolled over them with the teacher's chair. And they broke 3 times. Each time they broke, I received the same red-framed glasses. Each time! So my nickname through the rest of elementary school and early junior high was Sally Jesse Raphael (I also earned David Letterman, but you'll hear about that when I tell you about the head gear).
{If I was blog-savvy this is where I would insert my 3rd grade class picture}
I did finally get contacts...and moved on from the SJR nickname...but finding those glasses brought it all back. It is funny now - to think how much I hated them, and I still have a phobia of red glasses (which Dr. H and his practice still like to remind me of) - but now I can laugh at it. I may not have gotten the Guess, cotten candy glasses, and it's fine - I made my husband buy me a pair of Coach glasses just recently. I can wear those with a bit more pride.
No, they are not red.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Nesting
Let me preface this by saying that my husband likes to start projects and them mull over them for a while (i.e. - several weeks up to a year). Let me give you a few examples before I get to this weekend.
Electrical outlets - When we first moved in under our century tree, it was fair to say that it needed updating. Metallic wallpaper, shower curtains with valances, pink linoleum flooring were just not what I was looking for in a first home; however, the time and price were right. We bought the house 3 days before we got married - so to say that settling in was hectic would be an understatment. We removed the yards and yards and yards of metallic wallpaper, re-textured the walls, painted, and painted some more; took down all valances, regardless of their location, and replaced them; tore up the carpet-covered pink linoleum and put down wood lament floors. All of this crammed into the 3 days prior to our wedding. So you can see how changing the electrical outlets from dingey yellow to basic white would be a minor project compared to the others listed above...but still, it had to be done. Nearly four years later, and we finally have all the outlets changed and covered, versus just the plug without a cover (Christmas card recipients you can rejoice because I am certain that our family photo will be without an uncovered outlet). My husband called his finishing of this project "nesting".
My beloved wisteria - The north side of our driveway has the most beautiful, fragrant wisteria bush. It blooms in early spring straight through to the summer, and we get compliments on it every year. Then one day I get an email at work with the subject line "Look what I did". I opened it during class, simply because I thought it was another one of those silly forward emails. Gasp! I. was. wrong! It was a picture of the north side of our driveway sans the most beautiful, fragrant wisteria bush ever. I didn't know how to respond, except to show my students what my husband had done - where did my whisteria bush go?! So, I called him (during my planning period), and he tells me that "it poked him for the last time!". I had no idea that my husband harbored this animosity toward my beloved wisteria, but nonetheless, it is gone. When he was done he said he was "nesting", as in finishing the project.
The living room - This is a very similar story to my beloved wisteria. I knew that my husband had been frustrated with the carpet in our living room for quite a while, but like many other projects I figured it was a bunch of "talk"...until...I come home from work one day to discover my living room in my kitchen and the carpet in the garage. Gasp! What happened to my living room?! "I was tired of that smelly carpet", he says. Over the next week, little by little my living room was restored to immaculant wood flooring, new baseboards, and vintage door trim - all done by my husband (with the support of my mom). He finished and he was nesting.
This all brings me to this past weekend, where I feel like I need a few extra weekend days to recover from my husband's nesting. No, we're not nesting because we are expecting (sorry). But we are finally settling into our home. We accomplished more tasks this weekend than we have in the past 4 years (besides those first 3 days)! The whole time we were working my husband continued to say "we're nesting"; esentially what I think we're doing is finally accepting that we will be spending many more years here and let's make the most of it. I think it's fair to say that we've nested (at least for a while).
Electrical outlets - When we first moved in under our century tree, it was fair to say that it needed updating. Metallic wallpaper, shower curtains with valances, pink linoleum flooring were just not what I was looking for in a first home; however, the time and price were right. We bought the house 3 days before we got married - so to say that settling in was hectic would be an understatment. We removed the yards and yards and yards of metallic wallpaper, re-textured the walls, painted, and painted some more; took down all valances, regardless of their location, and replaced them; tore up the carpet-covered pink linoleum and put down wood lament floors. All of this crammed into the 3 days prior to our wedding. So you can see how changing the electrical outlets from dingey yellow to basic white would be a minor project compared to the others listed above...but still, it had to be done. Nearly four years later, and we finally have all the outlets changed and covered, versus just the plug without a cover (Christmas card recipients you can rejoice because I am certain that our family photo will be without an uncovered outlet). My husband called his finishing of this project "nesting".
My beloved wisteria - The north side of our driveway has the most beautiful, fragrant wisteria bush. It blooms in early spring straight through to the summer, and we get compliments on it every year. Then one day I get an email at work with the subject line "Look what I did". I opened it during class, simply because I thought it was another one of those silly forward emails. Gasp! I. was. wrong! It was a picture of the north side of our driveway sans the most beautiful, fragrant wisteria bush ever. I didn't know how to respond, except to show my students what my husband had done - where did my whisteria bush go?! So, I called him (during my planning period), and he tells me that "it poked him for the last time!". I had no idea that my husband harbored this animosity toward my beloved wisteria, but nonetheless, it is gone. When he was done he said he was "nesting", as in finishing the project.
The living room - This is a very similar story to my beloved wisteria. I knew that my husband had been frustrated with the carpet in our living room for quite a while, but like many other projects I figured it was a bunch of "talk"...until...I come home from work one day to discover my living room in my kitchen and the carpet in the garage. Gasp! What happened to my living room?! "I was tired of that smelly carpet", he says. Over the next week, little by little my living room was restored to immaculant wood flooring, new baseboards, and vintage door trim - all done by my husband (with the support of my mom). He finished and he was nesting.
This all brings me to this past weekend, where I feel like I need a few extra weekend days to recover from my husband's nesting. No, we're not nesting because we are expecting (sorry). But we are finally settling into our home. We accomplished more tasks this weekend than we have in the past 4 years (besides those first 3 days)! The whole time we were working my husband continued to say "we're nesting"; esentially what I think we're doing is finally accepting that we will be spending many more years here and let's make the most of it. I think it's fair to say that we've nested (at least for a while).
Saturday, February 27, 2010
finally the beginning
First off, I have to say that I'm glad that there is a spellcheck button. So, thank you blogger for thinking of me when you designed your site (years ago).
Secondly, I know I am late the the blog bandwagon, but I've debated my necessity of a blog for quite a while. Who would read it? What would I write? Who cares about what I would write? And so on. So this blog all started because I needed a writing outlet of my own (for whatever reason) and I bought a Vera Bradley journal at BN yesterday. Let me tell you...this journal is wonderful! I've struggled with finding the perfect journal (must be spiral-bound, not too small, not too big, white pages preferably perforated, and a lovely design on the front) for a couple of years (literally), but I could never justify purchasing one at BN because, frankly, the only reason I go there is to buy books...so I feel like I'm cheating if I buy something other than books (to read). Anyhow, I had about 15 minutes after a lesson on tea and a meeting to shop with my new, educator rewards card and I decided to finally be seriously about buying my journal. I walked over to the same wall and section of journals that BN has stocked for years, scanned it, and found the same uninspiring journals that I always see there (maybe that is the underlying reason as to why I've never left with a journal from there)...but as I turned around there. it. was. The most glorious Vera Bradley spiral-bound, white perforated pages, paisley-covered journal! It was instantaneous - I needed it! So I bought it with my new, educator rewards card.
I stared at my new journal all day: I took it to another meeting, left it on my desk to look at while I was working on the computer, took it to another meeting, etc. But the more I think about it...the journal was staring at me! What the heck was I going to write about?! It almost felt like a daunting task to begin writing my thoughts down - and still what would I write about!? So I took it home.
My new journal was inducted into my life under a century tree (our home) by a slobbery greeting from Roxie (our dog). I'm glad I didn't leave my new journal on the table, where I have now discovered that Chuck Norris (our tiny, female cat) had recently "pushed" a small, spiral notepad on the floor only to have Roxie take several pages of her own...and the front and back covers are missing sections. So I left it on my desk in the office.
It didn't sit there unattended long. I figured that I wanted to write in it before I forgot that I bought it. I picked out a green pen that I knew wouldn't bleed through the page (because I hate that), and began to write. Halfway through my 5 pages of writing my hand began to cramp, and I thought to myself "why don't you just put this on a blog instead?, it's a lot faster to type than it is to write, and it is way easier to be discovered and turned into a famous book on a blog than it is to be turned into a famous book by a journal - these days anyway". (not that I think in any way, shape, or form that my writing is "famous book" worthy, but hey, it's happened to quite a few bloggers). I did finish my first journal writing, but I couldn't let the blog idea go. So I went to blogger.com to start my own.
Since I did not have the newest, fastest version of internet explorer blogger.com would not let me create a blog. (i didn't figure out this was the problem until the next day). Here I am world, writing on a blog! Does that mean I'll give up writing in my new VB journal? Eh, we'll see how this turns out. So I'm about to post my first blog!
{FYI - I like punctuation. I generally use it incorrectly. I kinda don't care. My favorite things to use are dot-dot-dot, commas, and parentheses. }
Secondly, I know I am late the the blog bandwagon, but I've debated my necessity of a blog for quite a while. Who would read it? What would I write? Who cares about what I would write? And so on. So this blog all started because I needed a writing outlet of my own (for whatever reason) and I bought a Vera Bradley journal at BN yesterday. Let me tell you...this journal is wonderful! I've struggled with finding the perfect journal (must be spiral-bound, not too small, not too big, white pages preferably perforated, and a lovely design on the front) for a couple of years (literally), but I could never justify purchasing one at BN because, frankly, the only reason I go there is to buy books...so I feel like I'm cheating if I buy something other than books (to read). Anyhow, I had about 15 minutes after a lesson on tea and a meeting to shop with my new, educator rewards card and I decided to finally be seriously about buying my journal. I walked over to the same wall and section of journals that BN has stocked for years, scanned it, and found the same uninspiring journals that I always see there (maybe that is the underlying reason as to why I've never left with a journal from there)...but as I turned around there. it. was. The most glorious Vera Bradley spiral-bound, white perforated pages, paisley-covered journal! It was instantaneous - I needed it! So I bought it with my new, educator rewards card.
I stared at my new journal all day: I took it to another meeting, left it on my desk to look at while I was working on the computer, took it to another meeting, etc. But the more I think about it...the journal was staring at me! What the heck was I going to write about?! It almost felt like a daunting task to begin writing my thoughts down - and still what would I write about!? So I took it home.
My new journal was inducted into my life under a century tree (our home) by a slobbery greeting from Roxie (our dog). I'm glad I didn't leave my new journal on the table, where I have now discovered that Chuck Norris (our tiny, female cat) had recently "pushed" a small, spiral notepad on the floor only to have Roxie take several pages of her own...and the front and back covers are missing sections. So I left it on my desk in the office.
It didn't sit there unattended long. I figured that I wanted to write in it before I forgot that I bought it. I picked out a green pen that I knew wouldn't bleed through the page (because I hate that), and began to write. Halfway through my 5 pages of writing my hand began to cramp, and I thought to myself "why don't you just put this on a blog instead?, it's a lot faster to type than it is to write, and it is way easier to be discovered and turned into a famous book on a blog than it is to be turned into a famous book by a journal - these days anyway". (not that I think in any way, shape, or form that my writing is "famous book" worthy, but hey, it's happened to quite a few bloggers). I did finish my first journal writing, but I couldn't let the blog idea go. So I went to blogger.com to start my own.
Since I did not have the newest, fastest version of internet explorer blogger.com would not let me create a blog. (i didn't figure out this was the problem until the next day). Here I am world, writing on a blog! Does that mean I'll give up writing in my new VB journal? Eh, we'll see how this turns out. So I'm about to post my first blog!
{FYI - I like punctuation. I generally use it incorrectly. I kinda don't care. My favorite things to use are dot-dot-dot, commas, and parentheses. }
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