He read a book today. Oh boy!

It was only a few nights ago that my sweet and precious and lots of other pleasant adjectives son read his first book independently. He turned five on November 2nd. You can only imagine my excitement. The joy I felt was unparalleled. I have never been more proud. I didn't really think that illiteracy would be a problem in our household; that's not it. I (wow) am just...I say "excited" too much. I have been working with him since in-utero. But, really...we've been working on phonics since before he turned four. He read with prosity, y'all. That was the most amazing part.

Here's the book he read, Biscuit's Big Friend.

Fifth Lead Vocalist for Van Halen is Hot for Yogurt--She's Got It Bad,So Bad: She's Hot for Yogurt.

I changed my picture so that you would all know that I still think about my blog. The girls said I should blog some more, so I will eventually. Somehow, I have become addicted to Facebook, and while I'm there, I say everything I need to say ( a lot of times through fact-based quizzes). It's a little embarrassing, but I'm okay with it. I have become so laid back that I'm apathetic. That is definitely not a virtue.

The good news is these days I have a lot of energy. I wish I were home more so that I could get things done. My bedroom is really clean right now which may not be a super big deal to you, but it was so dirty that it became our way of life. When I cleaned the room, exciting things started to happen in the bedroom: exciting, private things. It could be a combination of the tranquil, serene room and the fact that I quit my birth control pills. We are not "trying for a baby" (like it says on the Sims). I just didn't want to take them anymore. Seemed like an unnecessary expense really.

Gosh, sorry this is horrible. I'm speaking in sentence fragments. I'll tell you the truth. I'm watching an Activia commercial over and over. Most of the time I like the TiVo for skipping the commercials, but when there is an advertisement for something as provocative as a shit-party yogurt, I can't help myself. This is what I look like when I eat Activia. Bowel pain makes me look sex-ay, 'cause all that diarrhea means I'm gettin' skinny.

I Cried During Bible Class

At church yesterday, there was a woman with her infant grandchild. They were sitting in the pew right in front of us. He was sucking on his fist and cooing and grunting and doing all those baby things. It reminded me of what my body refused to do for me and of what my body had taken from me twice. Damn these ovaries! Damn them! They're covered in cysts and refuse to release the proper hormones. The result is one very sad woman.

Somebody Left Their Baby on the Bus

Jeremy drives a school bus, a half route (either morning or afternoon). Earlier in the week, he heard over the radio this, "Yeah, some girl left her baby on the bus. She's probably gonna need it." It was something along those lines. It was one of those computerized birth control babies they give out as a potential grade in high school health classes. We saw some former students at Sonic in Iuka yesterday sitting at the picnic tables with their robo-babies. Naturally, I congratulated them. hardy har!

I got to thinking, so I asked. "Hey, girls, how come I don't see any of the guys with those stinkin' babies?" They answered, "Well, Mrs. Smith, the boys get the option of writing an essay or keeping the baby over the weekend like us." Oh, ta-hell-no! Can you friggin believe that? They can impregnate, but they are not asked to participate in this program? Letter time! I'll write a letter that never gets answered. That's just an activity I participate in to keep my mind healthy and my blood pressure just slightly above where it should be.

To quote Napoleon Dynamite, "Gah!"

Sweet Jesus!

It wasn't long ago (inside of 8 years, that's not long ago, right?) that we were at the Wal-Mart Supercenter here in Corinth, Mississippi, to buy quick cheap sheets for our new mattress. We weren't quite married yet (uh oh), and I have a phobia of sorts of uncovered mattresses. We couldn't exactly borrow a sheet from his mom, and I was so paranoid that my mom would notice one of her ancient sheet sets missing. Jer parked in the fire lane, and I ran in to buy our soon-to-be consecrated 250 thread count sheets. Sidebar: this fitted sheet less than a year later came out of the washing machine with a burned hole in it. As I walked from the automatic doors back to the car with the best, most confident posture, a cliche work crew was boarding their own vehicle. One of them shouted, "Sweet Jesus!" Apparently, he was impressed, and I was, unfortunately, flattered. My fiance heard their appreciation and seconded it when I got myself in the car a little too quickly. There I was outfitted in Old Navy and Addidas, a total of $100 probably dressed me head to toe (and that is by my estimation $80 too much) sure I was going to be raped before I could enjoy some consensual premarital sexual relations.

I couldn't quite figure out why I felt like these men were going to try to rape me. I had been places before by myself, and I had been admired less tactfully I'm sure. I had learned about testosterone and its effects in biology class, so surely I should have passed it off. Over the months following "Sweet Jesus-gate," I started having kind of flashbacks of some things that happened to me when I was a little girl. While those nauseating events were not as brutal as they could have been, I felt disoriented and betrayed. Then it hit me. I feel scared about little nothing things, because of what happened to me when I was ten. The uncovered mattress thing, consequently, has everything to do with the psychology involved in my molestation. Now, I'm a statistic, pissed, and a little weepy.

Jeremy's got the new-moan-ie

That's how Mama Ann says/said it--not pneumonia, but new-moan-ie. "Chrystal (Chrustal) you'd better not go out with a wet head, or you'll catch the newmoanie."

Only a couple of you know of whom I speak. I'm talking about my ex-stepmother, "Mama Ann." She insisted that everyone call her that as if she were mother to all the motherless. She is/was the most crude (not in an good or entertaining way) woman I've ever encountered. Pure, unadulterated filth. She was a proud, disabled woman with a lot to say about absolutely nothing. (Disabled like get a check disabled. She fell on some ice and broke her leg when she was twenty-three. Rheumatoid arthritis set in. There is no way I can give you the phonetic spelling of how she said "rheumatoid arthritis.")

Ann met my dad at a bar, Oak Hill, on his birthday. As I recall, she was the one that picked him up. She pulled her shirt out, and told him to "blow out the candles." The reason I recall this story is that it was shared with me....at ELEVEN. I know. I was telling Jer today about how Mama Ann, when she was about seventeen, told some thirty-something guy at a bar, "Hey, I'll sit on that dick for you." This is what I grew up with for a few years. These types of stories and a lot of action that backed them up kept me in my room doing crunches and listening to The Wallflowers, Boys II Men, and other for obvious reasons non-torturous, non-NIN music.

When I had to come out of my room to do my chores, I was often embarrassed and appalled and disgusted and many other things. Also, when I was out, I was forced to eat things like "Ann's famous chili" or fried chicken. "Colonel Sanders ain't got nothin' on me. Does he, Dad? Does he," she would ask. My dad, that's who she called "dad." Okay by me; I wasn't really territorial with the title given to him by accidental sperm donation. She could call him dad if she wanted, because as soon as I ate my one drumstick or one scoop of chili that I'm convinced had pubes in it like the Radiohead episode of Southpark (This took place years before that episode: further proof that there are people stealing my thoughts for their make profit.), I would go back to my room and do some more Jack LaLanne style exercises from memory. At cheer camp, they were shocked to discover that I had very visible abdominal muscles in the form of a four pack. I wasn't surprised. Every crunch, up to a thousand a day sometimes, was representative of some uncouth thing in my life.

This has taken on a direction I really didn't foresee. I was going to talk about Jer's illness. But, this is therapeutic, and I think I'll continue it in some Mama Ann blogs. I feel like I just did an exorcism.

Eggstravaganza!

We went golfing yesterday. A sweat bee made its way into my sports bra, and it was not good timing as I was making my attempt at bogie. So, I jumped around and shrieked and shouted like a cartoon. Then, what the hell, I pulled my whole boob out right there in search for the thing I knew was there. Immediately I thought about an epipen or benadryl, but I had neither. I didn't have a reaction (a miracle), so I went on for the last four holes.

We hadn't played since last July, and needless to say, I missed the ball a lot. To make sure I wouldn't be too sore today, I mowed yesterday. I felt like the bumpy ride on the mower would help. Then, I picked up trash (effin litterbugs) and sticks. This morning I was sore, so to work the soreness out, I thought I should do the thing that could've given me some of the pain (like a hangover remedy). So, I mowed the backyard and picked up more sticks and limbs.

Now I'm really excited because I have a huge pile of sticks and brush that I can burn and roast jenny-o turkey hotdogs on for Easter. Roasting hotdogs on a brush fire is just as relevant as hunting eggs in my opinion. This is what we like to do. We like to put the eggs on to boil while we start the fire. Then, while the eggs are cooling, we roast the franks. When that's over, and there is no danger of burning down our barn/property, we come in to dye and decorate eggs.

I want to make compost really badly, and I don't know why. I feel like a good compost will help to get me some good, acidy tomatoes and some spicy peppers. The thing is--I'm not super great at planting things. I think the compost is key. I have all this property. I feel like maybe I should be using it, and I certainly don't want livestock. So, compost?