The Funk That Is February (or is it just me?)

February is Funk Month. Blog funk, house cleaning funk, mothering funk, dieting funk - they all seem to hit during the lovely (and somehow eternal) month of February. Four LONG weeks of "WILL IT EVER END????"

I remember about six years ago when I finally noticed the pattern - the one where during the month of February my house turns into a disaster area, and the laundry becomes an overwhelming force in my life. I swear I just did twelve loads, and last night my husband informed me he was out of underwear.

Again.

What is it with February? It's that time of year you sit around thinking, "didn't there used to be something BESIDES television/movies/video games for my children to do?" Because that is seriously all I can think of in the area of kid-activities these days. And I think the kids suffer from Funky February too, because for the last few weeks we have been dealing with an extreme case of boredom. EVERYTHING is boring. Inside, outside, upside, downside, every suggestion is met with "But that's so BOOOORING!"

So then I have them work, because every mom knows chores are the cure for boredom. Really, it works out quite nicely. I'm feeling totally apathetic, un-energetic, and, well, quite frankly BORED with house work - so I make them do it.

Sad, isn't it?

And it isn't just me. I know of about five bloggers who have recently compained of the blog-funk phenomenon. And several who are wondering where in the world the commenters have gone to. (Which begs the question - will anyone actually read this post anyway?) Almost every woman I work with has gained weight this month WHILE DIETING. Including me. And just the other day my sister Annie and I were discussing the complete apathy we feel toward the daily-grind that is housework. Bleck to all of it.

And now for the good news: FEBRUARY IS ALMOST OVER!!! And I can already tell. Just yesterday at about 2:30 in the afternoon, I actually had the following conversation with myself as I sat on the couch looking at the mess my two non-schoolers had made of my living room:

Funky Me: Oh good, it's almost time for the boys to come home. I can't wait till they clean this place up.

Non-funky March Me: Hmmm. Something about that just doesn't seem right...

FM: Of COURSE it's right! Right on the money. What are kids for if you can't get them to work a little? What do they think this is, a free ride?

NFMM: Yeah, but shouldn't you be doing something?

FM: I'll make them dinner. Maybe.

NFMM: No, this is wrong. You don't deserve to be called Mother. (All self-righteous, and on her high horse) Your children deserve to come home to a clean house, and YOU should be cleaning it! Now get up and DO something!

And I did. I can actually feel the apathy disappearing with the wretched month of February. Tomorrow, I will no doubt jump out of bed singing the laundry song, as I happily (and energetically) get my children ready for church. It's like a re-birth. Spring is coming, and the malaise of winter is about to end.

I think March may be my new favorite month. Or at least my new not-unfavorite month, which is certainly worth something. Happy Non-Funk Month, everyone! February is G.O.N.E. GONE!!!!!!!!

Just Look How Far We've Come! (Then again, maybe it isn't so great...)

As you all know, I'm a substitute teacher at my local high school. Maybe this is why I love this so much. Seriously. It says a lot about where we are as a society on so many levels, that I just had to share it. (If any of you have seen it already, sorry for the repeat).

(And I have no idea who gets the credit for it. So whoever you are, forgive me).


SCHOOL--1958 vs. 2008

Scenario:
Jack goes quail hunting before school,
pulls into school parking lot with shotgun in gun rack.

1958 - Vice Principal comes over, looks at Jack's shotgun, goes to his car and gets his shotgun to show Jack.

2008 - School goes into lock down, FBI called, Jack hauled off to jail and never sees his truck or gun again. Counselor called in for traumatized students and teachers.


Scenario:
Johnny and Mark get into a fistfight after school.

1958 - Crowd gathers. Mark wins. Johnny and Mark shake hands and end up buddies.

2008 - Police called, SWAT team arrives, arrests Johnny and Mark. Charge them with assault, both expelled even though Johnny started it


Scenario:
Jeffrey won't be still in class, disrupts other students.

1958 - Jeffrey sent to office and given a good paddling by the Principal. Returns to class, sits still and does not disrupt class again.

2008 - Jeffrey given huge doses of Ritalin. Becomes a zombie. Tested for ADD. School gets extra money from state because Jeffrey has a disability.


Scenario:
Billy breaks a window in his neighbor's car
and his Dad gives him a whipping with his belt.

1958 - Billy is more careful next time, grows up normal, goes to college, and becomes a successful businessman.

2008 - Billy's dad is arrested for child abuse. Billy removed to foster care and joins a gang. State psychologist tells Billy's sister that she remembers being abused herself and their dad goes to prison. Billy's mom has affair with psychologist.


Scenario:
Mark gets a headache and takes some aspirin to school.

1958 - Mark shares aspirin with Principal out on the smoking dock.

2008 - Police called, Mark expelled from school for drug violations. Car searched for drugs and weapons.


Scenario:
Pedro fails high school English.

1958 - Pedro goes to summer school, passes English and goes to college.

2008 - Pedro's cause is taken up by state. Newspaper articles appear nationally explaining that teaching English as a requirement for graduation is racist. ACLU files class action lawsuit against state school system and Pedro's English teacher. English banned from core curriculum. Pedro given diploma anyway but ends up mowing lawns for a living because he cannot speak English.


Scenario:
Johnny takes apart leftover firecrackers from 4th of July,
puts them in a model airplane paint bottle, blows up a red ant bed.

1958 - Ants die.

2008- BATF, Homeland Security, FBI called. Johnny charged with domestic terrorism, FBI investigates parents, siblings removed from home, computers confiscated,
Johnny's Dad goes on a terror watch list and is never allowed to fly again.


Scenario:
Johnny falls while running during recess and scrapes his knee.
He is found crying by his teacher, Mary. Mary hugs him to comfort him.

1958 - In a short time, Johnny feels better and goes on playing.

2008 - Mary is accused of being a sexual predator and loses her job. She faces 3 years in State Prison. Johnny undergoes 5 years of therapy.

Enough said.

The Hazards of Password Sharing

I just love it when people mess with my profile. Remember that time I innocently messed with Annie's - and she struck back? For those of you who weren't around yet, it went like this:

Feeling rather obnoxious (but not malicious at all - I swear), I just happened to re-write (my sister) Annie's profile. It really was innocent. I was supposed to be helping her pick a new blog template, so I set up a fake blog, and forgot that the profile would be the same as the one for her real blog. The profile re-write (which, coincidentally didn't get deleted with the fake blog, but stayed on her site) was all about how lame she was, with her lame-o template.

She finally found it, and struck back by re-writing mine. And I quote. "Hi, my name's Jen, and I'm really cool. I'm so cool that one time my pants froze to my legs...etc., etc." And it was way longer than the one I wrote for her. After about a week I found it on there and deleted it, but you know someone (like maybe four people) must have see it and thought I was the world's most obnoxiously stuck-on-myself person ever.

Then the other night my husband got on my blog. No, I did not give him my user name/password. I left myself logged in. And what does he do to my profile? He tells the world my favorite movie is Emmet Otters Christmas. He says my favorite music is pygmy love songs. And he makes a teen mother out of me (thirteen, to be exact) by saying I was born in 1986.

My favorite alteration, however? The tag line "Oh, and I'm extremely hot" onto the end of my little profile blip.

Yeah. Just what every humble blogger says about herself on her profile. Hopefully, no one saw it. I mean, it was a nice thought, but somehow just doesn't come off right.

It's kind of like the other day when I told him he could use my Facebook to search for some of his old friends. He found them. And left them messages that said things like "Hi."

From me. With my picture. With no side note like "By the way, this isn't Jen leaving you this message, it's Rusty Baxter from high school - remember me???" So now, not only am I a vain blogger, I'm also a freaky Facebook stalker.

In his defense, he knows nothing about Facebook, and didn't realize the message would be next to my picture. But still. He could have announced himself. And as surprising as it may seem, he (I) haven't received any responses from his Facebooking forays.

Shocker.

So please - if you ever view my profile and it starts talking about how wonderful, hot, or strange I am, TELL ME!!! And know I probably wasn't the author. In the meantime, I'm changing my password, and learning to log out.

The Big Moment Has Finally Arrived - Heck, I'VE Arrived! It's Post One Hundred People!

Holy One Hundredth Post. Did you know? Have you been counting down, holding your breath, or planning a party? If so, you should have told me. I mean here I was in the midst of a big blog-funk, as my hundredth post loomed closer, and closer.

(Do you realize how close that last complainer-post came to being my only shot at a hundredth post? That would have been so lame).

Anyway. Post one hundred. El-posto uno-hundredito. This should be noteworthy. This NEEDS to be noteworthy. Which leads me to the following question: Why is chewing gum such a novelty to small children?

Do you remember being a kid, and having such a desire to chew gum (especially bubble gum) that you would chew any gum, from anyone, found anywhere? No? I guess it was just me then. And Kelly. (I hope you didn't think you were getting out of this one Kel - I am totally taking you down with me). (But it's all for the good of the Hundredth Post, right?)

Kelly is my niece. We are six months apart (long story) and grew up together. As in, lived right by each other. There were several kids in the neighborhood, and at the tender age of about four or five, we spent our days roaming freely from one house to the next. We were best, best, best friends.

And we lived for bubble gum. Seriously. The older neighbor kids payed their dues to their secret club (The Fuzzy Feet Club - do you remember those little Fuzzy Feet sticker guys?) in bubble gum, and Kelly and I weren't "allowed". And by allowed, I mean we weren't allowed membership, lurking-outside-the-door-ship, rock salt eating privileges (they ate rock salt - it was part of the deal - and we'd sneak in and steal it whenever possible), or anything else that had to do with their club. We never even saw the precious bubblegum stash - we just saw them chewing it.

And then one summer day our ship came in.

It was hot. It was sunny. Kel and I were hanging out doing whatever it is four year olds do, when we ended up on my front porch. Like many porches, ours had its share of cobwebby corners, and dead flies. Poking around in one of these dark corners where the siding had come off, exposing the old studs and ship lap of the porch's construction, something caught our attention.

There in that dark, cobwebby, forgotten corner, stuck in amidst the fly carcasses, was a dream come true. A big, orange, already-been-chewed wad of some unknown person's bubblegum. Jackpot. Eavesdroppers would have heard the following conversation:

Whoever spotted it first: Hey, look - GUM! (While reaching toward the new found treasure)

The other one: Wow! That piece is HUGE! (Admiring the gargantuan size of the orange, chewed up wad as it's being carefully pried off the wall in it's slightly-soft-from-the-heat-of-the-day state)

Spotter: (generously) We'll split it. Just help me pick this stuff off.

And I kid you not, to this day I can remember standing there in the sun on my front porch, picking dead flies, cobwebs, and who knows what else, off of that slightly-sticky piece of gum - splitting it - and gleefully popping it into our mouths simultaneously, discovering it still had a little bit of flavor.

Usually we weren't that lucky.

And you've been wondering what was wrong with me.

Happy One Hundredth Post people! And may you never be desperate enough to chew ABC gum - even if it is big, orange, and not quite chewed out.

*This post is dedicated to my un-follower Kristin who will be thoroughly grossed-out by crunchy flies and ABC gum.

Rejected

I confess. I've been in a bit of a blog funk lately. Have you noticed? Does it show? (Does it make me look fat?) You can all lie and say nice things, but now I know the truth.

It shows.

How do I know? For the first time since the stupid "Follower" thingy appeared on my sidebar, I lost a follower. That was this morning. Tonight? Another one G.O.N.E. gone.

This is not good for my blogging morale.

What is it about blogging funks, anyway? One day I was blogging like mad, with more posts rolling around in my head than I knew what to do with, and the next day there was nothing. Nodda. Zero, zip, zilch. Not only was there nothing, but I didn't even want there to be anything.

I was this close to blog suicide. (Fine. Blog neglect. SERIOUS blog neglect. I don't think I could ever actually terminate my own creation).

I really did consider just stepping semi-permanently away from the whole blog-thing during that absentee week of mine. Why? I have no idea. It's not like I've lost my life to my blog - I know this because that survey "How Addicted To Blogging Are You?" says I'm only 67% addicted, and those surveys are like science. And seriously, 67% is not that bad.

But despite the odds, I rallied the old brain, revved up the computer, and muscled through the funky feelings. And I have to say it is working. Apparently just not fast enough for two of my (un)devoted followers.

Who un-follows, anyway? (And no, I have zero idea who either of them were, although I do know which page of "manage your followers" one of them left from. Just call me Super Sleuth). I mean, as if the whole "Follow Me" thing isn't designed to make people have feelings of self-doubt and desperation. If I didn't love all those little faces (not to mention dogs, cartoons, tools, etc.) staring at me as if crying in unison "WE LOVE YOU!" I wouldn't even subscribe to the dang thing.

But now two of them have left. And I feel the loss. It's kind of like a gaping hole in my monitor's heart. So before any of the rest of you make your grand exodus, and decide to un-follow me, I just want to plead for patience. I swear I'll be totally non-funky sometime in the near future. (It would probably be nearer if people would stop causing all this blog-stress by un-following me. Seriously. Aren't they at all concerned about my emotional blog-state? In fact, there should be a blog-etiquette rule that you never un-follow anyone whom you suspect to be suffering from blog-funk, as this might just push them over the edge and cause blog suicide. All un-following should be saved for stellar posts with record breaking comments to ease the pain of rejection. Don't you think?)

Okay, really, I'll shut-up now. I just had to get that off my chest, and I really am feeling much better. And next time I see you, I'm sure it will be because I'm sharing one of those stellar posts with the record breaking comments.

Wish me luck.

Blind Date Revolution

Last night (well, technically it was early this morning) I dreamed I was single, and went on a blind date. This was one of those really realistic dreams, and while I was dreaming it I actually had the thought, "Hey, I should blog about this." So I'm going to.

For some reason, there were two guys. I was riding in the car with one of them (we'll call him Tom) on the way to his house, and he told me about the other guy (whom we'll call Joe). I wasn't sure why there were two guys, but they didn't know each other either. Tom was pretty cute, and he was supposed to be my actual date. I think. I didn't know anything about Joe.

So then we arrive at Tom's house. He lives with his parents. That's always a good sign. After a little get-to-know-you session with Mom, I go out on the porch and there's Joe. He's not my type. We all just hang out and talk for awhile, and I continue to decide that Joe is definitely not my type. And Tom is looking better and better. Until he says, "Well, you two better get going, hope you have a nice time."

Apparently Tom wasn't digging me, and was handing me off to Joe. Seriously. That's why there were two of them - so if one of them didn't like me he could back out. In my dream I actually thought about Barbaloot at this point, and how we'd have to talk about our blind date disasters.

So then we get up to leave (even though I'm in no way excited about a wasted evening with Joe), when I realize I have to get Tom all set to watch my kids. Don't ask me where my kids came from - I was supposed to be single. Yet there they were, and I had to give Tom and his Mom instructions for putting them to bed.

When that's done, I went to put on my shoes and realized all I have are tennis shoes. White tennis shoes. I NEVER wear tennis shoes. Not only do I feel like they make my legs look short and stumpy, they also make my feet extremely claustrophobic and as soon as I'm sitting down anywhere I have to take them off. But thankfully I remember that my old clogs (which are totally trashed, and probably look worse than the tennies) are somewhere in Tom's basement. So while Joe waits, Tom, his mom and I all go hunt down the clogs.

When they're found, I go back upstairs to leave with Joe, and we have a conversation that goes something like this:

Me: Okay, I found my shoes, we can go now.

Joe: Are you sure you want to?

Me: Well, actually, I've always found that within five minutes of meeting someone, you can tell if you're attracted to them and I'm not really attracted to you.

Joe: I totally agree. It seems like it would be kind of a waste of time.

And then I woke up.

And I started thinking. If only blind dates were that easy to get out of in real life. It makes me think single people should revolutionize the blind date into a twenty minute get-to-know you session, where at the end the two people actually decide whether or not to go on with the date.

Think of all the date frustration this would save! I mean seriously. Did you ever go on a blind date and not know within the first twenty minutes whether or not you wanted to be there? Am I the only one who thinks this just makes so much sense? Or is there someone out there who actually went on a date with someone they were totally not-attracted too, only to find out an hour later he had serious dating potential? And wouldn't blind dates be way less threatening if you knew you were only making a twenty minute commitment, and that it would be accepted and not-rude to back out at that point, and say "Well you're really nice, and it was great to meet you, but I don't think you're my type"?

I'm just saying. They could even call these new kind of dates something. Like Jen Dates. (After all, I am the one who invented them). Then the setter-uppers would say, "Hey Barbaloot, I know this guy I want you to meet. Would you be interested in checking him out on a Jen Date?" Totally non-threatening. Am I the only one who thinks this is a great idea???? Or does this just seem shallow and harsh? I kind of can't decide, so would someone help me?

To Write, Or Not To Write?

So I have this dilemma. In case you haven't noticed, I love to tell stories. If I let myself get too out of control, I'd never blog about real life at all, and all you'd ever get would be craziness from my past. I have, however, a little self-control I keep stashed somewhere, so this blog does (barely) manage to stay rooted in the present.

But there's this story I'd just love to tell. Only it's more like a saga. And every time someone else goes down this road (like Melissa just did in her typical hilarious fashion), I think, "I want to do that!" But then I don't, because I would seriously be dragging you along for like ten posts. At least.

And what is this story? What else - the story of Rusty and Jenny. The tale of Us. The tale of me and my yes-I-like-you-maybe-love-you-but-we-aren't-dating-and-we'll-probably-never-see-each-other-again's, and him and his I-know-we'll-get-married-and-I'm-the-most-patient-nonpushy-man-on-the-planet's.

It has serious novel potential. And I've always wanted to put it down, but it would take me FOREVER!!! You have no idea what a nightmare I was to try to get engaged to. And then he had to take back the ring. For my sanity. Apparently, no one can drag out a relationship like I can drag out a relationship. Good thing he married me so I couldn't do it to some other poor guy.

Anyway, so here I am with my dilemma. Sometimes I think, "I don't have to tell the whole story, I'll just tell that one part." But then I realize that wouldn't work. Once I got started, I would feel COMPELLED to finish. So then I think, "I know, I'll just start a separate blog just for that one story." The problem with this solution is that then I'd spend the next six months (okay, maybe it wouldn't take that long) being obsessed by my Rusty/Jenny love story, and I'd totally neglect this blog.

*Sigh*

There is no perfect answer. Maybe I should just start with the story of how we met. That's not overly cliff-hanger-ish, I could maybe handle that. And it was kind of funny...

Woohoo. It's Valentine's Day. (just in case you didn't know)

I'm really bad at holiday posts. Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, etc. - for some reason they come and go, and it isn't until other people post about them that I realize maybe I should too.

And now it's Valentine's Day.

I have a special affinity for this holiday, since I grew up being a Valentine. That was an extremely important distinction in elementary school, let me tell you. It isn't everyone in your first grade class who is actually named after a holiday. It made me special. My mom always sent us flowers at school. I was showered with attention. I took all the Valentine's Day cards very personally, and imagined the rest of the class did too. When it said "You're Great Valentine!" it was speaking to me. I truly was The World's Valentine.

And everyone loved me. (I was sure of this).

Then came jr. high and high school. No more class party. No more school-wide celebration of my "Valentine" status. No more cards to take personally. Hmmm, and something else - I was the world's Valentine, yet who was mine? As I've previously stated on this blog, I was completely boyfriendless throughout high school, and on Valentine's Day it bugged. At least Mom was still sending flowers.

Then came college. Ricks College, to be exact. And with it - a revolutionized view of Valentine's Day. My roomies and I took to calling it Single Awareness Day. Somehow, it just seemed so much more fitting. (And Ricks was such a disgusting place to be on Valentine's Day too. Possibly being single there, on this day, is the most depressing experience a single person could ever have). (Almost as depressing as my third and final Ricks College Valentine's Day in which I actually had a Valentine. The world's worst Valentine. If you weren't around when I posted about this one, go here for the most pathetic Valentine's Day story ever).

And then I got married. (Well, before that I dated and became affianced to my hubby. We dated for a year, and were broke up for two months of this year. Including the month of February. Go figure). Can I just say that my unfortunate husband had no concept of what an ex-Valentine girl expected from her hubby on Valentine's Day? As far as I was concerned, he was special. He had married a real Valentine. He should show his awe and appreciation for this and thank me in every imaginable way for bestowing such an honor.

Anyone who knows my husband will already know he'd been set up for abject failure. The poor man. It took me a few years of emotionally charged Valentine's Days to actually get these ideas out of my system. Apparently, they have evacuated completely, because now - our twelfth Valentine's Day - it is the last thing on my mind.

Is that bad?

We actually both made separate plans for today. Neither one of us even remembered today was Valentine's Day until a few days ago. In a way this seems kind of sad...me, The World's Valentine, completely oblivious of my all-important day. I've turned into The World's Most Neglectful Valentine. My idealism is (apparently) completely gone. It's like the end of a dream.

Then again, at least I can't be disappointed, right?

My Productive Day (plus a little education - just to make it interesting)

My day has been totally unproductive. I mean, I did go to work - but that just meant reading a book and a half while observing high school kids typing on Mavis Beacon and Typershark. Because being a high school sub is really hard like that.

Then I came home... to find my babysitter had cleaned my house (including de-junking and dusting my kitchen catch-all), so other than teach a few piano lessons, I had nothing to do.

So I read another book. Shopaholic Takes Manhattan. Those books are hilarious. (The first book I read was number five of Gordan Korman's On The Run series - juvenile fiction - and if any of you have boys fifth grade and up, you totally need to get them these books!)

And somewhere in there I made dinner.

Now I should be sleeping, but for some reason my current state of anti-computer (don't ask, I have no idea why I'm feeling this way) decided to disappear for a moment, so I thought I'd blog. About nothing. But just to keep the entertainment factor out of the red, I thought I'd share a few bits from this other book I've been reading, called Don'ts for Husbands, Don'ts for Wives, 1913. Because there are definitely some things your husbands need to know. Such as:

"Don't stoop, even if your work is desk-work. Your wife wants to see you straight and broad-chested." (No doubt this also applies to the wives...up and out, ladies).

"Don't be too grave and solemn. Raise a bit of fun in the home now and then." Does anyone actually have this problem? I find my husband to be more like a large twelve year old most of the time...

"Don't sharpen pencils all over the house as you walk about. Try a hearth or waste-paper basket, or a newspaper. It does not improve either carpets or the servants' temper to find scraps of pencil-shavings all over the floors." Yes. My servants (and I'm sure yours) would hate this. Please pass this on.

"Don't be conceited about your good looks. It is more than probable that no one but yourself is aware of them; anyway, you are not responsible for them, and vanity in a man is ridiculous." Well. I guess I know a few men who are rather ridiculous - and have no idea. Would someone please tell them?

"Don't refuse to get up and investigate in the night if your wife hears an unusual noise, or fancies she smells fire or escaping gas. She will be afraid of shaming you by getting up herself, and will lie awake working herself into a fever. This may be illogical, but it's true." So we shouldn't shame them to get them to do what we want? Does this also mean no glaring and/or eye rolling? Good thing I have this book...

"Don't be surprised, or annoyed, or disappointed, to find, after treating your wife for years as a feather-brain, that you have made her one, and that she fails to rise to the occasion when you need her help." My condolences to any husband-made feather-brains out there. You should have glared more.

And now, one final quote (although I'm still in the first section {titled "Personal Relations"} and could really go on, and on, and on...)

"Don't forget that you are not immortal. What chance will she have if you die and leave her with no knowledge of the ways of the wicked world?" What can I say? If any of you love your husbands, you'll give them a swift kick in the shins next time you see them, followed by, "See - you felt that. You aren't immortal after all, so wear your seat belt."

Who needs counseling when they can run down and buy a book like this? And maybe next time I'll share some excerpts from the "Don'ts for Wives" section, and change your role as a wife forever. Lucky you.

Regarding My Recent AWOL Status

Update:

I am still alive. I haven't been on my blog for three days, and I have lived through it.

I have been shopping. With money. SOMEONE ELSE'S MONEY!!! (Thanks Mom!)

I have been with my sisters. ALL (5) of them. Not quite all at the same time, but still.

I have seen Annie's hair with her extensions. (And without her extensions. God bless extensions). (Seriously. I'm not being rude, she just kind of lost ALL her hair after the birth of number three). (Not that I'm never rude - I'm just not being rude this time).

My mom only has one breast, and there were more one-breasted jokes in our hotel room than you could imagine. She cracked half of them. I love my family.

I have new clothes. I love new clothes.

I will be back to reading your blogs and writing my own shortly. Maybe even tomorrow night. I've missed you all, and I swear I'm coming home, so leave the light on for me!

For My Facebook Friends

I'm really tired, and practically falling asleep, but I'm going to attempt to come up with twenty-five random things about myself so I can appease all the frantic facebookers who keep sending me this tag.

1. I'm really tired, and practically falling asleep.

2. Frantic facebookers keep tagging me. Apparently they're dying to know all about my randomness. (How am I doing guys? Is this okay so far? Just checking...)

3. I can be very random. Unfortunately, this isn't one of my random moments, but cut me some slack, at least I'm trying.

4. Oh, I know - I got to spend an hour with 48 seventh and eighth grade band members today.

5. When they left, they were replaced by 56 sixth graders.

6. For some unknown reason, both my patience AND sanity are gone. Wonder what could have caused that...Hmmm....

7. Everyone reading this is now glad they don't have my job.

8. I don't like food that shouldn't be sweet to be sweet. Like sweet BBQ burritos. Or sweet salad dressing. Or sweet spaghetti, or baked beans.

9. I do, however, like chicken hearts.

10. I really want to try a sardine, but can't ever make myself. Why is that?

11. Whenever I make any kind of list about myself, it always goes back to food. What does that say about me?

12. Speaking of food, I worship buffets. No decisions, and all-you-can-eat dessert. What more could a person ask for?

13. I almost died once. (I know, old news. But still - I did. And it was random).

14. I love driving tractors. Give me a tractor and a manure pit to scrape, and I'll be happy for hours.

15. I fell in a manure pit once.

16. My manure pit story would make a great blog post.

17. I'd love to be a car salesman (Okay, saleswoman - whatever), and totally plan on doing this at some point.

18. I hate to dust (but unfortunately still plan on doing this at some point).

19. The key words in number 18, are "at some point."

20. I thrive under pressure. Unless it involves more than 45 middle schoolers in a room with nothing to do. "Seethe" is a much better word for this situation.

21. I actually have the ability to scare sixth graders into silence. This is a very marketable skill.

22. I think the market for people willing and able to scare sixth graders into silence should be just a little higher paying...

23. This list is taking me a ridiculously long period of time.

24. I can't wear watches, because after a few weeks the batteries always stop. Is that weird?

25. I'm going to bed.

Pregancy: The Secret To Eternal Youth?

Just for the record, I am done having children. I always wanted four (unless you count seventh grade, when I was insane/ignorant, and thought SEVEN was the perfect number), I convinced my dearly beloved (who didn't really want any) to have four (by refusing to marry him until he swore a blood oath that I could have my way), and I had/have four - INCLUDING a girl child.

I am completely content.

Not only am I completely content with my four lovely children, but there is also zero chance I would actually want to do the whole pregnancy/newborn/car seat/potty-training business again. I've done my time - four is enough. Besides, my husband would probably leave me, never to be seen again, if I said I wanted another child.

But lately I've been thinking. I'm all done having kids, so what does that really mean? Having kids was something I did when I was first married - aka when I was young. So, does that mean that if I'm done having kids I'm not young anymore? And if so, does that mean if I'd just keep having them I'd still feel young?

The answer to this last is obviously a resounding NO!!! but I can't help it. It still makes me feel old to be past that phase of my life. Even though every mother knows that having more than four children is actually bound to age you - both mentally AND physically - part of me insists that it isn't so.

Then today, I was watching home movies from when I only had two adorable babies, and I noticed several things. First, my house was so clean! And life was so much easier! And they were so cute! And I was so YOUNG! (Okay, I really don't look much different - yet...)

And I realized it's not that I want to have more children - I just want to go back and have my own kids all over again. Minus all sickness, fighting, crying at night, potty-training, car seats, and everything about pregnancy except delivery (which was my favorite part - I know, I'm crazy).

So getting back to the pregnancy = youth idea. Do you think this could explain why some women have tons of children? I know women who have five-plus because they just love having babies, and I know some who feel inspired to add to their family, and I know some who weren't necessarily "planning", but could there be women out there who are actually chasing eternal youth? Through childbearing??? Like, "I must be young if I can still reproduce?"

Or am I alone on this one? Has anyone else ever thought of having babies as meaning you're young, or is my mind just strangely twisted? (Because seriously - there's nothing like actually being pregnant for demonstrating the aches, pains, and forgetfulness of old age. In theory, this theory should never work). (But still - ya think?)