Some People are Just Destined for Greatness

I'm often asked if I always knew I wanted to be a writer. I don't know that I ever really considered writer as a career option. You know, because I like to eat. And pay my bills. And buy extravagant things like socks. Thinking back to my childhood, however, I remember telling stories frequently. Usually, my stories consisted of nuggets like, "No, I didn't hit my sister; the wind knocked her over" and "Yes, yes I did finish all my homework, Mom." What can I say? I was creative with the fiction.

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Because Six Kids Just Wasn't Quite Enough

Jackson has been asking me (and by “asking me”, I mean bugging me daily until I want to jump off a cliff) to get him a dog for years. I can hardly afford to care for my kids, let alone any canines. Besides, I don’t want any more responsibility because, let’s face it, after the novelty wears off, we all know who will be taking care of this hypothetical dog. I’m already responsible for more than I can handle; the thought of taking care of one more thing nearly pushes me over the edge to the land of nervous breakdowns and happy pills.

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My Son - the Hobo (otherwise entitled, "I'm so Proud")

My oldest son, Austin is a junior in high school this year. That means that he’ll be a senior next year. And a short year after that, he’ll be (sniff sniff) going away to college. Or so I think. Or hope. Okay, after our recent conversations, I’ll be happy if he manages to get a job at McDonald’s; forget higher education.

You see, recently I’ve been asking Austin what he wants to be when he grows up. Unlike me, he doesn’t give impressive answers like “movie star” or “bird”. Oh no. He has even more illustrious plans than those. Despite my encouraging him to pursue art, he has different directions in mind. I’ve also attempted to persuade him into taking business courses or following a path that would lead to a job in the medical field. But nope, Austin will have nothing to do with those ordinary jobs. So, to get him thinking more seriously about his future, I asked him to make a list of job possibilities with pros and cons.

Here, for your reading pleasure, is Austin’s guest post on job possibilities . . .

Hey! This is Austin, the much more handsome and funnier version of mi madre. After begging me for months to share my amazing writing skills with her readers, I finally gave in. My topic? Give pros and cons on what to be when I grow up as my junior year is almost finished.

I’ve always wanted to be a hobo since I was little. Why, you might ask? Just because I can. I get train rides er’rywhere, my putrid smell attracts little animals to feast on, and I don’t need a job. I can pretty much live like Tarzan and swing from random trees in parks or eat the little pieces of bread old people throw to ducks, very nutritious. I have yet to figure out a bad thing to being a hobo so that’s still a viable option.

I can train to be a street cleaner. After a day of scraping the city streets of junk, just imagine how much free gum I could collect. Any that I don’t eat I can sell to get infinite monies. There’s a chance I could eat so much gum that I’d get a cavity and die, so I’m not too sure about being a street cleaner. Besides, I heard monsters roam the streets at night which is kinda spooky.

I could be one of those people that dress as food and hand out flyers for restaurants. Pluses - I get to wear an awesome costume and get free or discounted food. The negatives are when a little kid sees you, they either expect a picture with you or they beat you senseless. Neither of those options sound very fun.

This may be a long shot, but I can pursue my lifelong dream of becoming the best whistler in the world. I know I’ll have to beat out all the up-and-coming whistling amateurs for a record deal, but no producer could resist such classic hits such as “Classic Whistle Hit” or “Ode to Whistling”. I’d have so many fans and be famous around the world. Even chart topping musicians like The Wiggles from The Wiggles Show will want to meet me. Of course I’ll have no time for them being as amazing as I already am.

Finally, as suggested by SpongeBob, I can be a football playing king in space…with a moustache. I’d get paid so much for that, money for a pro athlete, money for being a king, money for being an astronaut, AND my sexy moustache will attract girls everywhere.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fabulous, huh?  This is what I have to work with.  Can you see this kind of stuff on a college application?  Yeah.  I see a bright future for this kid.  Sky’s the limit.  Anything goes.  He’ll go far.  Oh, who am I kidding?  He’s gonna live in my basement forever.

Well, it's Sort of a Schedule

I was talking to a friend today about our morning schedules. She sent me a copy of her friend’s schedule which had every activity carefully laid out and timed down to the second. It was a schedule that included precisely 2.5 minutes for brushing teeth, 35 seconds for tying shoes, and 20 seconds for wiping one’s butt. I may be exaggerating slightly, but still, the schedule smacked of military precision and impeccable timing. I got to thinking about my own morning routine. I was forced to admit that perhaps, I might benefit from a little more structure. My typical weekday morning looks a lot like this . . .

5:45 Savannah walks through my room to get to the bathroom. I awake only enough to sense there’s someone in my room. In my dreamlike state, I imagine it’s an intruder. I don’t care if they steal everything I own as long as they’re quiet so I can go back to sleep.

6:00 My alarm goes off and I hit the snooze.

6:08 My alarm goes off and I hit the snooze.

6:16 My alarm goes off and I consider quitting my job and homeschooling my kids before I hit the snooze.

6:24 My alarm goes off and I decide that quitting is the best plan of action before I hit the snooze.

6:32 My alarm goes off and I remember that I need a paycheck and insurance, but I hit the snooze again anyway.

6:40 My alarm goes off and I freak out that we’re all going to be late, or even worse, that I won’t have time to make coffee. I grab my phone and check my email.

6:42 Done skimming email, I play a couple games of solitaire because I may be unforgivably late, but that’s no reason to rush things.

6:47 I drag myself from my nice warm bed and limp to the girls’ room because I’m old and my knees creak when I take my first steps every morning.  I wake up my girls and Clayton who has come to their room sometime during the night, and tell them to HURRY.

6:52  Stand in my closet while looking blindly at my clothes.  Lament that my wardrobe would be twice the size if I just lost another 10 pounds.  Take a skirt off the hanger then decide my ankles look too fat to wear a skirt today.  Grab a pair of capris, then discard them when I remember the zipper doesn’t stay up on those.  Lose a few moments imagining the horror of standing up at my white board, trying to explain slope intercept to my eight graders while they snicker at my open fly.  Pull a pair of khakis off a hanger then decide I don’t have any tops to go with them.  Throw item after item in a heap on the floor of my closet while complaining that I have nothing to wear.  Black pants – too loose, brown pants – too short, tan pants - too hot, green shirt – too much cleavage, blue shirt – too sleeveless for bat wings, orange shirt – I’m not in an orange mood today.

6:59  Disgusted with myself, my clothing, and mornings in general, I pull the stupid skirt I originally selected from the pile of discarded clothing on the floor and trudge to the shower.

7:00  Wash the makeup off my face from yesterday since I fell asleep before doing it last night because I’m classy like that, shampoo, condition, shave, wash, rinse.

7:08  Get out, wrap my bathrobe around me and go downstairs to make coffee.  I tell people it’s because I need caffeine so badly, but in all honesty, it’s because I’m too lazy to dry myself off.  It’s easier to walk around in a terry robe for a bit until I automatically dry.

7:10  Make sure my little ones are eating, make coffee, make my lunch, grab my cup and head back upstairs. The next twenty minutes are spent on a ritual so complex, I can’t even explain it.  It involves a lot of jars, lotions, makeup, potions, brushes, hair products, and burning hot irons.

7:30  Think to myself that we should be pulling out of the driveway NOW.  Rush downstairs while yelling at kids to get in the car.

7:31  Remind Clayton and Jackson to take their medicine.

7:32  Remind Clayton and Jackson to take their medicine again.

7:33  Remind Clayton and Jackson to take their medicine in what some may construe as a threatening voice.

7:34  Sign planners that were supposed to be signed the night before.

7:35  Yell at the kids to stop watching tv, put their stinkin’ shoes on, and get in the car.

7:36  Begin the daily hunt for Clayton’s shoes.

7:42  Find Clay’s shoes and, in a futile attempt to make him learn, tell him for the 40,000 time to put his freakin’ shoes where they belong when he takes them off.

7:45  Start my car, look back to make sure everyone’s present and accounted for.  Tell Lexi to go back inside and get her glasses.

7:50 Arrive at school as the bell rings.

8:15  Arrive at my school after wishing for the zillionith time that I had a front-mounted missle launcher so I could vaporize all the idiot drivers who get in my way.


Hmmmm, on second thought, it would take too much time out of my evening schedule to create a better morning schedule.  I guess I’ll just stick with this one.

Teaching Kids Who Aren't Taught at Home

I have a new respect for teachers. I never wanted to be a teacher. When my fellow classmates in kindergarten were asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, there were the usual answers – fireman, veterinarian, astronaut, teacher. Teacher was never uttered by me. I wanted to be a movie star or a bird. Hey, I had a good imagination I clearly wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. I was less than fond of school, so the idea of purposely going back on a regular basis never appealed to me. I blame it on my kindergarten teacher, Miss Whiting.

I thought she was the wicked witch of the west. I was convinced she was put on the planet with the sole purpose of making my life miserable. When the other kids finished their milk and cookies (We didn’t care about health back in the day. We didn’t call pizza a vegetable to ease our consciences. We served up milk and cookies because, let’s face it, cookies are really, really good!) Anyway, when the other kids finished, they got to play at the sand table, or with Play-Doh, or they got to have story time with Do-So the Dolphin puppet. But not me, oh no. Nope, the evil teacher made me sit at the table for the rest of the day because day after day I refused to drink my milk. I hate milk. I’ve always hated milk. When I was a kid, I thought milk was cow urine. What five-year-old wants to drink something that comes out of a cow’s butt? She may have made me sit there Monday through Friday while everyone else got to play, but in the end, I won. I never did drink that nasty warmish milk in those little cartons with the soggy cardboard spouts.  Ha!  Who has the last laugh now, Miss Whiting?  That’s right, the stubborn brat with the boy haircut and smocked dress from your class in 1975, that’s who!

Anyway, teacher was never on my What I Want to be When I Grow up list. So naturally, here I am. A teacher. Well, I’m not actually a teacher. But I am a teacher-like person. I have six periods a day of students who are, hmmm, how to put this? You know how there are always one or two kids in a class that drive the teacher nuts? Cause trouble? Don’t listen? Don’t study or do their homework? Those are all my students. I work with the lowest performing kids in the school. I try to help the ones who are failing, the ones who have behavior issues, the ones who generally don’t have any support at home. It’s a tough job. It’s draining. And I’m not even trying to teach them anything! I’m just trying to reinforce what their teachers are teaching them. I’m trying to get them to do their assignments. I’m studying with them and hoping some of what I go over will get pushed to their long-term memory.

I try to remember that a lot of these kids go home to an empty house after school.  I have students who are homeless.  I have ones who should be in high school, but have been held back a time or two.  I have kids whose parents are too strung out on drugs to care for their kids.  I have students who acutely feel the effects of financial hardships.  I know I have students who go home to situations that you and I can’t imagine.  I try to remember that a lot of these kids act the way they do because they simply haven’t been taught any other way to behave.  These kids are out there.  These kids who don’t have support at home for a variety of reasons.  Seeing this first-hand has really given me a new respect for the people who deal day in and day out with other people’s children, caring for them, teaching them, trying their best to set them on a path for success despite, in many cases, little to no support from the kids’ own family.  Still, when the librarian at my school recently asked me if I ever thought about going back to school to become a teacher, I answered, “No way!  I’m still planning to be a movie star or a bird when I grow up!”

I'm THAT Mom

I hate to admit it. But, I suppose if I'm honest, I have to admit that I've always been that mom.

As I sat on the park bench enjoying the warm summer day while watching my son play, another mom waved to her child in the sandbox and took a seat next to me. After a moment, she leaned over and said, conspiratorially, "Johnny just loves the sandbox. He seems to have a real knack for building things. He'll probably be an architect or an engineer when he grows up." She gave a little self-satisfied smile and waved to her son again.

I peered at my son who was eating sand and gave a nervous little laugh.

The woman raised an eyebrow then continued telling me about her boy. “Just look at the way he plays with those cars,” she gushed. “He’s pushing them along the little roads he built in the sand! He’s just brilliant!”

I looked at my son who was reenacting some sort of demolition derby, cars plowing into each other, flipping on their backs, flying through the sandbox, and crashing into piles of twisted metal.

Ms. Perfect Mom cleared her throat and gave a feeble, plastic smile as if to assure me there was still hope for my derelict son and my subpar parenting although she wouldn’t be willing to put money on the odds.

“How old is your son?” came her seemingly innocent question.

“He’s four,” I responded.

“Johnny’s four-and-a-half,” she said triumphantly as if being born six months earlier made her child superior in some way.

I simply smiled at her then turned my attention back to the kids.

“When Johnny was four, he started reading chapter books. What does your son like to read?”

I glanced at my child who was now purposely walking into the poles supporting the swingset. Repeatedly.

She gasped at the sight and asked me, her voice laced with horror and a hint of disgust, “What is he doing?”

I shrugged and offered, “Trying to get brain damage?”

At this point, she excused herself, murmuring something about Johnny’s violin lesson and barely stopped to scoop up her son while beating a hasty retreat from the park.

Yep, I’m that mom. I have those kids.

Most recently, my oldest son bleached his hair out white. Then he started spiking it, molding it into some sort of Flock of Seagulls ‘do. That wasn’t freaky enough for him so next, he took it upon himself to pierce his ears with safety pins. Yeah.

I hate to admit that I’m that mom because I know that normal moms wonder about me. Normal, minivan-driving, soccer-going, whole-food-shopping, card-carrying-members of the PTA kinda of moms. Moms who say things like, “My child will never do that.” Normal moms. Yeah, those moms who whisper behind their perfectly manicured hands, pointing out what a veritable failure I am.

And who could blame them. I mean, a person’s parenting ability is judged on their kids’ successes, right? If your child get straight As, you’re a good parent. If your child is an all-star athlete, you’re a good parent. If your child is a music prodigy, you’re a good parent.  If your child is clean-cut, well-groomed, and looks like a model, you’re a good parent. If, however, your child eats sand or has safety pins through his earlobes, you are most definitely that parent.

Still, my son with his, um, freakish, unique look knows how to think. He knows how to make a decision based on principals and not peer pressure. He thinks about other people; the earth does not revolve around him. He doesn’t have a sense of entitlement. He has common sense. (Okay, we’re still working on that one.) I guess I’d rather be that mom and have that kid than to have one who excels at everything he does because I’ve ensured that outcome by insisting he gets a trophy simply for participating, by making sure he’s invited to every birthday party, by fighting with teachers to make sure he gets credit for mediocre work, by protecting him from any and every possible hardship, and by drilling into his brain the idea that he deserves whatever he wants.

I guess I can live with being that mom.

Into the Tunnel of Darkness: My Colonoscopy

After having two bouts of diverticulitis in less than a year, my doctor urged me to get a colonoscopy. At the mere mention of the word colonoscopy, my butt cheeks involuntarily clenched. From what I'd heard, I knew that colonoscopies were only slightly worse than being stretched on the rack, getting buried alive, or taking your kids grocery shopping. I decided to make an appointment, but the whole "diarrhea of epic proportions and a camera shoved up my butt" thing held me back. After procrastinating for the maximum allowable time, I finally picked up the phone. (The maximum allowable time is different for men and women. Since I'm a woman and therefore not a big baby, I could only procrastinate for a year. Men can procrastinate for more than 10 years.)

When I had my consultation, the nurse explained the procedure and gave me a couple different options to prepare for the test. Prepare for the test. This is where the deception starts. In my world, prepare for the test means study and memorize how to conjugate irregular verbs in Spanish. But that's not the kind of preparations or tests they're talking about.

One of the options she gave me was to drink some concoction called GoLytely. Go lightly. Well, that sounds nice. It's the name of Audrey Hepburn's lovable character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Lightly. Go lightly. It sounds nice and calm. Deception number two.

The first two choices she gave me entailed drinking some sort of vile liquid. I knew I wouldn't be able to get down, let alone keep down, any kind of disgusting drink. I had flashbacks to the many glucose tolerance tests I've taken while pregnant. Take my word on this, the technicians do not like it when you throw up on them. I asked the nurse, "Do you have a third choice? How about an xray? A blood test? Anything less um, icky?"

She said, "Well, since you're young and healthy, you could take pills instead, but we'd need to do bloodwork first to make sure your kidney function is okay. And if you opt for the pills, you need to take 32 of them and you'll need to drink 8 ounces of water every time you take the pills."

"Water I can handle," I said, relieved I wouldn't have to drink any foul fluid. Sign me up!"

So, the day before my colonoscopy comes and I begin my prep.

4:00 PM – I’ve had nothing but water all day, figuring the less in, the less out. I swallow the first 4 pills that I'm pretty sure are actually those little salt pellets you use in your water softener. I down my 8 ounces of water and wait, poised outside the bathroom door, ready to make a dash. I’m not sure how long it will take before I begin to experience the, um effects. Fearing it will happen instantaneously, I refuse to move from my post next to the toilet.

4:15PM – I feel fine and prepare to take my next 4 pills, followed by an additional 8 ounces of water. Waiting is scary. How long will it take to kick in, I wonder. Will I really be locked in the bathroom for the rest of the evening or had my friends and family exaggerated when they spoke of their experiences?

4:30PM – As I look at the clock and prepare to swallow my next four pills, I begin to feel some bubbling and gurgling in my tummy. For those of you who are new to the whole colonoscopy experience, take heed. That bubbling means – Get your butt on the toilet NOW!

4:35PM – I grab my book and head for the toilet. I can't help thinking of the Seinfeld episode when George takes a book into the bathroom with him, is forced to buy it, then the book is flagged so George can't return it. I wonder how many library books have undergone the colonoscopy prep. Then I think it’s probably better not to ponder that. (This was not a library book. I promise.) I decide this isn't too bad. I’ve had worse gastrointestinal viruses in my life.

4:45PM – I finish my business and wash my hands. As I take my next 4 pills, it hits me again. And by hits me, I mean, I not only do not have time to dry my hands, but I very nearly don't have time to pull down my pants. Oh. My. Gosh. I had no idea my body could hold that much. I see things I ate when I was five years old come out. All the partially digested pieces of grape Hubba Bubba I'd swallowed when the teacher caught me with gum in high school came out.

5:00PM – I manage to choke down pills 17-20 and pray for death wonder when the "effects" will let up. My legs are numb from sitting on the toilet. Great, I think, I'll get up and have to crawl out of the bathroom and heaven forbid the urge hit me again because there is no way I'll be able to get back to the toilet on these rubber legs. I wonder if my kids will be scarred for life if they find me lying in a pool of "effects" on the bathroom floor. I make a mental note to start saving for their therapy just in case.

7:00PM I leave the safety of the bathroom. It doesn't last long. But now I can manage to go 5 - 10 minutes between effects (effects sounds so much nicer than explosive diarrhea, doesn't it?).

8:00PM – At this point, my colon is clean enough to eat off, not that I recommend eating off colons or anything. However, those 20 salt pills didn't get the message that my colon is empty; they're still working. Since there's nothing left in my entire digestive system, my internal organs liquify and come running out instead. I've only consumed about half a gallon of water, but somehow, once in my body, that 64 ounces turned into 87 gallons.

8:30PM – You know how babies get diaper rash after having poop on their butts for a period of time? Yeah, well six and a half hours into my preparations, my butt actually burst into flames. It’s okay though, the veritable Niagara Falls that continued to flood from my body doused the fire. For the moment anyway.

9:00PM – I nearly vomit as I try to choke down the next 4 pills. Then I wonder what on earth these pills are going to do to me. I'm empty. I’m afraid if I take the final 8 pills, what’s left of my body will drain out my butt and nothing will remain of me except my earrings.

12:00AM – The hollow shell of skin that used to be me gives up, crawls to bed, and passes out, knowing I won’t need the bathroom for the next 5 weeks because there’s absolutely nothing left in me.

10:30AM – I arrive at the doctor’s office and take a seat in the waiting room.

11:00AM – I consider slapping the person sitting next to me, popping her gum, and talking loudly on her cell phone.

11:30AM – They finally call me back to a room and ask me a litany of questions.
“Is there any chance you’re pregnant?” I laugh so hard, I snort.
“Do you wear glasses or contacts?” No.
“Do you have dentures?” No.
“Do you have a hearing aid?” What?
“Do you have a hearing aid?” What?
“Do you have a hearing aid?” I decide this nurse doesn’t have a sense of humor and give up.
She has me change into a hospital gown so they can have easier access to violate me, and starts an IV.

12:00PM – I’m wheeled into the room where the magic happens. I look around for the buttcam and see some ominous-looking tubes. The anesthesiologist comes in and takes my blood pressure. It’s 612/438. “Are you nervous?” he asks. “No”, I reply, “I do this every couple weeks for fun.” The nurse tells me to turn onto my side (you know, for easy access), and the anesthesiologist injects his drugs into my IV. The last thing I remember is hearing Secrets by One Republic playing in the room, and thinking it’s a good thing they aren’t playing Baby Got Back.

12:30PM – A mean nurse is trying to get me to wake up. Apparently, she’s been trying for a while because she seems impatient and frustrated that I won’t open my eyes. I want to tell her to go away and let me sleep. I’m a single mom to six kids, for crying out loud. I need this rest! But I can’t wake up enough to form the words. I feel the need to pass gas and think to heck with being a lady. I'm afraid if I hold back I'll likely explode. At some point, the doctor came in and told me that although I have diverticulosis, it isn’t too bad and there are no polyps or any other scary things in there. Then he tells me I don't need to come back until I'm 50. I've got 8 years and 1 month to prepare for my next preparation.





So folks, the moral of this story is - just do it! Make the appointment and do it! Yeah, the preparation sucks, but look on the bright side, you'll lose a few pounds, have something to blog about, and will be able to put your mind at ease about colon cancer. Colorectal cancer is one of those things that's curable if it's caught in time. Suffering through stage 4 colorectal cancer is much, much worse than a colonoscopy. Oh yeah, and buy some diaper wipes and maybe even some Desitin for your prep. A butt on fire is not a happy butt.

Math Sucks

For those who have read my blog for any amount of time, you know that I’m not mathy. In fact, I think I may make Jimmy Buffett’s Math Sucks my theme song. And this is my favorite cartoon ever.

I barely passed math in high school and now I have to help my students with math more than any other subject. Some days, I can understand why we teach it. Some days, I can tell my students, “Yes, you really will use this in your adult life.” I was helping my sixth graders learn how to set up proportions and figure out tax and tips and discounts. It was stuff we use all the time. I could honestly say with certainty that they will need this knowledge later in life. I mean, you don’t want to waste money on the buy-one, get-one deal for generic canned tomatoes when the coupon for the name brand tomatoes is the better deal. You need math to figure out this stuff. Unless, of course, you marry a rich person who takes you out to dinner so you don’t have to buy tomatoes at all, which is clearly the best solution.

And then there are times, like today, when I was helping my eighth graders solve two-step inequalities and graph them. When was the last time, you thought to youself, “Hmmmm, I must graph the solution to -6x – 18 > -12. I simply need to know the answer immediately!”? Have you ever, in your adult life, needed to graph an inequality onto a number line? Ever? Of course not!

I’ve gotten pretty good at faking it though. Today, a student asked me, “when you multiply or divide by a negative, aren’t you supposed to flip the sign?” At the beginning of the year, I would’ve looked at them, completely dumbfounded, and said something like, “How the crap am I supposed to know?!” Today, however, I looked at him and said, “Is this what your math teacher told you?” When he nodded in the affirmative, I concurred, “Why yes, yes, you do.” Then I frantically searched through the book to double-check. My students are none-the-wiser these days. They think I’m brilliant. (Yes, it does make me feel good to know I can hold my own with twelve-year-olds, thankyouverymuch.)

So today, while I was helping my students study for their test on solving and graphing two-step inequalities, they asked me, “Why do we have to know this stuff?”


I answered, “You don’t. But I had to learn this garbage in junior high, so now I’m making you learn it too just so I can experience a little vindication.” They merely stared at me blankly until I had them look up the word “vindicate” in the dictionary, thus effectively moving us on to Language Arts. Voila!

The Top Ten Reasons Why Valentine's Day Sucks

I’ve never been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. When I was single and dating, I never knew what to expect or what was expected of me? Should I get my boyfriend a card? Homemade cookies? Something more? Cologne? How much should I spend? I don’t want to go overboard and make him feel bad if he just got me a card. I don’t want to do too little if he spent a lot of money. (It can be very nerve-racking.)

CONTINUE READING HERE!

I'm REALLY not cut out for Dating

I’ve been on my own with the kids for over two years now. I’ve been officially divorced for a year and a half. I’ve been thinking about dating lately. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it in theory.

I’m far too busy and wouldn’t know where to start meeting people.  I’d feel too guilty leaving my kids to go out for the evening when it seems like I don’t have enough time with them as it is.  And I’m not keen on the idea of introducing anyone to my kids at any point in the future.  I can’t imagine anyone else becoming part of their lives.  Still, I guess I’m feeling lonely.  Well, mostly I just feel overwhelmed with responsibility.  I could never have imagined just how hard it is to juggle everything and be the sole caregiver to six kids along with being their provider as well.  No time off, no every-other-weekend breaks, not even dinner out by myself or with friends now and then.  My ex hasn’t worked in over a year.  I doubt he ever will.  So, yeah, I mostly feel extremely overwhelmed.  But now and then, when I have a minute to sit down and take a breath, a twinge of loneliness creeps in.

Those aren’t the only reasons why I’m only theoretically considering dating.  Another big reason I can’t imagine actually going out with anyone and getting to know them is that I don’t think I would like anyone who was idiotic enough to like me.  I’m not an easy person to get along with.  I’m impatient, I have no tolerance for stupidity, and I like things to be done the right way – my way.  I want help, but I want to do it all myself.  I hate being stuck in a rut, but I hate surprises even more.  And if a guy caters to me and is the most sensitive, thoughtful, kind, compassionate person, it irritates me that he’s too girly and I wish he’d just tell me off and put me in my place when I’m being a snot.  Then again, if he did that, I’d probably cry that he was insensitive and didn’t care.  So, really any guy who would want to put up with that neurosis has got to have some sort of mental disorder, so I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be interested in him.  Also, where I live, the guys I’ve seen tend to wear baseball caps, drive pickup trucks, say “all y’all”, and are missing several teeth.  Then there’s the fact that I’m old and fat and have six kids.  Anyone who’d be interested in this amazing hotness is clearly blind and on drugs.  I don’t think I’d want to date someone on drugs.

And even more importantly, let’s say I got desperate and decided I liked pickup truck driving, “all y’all” saying, toothless druggies.  What on earth would I have to talk about on a date?  Seriously, I just had a lengthy conversation on Facebook about how Ruby wouldn’t let Max use scissors or glue, or fly a kite because he was too little, but she sent him to the grocery store by himself to buy eggs for her.  I was discussing cartoon rabbits, for crying out loud!  How long could a conversation about Bubble Guppies, Sid the Science Kid’s annoying grandmother, and Dr. Doofenschmirtz’s latest ‘inator last?  I can just imagine the stupefied look at any potential date’s face as I regale him with SpongeBob quotes.  “Psst, Squidward, I’m working in the kitchen… at night!  Hey Squidward, guess what. I’m chopping lettuce… at night!  Look at me, I’m swabbing the bathroom… at night!  Ow, I burned my hand… at night!”

“Look, all y’all, I’m walking out the door… at night!” would be his response as he made a beeline for the exit.

Tweet from the Heart

Follow @DietCokeUS on Twitter and this Wednesday, February 8, retweet Diet Coke's Heart Truth tweet. For each person who re-tweets Diet Coke’s The Heart Truth® tweet on Wednesday, Feb. 8, Diet Coke will donate $1 to the Foundation for the National Institutes of Health, up to $100,000, in support of The Heart Truth® and women’s heart health research and educational programs.

I work with a woman named Gloria Boisvert whose story was featured in 2009. You can read it/watch her video HERE. This is a cause that's close to her heart, literally. And it illustrates that heart disease can hit anyone. Gloria is this tiny woman who is in good shape, yet she needed to endure an angiogram followed by angioplasty and placement of a stent, and then emergency coronary artery bypass surgery to restore blood flow to her heart muscle. She was one of the lucky ones.

Check it out and take a second to retweet @DietCokeUS's Heart Truth tweet this Wednesday!

Thanks!

One Small Act of Kindness - Week Four

Here's another idea for my ongoing acts of kindness project. Donate blood. While running errands today, I spotted a mobile blood donation bus set up in the parking lot. I really wanted to finish my shopping and get home. I was tired from running all over the place for the better part of the day, and I was looking forward to going home, and vegging out with my book for a while. But something tugged at me and made me stop at the donation site. What the heck, I decided. I've been out all day, what's another few minutes?

I had Austin, Lex, and Brooklyn with me. When we stepped into the bus, a technician asked who was donating. I spoke up and then Austin offered to donate as well. We learned that you have to be sixteen years old with a parent's permission to donate. Austin's seventeen, so he happily signed up for his first time.

Unfortunately, I was deferred because my temperature was too high at 99.6. I'm pretty sure I'm not getting sick and the elevated temperature was due to the fact that the air conditioner in my van went out on the way to the store and since my window is also broken, it was pretty darn toasty in my car. But still, they can't take chances, so I couldn't donate this time. Austin, however, was able to donate.

I know not everyone is able to donate blood. That's okay. This is just another idea you can use. Or not. Maybe this will spark your own ideas. Take a minute to write what kind things you've done lately. Don't feel self-conscious that you're bragging about what you've done; do it to inspire others and let people know that it isn't hard to make a difference. :)