It's Been a Great, Long While, Y'all

I've been up to my knees in it. Ethan turns six on Tuesday. I can hardly believe that my baby is such a little boy. It's incredible! Yesterday, was a once-monthly celebration at the school that I am student teaching. At the end, they sing their school song. It's really upbeat and impossible not to dance to. So there it is. The only time I have to go dancing is with a bunch of third, fourth, and fifth graders. It's not that I went dancing before--though I would've loved to. It's more that if I wanted to, I couldn't.

This week:
-Finish Ethan's Mario-Inspired bedroom for his present.
-Hair did.
-Hang out with Michael and Brandy for a minute.
-Talk to my mom more about all of the nasty, horrible afflictions she has. (Bless her heart.)
-Do some schoolwork.
-Go to my student teaching school.
-Not go dancing.

Bathroom Politics

Right now I'm sitting in my guest bathroom. It is the safest hidey-hole we have. We are under our second tornado warning of the day. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a deep-seated fear of storms. While I sit here though, I can't help but concentrate on the sentiment just uttered by my firstborn, "Mommy, these tornadoes are attacking our world!"

As quickly as he said that, I thought...No, I know what is attacking our world; and, just like that, as a gift to me from him, he gave me my out. I am no longer concentrated on the storms that beat my country home. Right now, I am on my internal soap box.

I'll tell you right now what is attacking our world. It's apathy. People don't give a shit. I'm guilty too often of this. People don't care if others are discriminated against or wronged or run over in some way. We largely don't care to let our government have the reins without holding them accountable or asking questions, or let's face it...without giving two shits what happens once less than fifty percent of those eligible have decided to vote for an R or a D.

Thomas Jefferson warned against this. He said in as much that we need ideological rebellion by the citizenry every twenty years. So, it's been a long time since the Civil Rights movement, two cycles of supposed-to-be-rebellion, with nothing. Are things so great that no one is moved to action? For eight years we unwittingly sat back and allowed Cheney and Rove to sit at the helm with their arms stiff up W's backside.

I got a C on a paper in my Comp. II class a few years ago on an opinion paper. My paper at one point equated the struggles of homosexuals to the struggles faced by African Americans during the Civil Rights movement. Apparently, that was a very un-Democratic thing to say, and because of my opinion, I was given bad marks. In fact, in the margin of the word document that I had submitted, this was the professor's only criticism, "How can you compare what African Americans have gone through to what the gays are going through?"

Right then, I realized that this almost passive in-fighting and this desire to keep things copacetic is what undoubtedly keeps people from participating in democracy. Jefferson also said that in order for democracy to work, the citizens have to be active participants. I'd been thinking about this for weeks, and then this happened:

In one of my education classes, this guy was telling about one of his student teaching lessons. He told us the subject matter, Africa in a ninth grade World Geography class at Tupelo High School, and he told us his teaching strategies: a PowerPoint presentation, asking leading, thought-provoking questions, and my favorite, class discussion. He opened it up for questions. No one spoke, not even the young Hermione Granger-ish girl that ALWAYS has something to offer. He wondered if he had done something wrong, when Hermione raised her hand and handed him a piece of notebook paper. It said, "I'm really sorry. I have taken a vow of silence. We are protesting the bullying of gays in our school."

Upon reflecting on this, I have hope. Those students (many of them) were taking the opportunity to participate in their democracy. They had seen injustices and were not going to stand for it. Jocks and cheerleaders and geeks and drama kids and goths and gays united one day to say, "This is bullshit, guys." It makes me nostalgic for Bobby Kennedy and the 60s; though, I was not there. It makes me a bit less cynical, and it makes me feel like--even if it's only a group of fifteen-year-olds in North Mississippi, somebody gives a shit.

New Year's Resolutions are for Nancies!

I'll take your New Year's resolution and raise it one broken promise. I don't care to make them, but when I bent my super hot body to make a snowball, my pants split. Maybe you have a point!

The other night on The Biggest Loser, this five hundred pound Italian guy lost over thirty pounds in a week and mused, "Can you see my abs?" I ask, "Can you see my ass (in my busted jeans)?"

It really happened! I bent to make a snowball, and . . .

Social Experiment: Perry County, Tennessee

While in town for a get-together with friends, I went to the Food Giant in Linden, TN. While cruising the aisles with my bum-wheeled shopping cart, I passed by a number of adolescent to mid-twenties young men. The first I passed looked down immediately refusing to meet my eyes or return my fake-smile pleasantry. I thought...Weird. Perhaps he is just socially awkward. When I passed another young man and he did the same thing, I most earnestly felt that I was deep within the Twilight Zone. Surely, this isn't something that is taught to young men in Perry County. "When you see a lady, don't you dare look in her eyes. They're all just like that damned Eve. They're here to pull the wool over your eyes and make you get them pregnant."

I then thought it was my duty to seek out other young men (most of them worked there) to verify my paranoia. I looked for them, and my results (without a control group) were startling. They all did it! They all looked at the floor. Now, one would think to inspect themselves before drawing too many conclusions, but I didn't think it was necessary. I had checked the mirror before I'd left my mom's house. I wasn't wearing any potentially revealing even accidentally revealing clothing. I wasn't wearing makeup, so I was neither strikingly beautiful or painfully unsightly. No toilet paper on my shoes. No fancy clothes, accessories, etc. There was no reason for these young men to be just plain un-Southern in their angst. They outright refused to greet me or meet my half-smile. I thought for a moment that there was a strange, Emmett Till-type mentality in the town. They were afraid of me maybe.

I do think that these boys are taught either implicitly or explicitly that they should not look into the eyes of women. It's sort of disgusting. They are hobbled by their raising. How are they expected to make anything of themselves? What if a woman is the interviewer? Or...is any semblance of communication with women possible for them? Is it even anticipated that they will cross the county line?

What is it, friends?

Frodo Died.

Frodo Bagadonuts June 10, 2003-Dec. 9, 2009
My husband and I just came inside from burying our darling Frodo Bagadonuts. We buried her next to her daughter, Little Jerry Seinfeld who was hit by a car nearly four years ago. Frodo was only six-years-old, and we can't imagine what must have happened to her. She started acting out of sorts and puking Monday morning, and then today she was in a near coma, barely breathing with a shallow heartbeat and rousing only to dry heave. We tried to force water into her mouth with an infant medicine dropper, but I'm afraid it was too late.



I cherish Frodo for so many things. She was honest-to-God the sweetest dog on the planet. I always talk about how dumb my dogs are, but my goodness are they loyal and loving and as much a part of our family as any of the humans. The day we got Frodo I watched her delicate one-pound body hop through the grass like a grasshopper. We watched her attack moths and her shadow and plush toys for what seems hours. At least she was doing something; we were just amused watching her play. And I called HER dumb!



From the second I was pregnant, I'm convinced, Frodo knew it. She was always in my lap and lying around with me for the weeks I didn't yet know, and then for the remainder of my pregnancy, she was a mommy's girl through and through. It was only a little while before I had Ethan that Frodo had some babies of her own. She and Cosmo became parents a month before Ethan's due date. It was from that litter that we got Little Jerry. She and her parents were great pals and such a comfort to us. I don't care how shallow it is...when you've had a shitty day, sometimes you need the love of a dog.



As you can imagine, this is all a bit much for me right now. I feel like I'd be better off getting in bed, but as Frodo slept with us nightly, this will not be easy either. Plus, I just don't think that a blog could do Frodo justice. I miss her.

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?

My dad is Coolio than your dad.

I think a.) The guy I have been told is my biological father is related to Coolio., or b.) Coolio is my daddy. They both have fierce eyebrows and scary eyes.

I wish I could have found a better pictorial representation of how they look so much alike.

Vote in my poll at the bottom of the blog.

R.I.P. Three Frogs

The not-so-good things of spring made me feel guilty for wishing it were here a while ago. I assassinated three frogs on the less than half mile drive from my mother-in-law's this evening. From now on, I will walk her food down to her, and she can nuke it if need be.

Hey, Amanda, this one's for you.

The rest of you will enjoy too. Look what came out on DVD this week. Oh, DES. We should feel badly about making fun.

He ain't heavy. He's my brother.

I feel bogged down right now. It's midterm at school, and I am the consummate good student. It is just such a burden to want to do well. I don't feel like practicing essays of English Literature; although, I have enjoyed the class. I don't feel like studying body parts. I don't think I should have too. I should get a free pass in any type of A&P; I'm a friggin mortician. It all just seems like drudgery at my age. Why can't I just settle for the C? I am irritated beyond words. I'm irritated at the direction of this blog.

My break from it all is when Ethan does or says something really cute or smart. He's dressed up as Mario right now with his daddy's hat and a tool belt made by his Grandma. He's walking around the house humming (very loudly) the Mario theme and jumping with his fist to the ceiling. He says that his Daddy is Luigi and that I am Princess Peach. Cosmo is Toad, and Frodo is Baby Princess Peach.

So, I don't wanna be melodramatic, but I'll risk it. I have to remember that I am going back to school for him. I want to be able to spend time with him. With my previous career, I worked ALL of the time. Of course, I want to be a good example, and at four, he can tell you what essay and paper and test and homework mean. So, I'm proud of that. But, I have to worry that he may see the stress involved in what I'm doing now. Do you think he will one day say, "Why bother?" Having a kid, and knowing that his longterm memory is now close to in place is terrifying. I raise my voice at him sometimes, and it breaks my heart later. I hope he doesn't remember that I was busy with schoolwork and got frustrated with him. I don't think my parents worried too much about these things.

Excuse me. What's big?

So, I went for my well woman exam today, and with that comes the breast exam. You ladies know. My arms were pinned behind my head, and Dr. Li squeezed around. He said with his Chinese-English, "Boy is getting big." I said, Dr. Li, what exactly are you talking about? He said, "I said you're boy is getting big." I forgot I was wearing my necklace that has a picture of Ethan on it.

Let me just tell you now. If my boobs did get bigger, I would cut them off myself.

Did you know Melissa on The Bachelor had a breast reduction? I'm getting one, I swear, after I have all the kiddies we want. I would be afraid they would mess up the milk ducts accidentally.

Mosey Gone Wild

So, we're back, of course. And, we came back with a story for ya. Our last night in our little cabin, we opened a bottle of Mountain Valley Winery's Mountain Berry and went out to the hot tub. I skipped a few steps and went out wearing only a towel. Jer, the more tasteful of our pair, went out in his boxer briefs. He decided he would later need a towel and went back into the cabin. He came back over to the hot tub where I was making some headway with my glass of wine. He says, "I'm pretty sure we're locked out." Uh huh. Locked out...bare-assed naked. Obviously incapacitated, I drowned myself in another glass of wine while Jer set out in his underwear and too small towel and the twenty-nine degree weather to the main office.

He went down the mountain to the office that was CLOSED. He memorized the emergency phone number posted beneath the office hours and set out to find anyone that could help. It was Valentine's night, so finding someone home proved to be a special challenge. He hiked up (and I mean UP) the mountain and found the lights on at a cabin. He had to walk by two windows and was certain he'd be shot. He knocked on the door to discover that the only people, naturally, that would be in their cabin on Valentine's at 9 p.m. rather than at a pricey restaurant would be a family. There he stood in his underwear and too small towel and asked to borrow their phone. The lady on the other line said it would be fifteen minutes, and she'd be there with a spare key. So, back down the mountain he goes. The guy didn't offer to give Jer a ride, and he wouldn't have asked. Like he says, "No one wants ass all over their car seats, and for all this guy knew, I was naked under the tiny towel."

So, Jer gets back, and I'm still naked in the hot tub. (Where else would I be?) I shared with him all of my plans to fix our problems that I had dreamt up while he was on his nature hike. We could break the glass out and pay for it later, or we could wait at the cabin nearest us until our neighbors get home and ask for a bedspread and camp out. I had planned to fashion a tent out of the hot tub's cover and was this close to making a fire Survivor-style in the grill.

The woman with the key got there in our estimation of about six hours later, thirty minutes in real, clothed and sheltered, time. The mood was gone, mainly because I was convinced I was going to be raped while Jer was out on the mountain. We went back inside, finished the wine with some delicious Adobo cheese and went to sleepytown with SNL in the background.

With a story like that, there is not much else to tell. We had a great time, and it was super sweet of my hubby to get me away for a few days. Today, it's back to Wii Fit and Weight Watchers.

You can go here to see some more pictures.

Pancake Pantry, Here I Come

We're here in Linden, TN to drop Ethan off. Then, we're fast on our way to our VD Mosey. We will be celebrating this, the massacre holiday, by staying in a cabin in the mountains of East Tennessee. There will be wine, and there will be hot tub.

My mom is snoring in the other room. When she comes to our house, Jer says we're running a "hotel for bears."

I digress...
I am super-duper excited by the opportunity to put my mind toward something other than school. Naturally, the excitement about destination luvin and massage oils and the wine again has got me by the pants.

So, off we go, TALLYHO!

Spittin Up, Pissin Up, Bleedin Blood, Bleedin

Maybe that's an exaggeration. But, I can't seem to spell today, and against my better judgment, I have begun sentences on at least two occasions with conjunctions. It just looks sloppy.

We're going to blame all of this on the onset of what seems to be "The Worst Cold in the History of Man." Seriously, dating back to caveman days, nothing has come close to this virus-run-rampant. Sparing you the gory, mucousy details, I can tell you definitively to stay the eff away. Sidebar: I hate it when people call it the "crud." That is one of my hundreds of pet peeves. Although, it does seem that it adequately describes my current condition; it just reminds me of middle-aged Southern women that paint their too-long nails red and wear too much expensive jewelry and keep their hair styled (not at all in the endearing way you most likely have dreamt up).

I hate to write such a poo poo post, but I need you all to feel sorry for me. I won't settle for less. I want you all bringing me get-well fixes and praying for me over candles. Because (there I go again), Jer is taking me on a VD holiday overnight trip. I'm not one hundred percent sure, because I'm not a guy, but I really think he would rather make out with one of those East Tennessee bears than a mucousy mother of his only child. 1.)He runs the risk of becoming sick., 2.)It's just not very sexy.

Sexy is what I always try to be but fail at miserably. I really don't try as hard as I should, and it's so tragic. Maybe I take for granted that the fire and passion and other Harlequin words are still there in our marriage. Maybe after almost eight years, it will always be there? That's naive. I'm naive. Maybe subconsciously, by the grace of God, I work on it. Something's working.

I'll tell you what's not working properly: my nose, my trachea, my eyes. I remember Amanda singing, "Dr., my eyes have seen the years...."