Life At Our House

So my family roots are German, and I've lived in Germany. When I was 8, my dad was transferred to Germany, and we were there for three and a half years. I went to the DOD schools.  I spoke nothing but English the entire time.  My only actual experience with speaking German came my senior year of high school.  If asked, I can recite a line about reading two pages for Biology, but that's about it.  

In my husband's mind, such information as where I lived as a child translates a bit differently.  To him, I must know everything about Deutschland by virtue of my ancestry and childhood. I must know German. I must know all the cities and towns. I certainly must know all of the soccer teams. 

"What does this word mean?" Larry asked one day. "Bundes______Bayern?"

"I don't know,"  I replied. "It sounds like a town in Bavaria."

Not to be dissuaded by a little thing like an 'I don't know',  Larry began to spell the word.

"L-I-B..."

I glared at him.

"If I didn't know it when you said it, why would you think that I would know it when you spelled it?"

"Uhhh..."  

I guess that I should be flattered that he thinks I'm so smart, huh?

Living in an ADHD World

ADHD is a ubiquitous diagnosis these days, probably because the criteria is so subjective.  If a child wiggles a bit too much in their seat, they have ADHD.  If they look out the window at school, they have ADHD. Hair won't stay combed? ADHD.  It gets weird after awhile.  I deal with kids with ADHD every day.  It gets exhausting, mentally trying to keep up with some of them, and at the end of the day, I am glad that I get to go home to peace and quiet.

Except that I don't. I myself do not have ADHD, but I live with ADHD.  There. I said it.  Both of the men in my life have ADHD. A central fact of my life, one that has brought me much joy, and much exhaustion. Here is just one example, and you may point and laugh, if you like.

Sunday we were all sitting in the living room. The lights were out, the blinds closed against the heat. Zane was ensconced in his Boy Nest, which is the equivalent of a Man Cave. It is a nest of pillows that takes up the entire loveseat. I think that he likes the pressure of the pillows on his body. But he'd been in there all day, and the house was a mess.

Sorry, I didn't get a chance to get rid of the red eye.

"Hey Zane, please pick up your toys off the floor before somebody gets hurt." I told him. I was quite proud of myself for not mentioning that I'd already stepped on several hard and sharp toys that day. I'm Catholic, and I know how to ladle on that guilt like gravy, but I refrained.   Best to pick your battles. 

Zane started to pick his toys off the floor.  He did. Compliance is never an issue at our house. But then he had to play with the dog, roll around on the floor, jump off the couch, have a snack, comment on the Chicago Fire soccer game that was on TV, ask for the 4000th time how old his Uncle Jim is, and other stuff...all in ten minutes.

I found myself in a futile battle to do what a parent is supposed to do, which is redirect. That's what all the books say that you're supposed to do, and I've read all the books.
 

"Zane, you're supposed to be picking up your toys."

"You're supposed to pick up your toys."

"Pick up your toys."

"Toys, Zane."

"Toys!"

To be fair, every time I redirected, Zane did pause to pick up a toy. Sometimes he even moved in the direction of the toy box. Mostly he put it back down, because he was distracted by the dog, Wimbledon results, a commercial about slow turtles, the soccer game on TV, who was playing in the Gold Cup(some soccer thing), and whether or not he could be invisible.  My voice did get louder and louder, and Zane ratcheted up HIS voice to match mine, while Maisy jumped around us, as if encouraging us to fight.

In the midst of our melee, we hear singing. 

"Oh the Chicago Fire, they are a really good team...hmm hmm..."

Zane and I just stared at Larry.

"Uhhh...what was that about?" I had to ask.

"I don't know, just pretend I never did that." he said.

"Okay." Zane and I said.

Yes, this is an ADHD household. And I wouldn't trade it for anything. Except an occasional nap.

Comfort and Joy

Mamakat's Terrific Prompt:  5.) List the top 9 things that bring you joy.


This was a bit difficult for me.  I don't usually stop to identify my emotions about everything, particularly when I am in the moment. I've never stopped and said "I feel ____."  It's just not efficient for me.  Perhaps, in trying to live in the 'now', I skip parts of life, like thinking about how I feel at any given moment.   Maybe there's balance in contemplating aspects of life other than the now. Probably something I need to work on next year.


1. My husband brings me joy.  He doesn't always know it--since I'm not constantly giddy with mania, Larry usually thinks that I'm in a bad mood. (I'm not--but I don't see the point in smiling like I'm overmedicated all day long, either)  Larry has been there with me through quite a bit of trauma. Things that would drive a lesser man away haven't even phased him. That is important to me.  He is always trying to get me to laugh with his jokes, and sometimes he succeeds. Larry doesn't ever talk down to me or act like I'm stupid for asking questions about the computer; he just answers them. He's my biggest fan, and that brings me joy.

2. Zane brings me joy.  He is happy almost 24/7.  Even when he is in a 'mood', it never lasts a long time.  He loves to play, he's smart, and he's very loving.  What's not to love?  I've got a great kid, and I've loved watching him grow, which is why I often blog about him and bore all of you to tears! Just watching him sleep often has me feeling that all is good in the world, and that is a joy.

3. Cats bring me joy.  Ever since I was adopted by my first cat, Isobel, I've loved having cats in the house.  They are fascinating to watch, are playful, and affectionate, if you're not an item on their menu. They are smart and very agile at manipulating us to get what they need.  I have had hours of playing with my cats and watching them dominate their environment without much effort, and I'm convinced that cats are smarter than people, most days.  In spite of their little idiosyncrasies, and my heartbreak every time one of them has had to be put to sleep or died(RIP Isobel, Morris, Tiger, and Mr. Kitty), I wouldn't trade the happy moments for the world.

The Zena-cat 3000 comes with laser beams that shoot out of her eyes!

4. Maisy is such a playful pup that she brings me joy.  Although I will be eternally grateful when she is able to sleep through the night without  having to get up and piddle, and I'm not too keen on her need to find random paper products and chew them into little tiny pieces of paper, Maisy has been a good puppy so far.  It makes me laugh to see her out in the back yard, trying to play with Zena the cat, with her little butt up in the air and her tail wagging like a helicopter. What is even funnier is to see Maisy trying to learn how to catch mice with Zena as the teacher!

5. Books bring me joy.  They bring me other emotions, as well, but foremost is joy.  I can escape in a book when I can't afford a vacation.  I can distract myself from my sorrows, I can find new jokes or new novels. I can learn more about myself, and other people.  I can explore the world without ever leaving my comfy chair or shelling out for airfare.  A book can even be an instant time machine, taking me back to Tudor England to hang out with Thomas Cromwell or Henry VIII.

6. Writing brings me joy.  I don't always write well, but I like to put my pen to paper anyway. It's not always easy, but it is fun for me.  It is relaxing for me.  Nobody else has to read what I write, but it is my own personal pensieve.  Like Professor Dumbledore, I like to pull some memories out of my head for later viewing.  Years later, when I've forgotten so much, those memories will make me laugh, and that idea brings me joy. 

7. Good food brings me joy, and as my middle exemplifies, I love to eat.  Except fruit cake.  Nobody likes that. I love to sit down to a good hearty noonday meal, and have chicken fried steak, or enchiladas, or lasagna, or a juicy steak.  Probably my fondness for good food is firmly attached to my love of family--my extended family, mother, father, brother, husband, and children all herd together every Sunday at a random restaurant for a meal.  I like it when we are all together, even if I usually can't hear a darn thing. 

8. Friends bring me joy. One of my bloggy friends, Andrea, from Maybe It's Just Me,  sent me this wonderful t-shirt. She thought of me, and her thoughts did not contain a single curse word, I hope!  How did she know that I love getting presents?  Or that I secretly love to correct other people's grammar?  She is, in gamer terms, l33t!  I wish that she lived closer so I could just hang out at her house, where the cookies are.

Yes, I am.

9. Laughter brings me joy.  I read once that "joy is in the ears that hear."  Laughter always sounds wonderful to me, and if it is the laughter of children, then I am doubly blessed.  I'm talking about that laughter that burbles up from the belly and bursts forth like ripened fruit, laughter that infects the people around you in a good way, until everyone is laughing.  You just cannot feel unhappy if you are laughing this way--it is impossible.  And that brings me joy.  


What brings YOU joy?  Share in the comments!

The One

 

Source: maizenbrew.com via Tina on Pinterest

We had been dating for a time, and had fallen into a routine.  Dinner, followed by some time shooting pool, sharing a bucket of longnecks, and occasionally, a movie.   The movie theater was right across the street from the bar, and when it was time, Larry and I would walk over to the theater. 

On this particular evening, it was time to head for the movie, so we finished our pool game and put up our cues.  Then we noticed that we still had two beers left in the bucket.  These were Shiners.  Shiner Bocks. I was pretty sure that it is against state law to waste such an awesome beer; I said as much.  Larry and I stared at each other, then at the bucket.  We each pulled a longneck from the ice and tipped it back.  We drank our beer as fast as we could.  Larry took my hand as we stepped out into the evening and began walking to the theater. 

Good beer is not meant to be chugged.  Good beer, especially a superb dark beer, has a measure of carbonation that seems to fill up the belly.  That carbonation can cause some gastrointestinal distress, and this distress is exacerbated by the speed at which it is ingested.  Before we had walked halfway across the parking lot,  I felt the MOTHER OF ALL BURPS pushing up from my middle. I could feel it rising from within me, a geyser rising within my chest.

I was horrified.  I had been raised to believe that women weren't ever supposed to have loud bodily functions like burps and farts. They especially weren't supposed to have loud bodily functions while on dates with the opposite sex.  Our date was going so well, and here I was going to ruin everything by burping!  Larry would probably take me home and never call again.  He would probably tell all of his friends what a horrible date I had been. This burp would be a dealbreaker, I just knew it.  

 It couldn't be helped.

"BbbbbbuurrruuuRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!"  The reverberation of that burp must have registered as seismic activity.   Birds that had been asleep in the trees around us were startled out of their repose.  All of the people in the parking lot halted their walk to the theater to turn and stare.  The silence following my outburst was almost as deafening as the burp itself.  I remained frozen in place, shoulders hunched, and looked over at Larry.  He stared back, eyes wide.  I waited.  And then, Larry burst into laughter, and I knew that  he was the One.

Mamakat's prompt: 1.) Tell us about the moment you knew your spouse was “The One”.

Dreams Can Be Actually Insightful

I don't often remember my dreams, anymore.  I used to remember them very clearly, and I even wrote some of them down in a dream journal.   I would then consult with textbooks on dreaming and books on dream interpretation.  For a long time, I wrote down many of my dreams.  There were tornadoes chasing my car, for instance.  Me dancing around a fire naked.  Me hunting sparkly vampires naked,  being at Ford's Theater naked, etc.  I may have made the dream about the sparkly vampires up.  Looking back, I've noticed I have had lots of dreams about being naked in public.  I am not sure why, except that I tend to borrow Angelina Jolie's body as a substitute for mine.  Apparently, my subconscious brain thinks that she's dreamy and that we look alike. 

Nowadays, the second I am fully awake, whatever I was dreaming about dissipates, vanishing into where ever it is that these things go. If I do remember a dream,there's usually a reason. 

The other night, (probably because my bloggy soulmate Andrea  wrote about her dream), I dreamt about my grandparent's pink house out in the no-man's land of Illinois.   It was a weirdly disturbing dream.  I woke up at 3:47AM and immediately decided that 10mg of melatonin was too much.   I finally fell asleep again, but I remembered the dream as soon as I woke up.  I had to tell Larry all about it.

"I had a weird dream," I began, as we were getting dressed for work.

"What was it?"  Larry was all ears.

"I was at my grandparent's house in the breezeway at night and there was a man-shaped blob at the backdoor."

"That's IT?"  I guess that he was expecting me to tell a long, drawn out tale.  Larry has been gifted with  what he calls "Scooby-Doo" dreams; convoluted affairs that take a while time to relate, given his penchant for play-by-play storytelling.  My brevity both confused and annoyed him.

"It disturbed me enough to wake me up," I pointed out.  "What the heck do you think it means?"

"It was your conscience," Larry asserted.

"You're actually telling me that my conscience is a man-shaped blob?"  I stared at him.

"Yep."  With that profound statement, my husband walked out of the room.  In the silence that followed his exit, I thought about it. 

That would probably explain a lot. 

Laughter is Not Always the Best Medicine

Prompt: Write about a time when you laughed at an inappropriate time. I'm going to try something new and see how it goes...

Exactly one week after my husband asked me to marry him, he was diagnosed with cancer. It was a cancer that is highly common among young men, and it is very curable. However, my husband was heavily into denial about his diagnosis, and dragged his heals a bit. The result was that his cancer had spread into his abdomen, and we ended up at a cancer treatment facility.

Larry is terrified of needles. He told me that several times while we were dating, but it didn't really sink in. I'm scared of needles, but I usually close my eyes and grit my teeth until it's over. I thought that that was what everyone did. I held Larry's hand while they drew blood(using pediatric needles JUST for him), I had him look at me until it was over, and he seemed to do just fine. I thought that that was all there was to his phobia.

Chemo for most people involves being hooked up to an IV and pumping them full of poisons to attack the cancer cells. When it was time for Larry's second chemo treatment, he was placed in a chair that reclined in a room full of people having their chemo treatments. Some were in beds, some in chairs, some had a 'civilian' with them for moral support.

The nurse placed the needle into Larry's arm and started the IV, and then she left the room for a few minutes. I sat in front of my husband so he could see me, and I started to get my book out of my bag. Larry and I were talking about something mundane, when he happened to look down at the IV needle sticking out of his arm.

My husband looked right at me.

His eyes rolled up in his head.

Larry started to slide. Right. Out. Of. The. Chair.

I watched this happening in slow motion, and lots of things were going through my mind all at once. Could an air bubble have passed into his blood stream? Is it a heart attack? An allergic reaction? All three at the same time! What am I supposed to do? Do I remember CPR? Where the hell is the nurse--Siberia? Do they have those electric paddles here? Is this a subtle way of backing out of the wedding?

I couldn't help it.

I started giggling.

The laughter rushed up and poured of my mouth before I even knew it was coming, and once it began, I could not call it back.

It had never occurred to me that Larry had fainted. I thought something was terribly, terribly wrong.

So I giggled as I watched my future husband start his slow slide to the floor. Another chemo patient yelled for the nurse while I giggled. Many nurses came rushing into the room while I giggled. Larry is a large man, and they all seemed to be very tiny women as they: a)tried to keep him from sliding onto the floor, b)make sure he didn't pull the IV out if he did hit the floor, c)calm the other patients in the room, and d)make sure that hysterical, giggling woman in the corner doesn't need a shot to calm her down.

Nurses, by and large, are completely awesome people. As tiny as those women were, they got Larry completely back on the chair without incident. They reclined the chair, check his vitals, made sure the needle was where it was supposed to be. The lead nurse made sure that I knew that the emergency was over. I was extremely embarrassed. I kept giggling, however, until Larry woke up, and then sporadically until we left the treatment center. I don't think that Larry really knew what was going on, but he was worn out from the drugs and just went right to bed when we got home.

I'm still embarrassed about the whole thing even after all this time. I pride myself on being calm in an emergency situation, on knowing what to do in an emergency situation...and I panicked. I was completely useless when it happened. I would have been more helpful if they would have knocked me out and used my body to prevent Larry from falling out of the chair.

I know that laughing is a common fear response.

I know that it was an instinctive reaction.

I know that I couldn't help it.

I know that I am being too hard on myself.

But I still do it.

The Walmart Curse

My husband and I had an argument heated discussion the other day.

What did we argue about?

What do most couples argue have heated discussions about?

Money. Well, money and the frequency of sex, according to the polls.

But we argued discussed money.

Larry says that I go crazy in Walmart. He says that I can't go in there without dropping over a hundred bucks. Even with a list, I come home with extra stuff.

So I am admitting it here on the interwebs so it's official and I will no longer have plausible deniability in the event of a future argument discussion:

My husband is right.

I can't help it.

Even if I do make a list, and even if I try hard to just get the items on the list, the Walmart curse strikes.

I see it, and then I remember that we don't have it.

Even if we don't need it, we suddenly must have it. And that too, and ooh, we definitely need that... And bam! There goes a couple hundred bucks.

And I can't forget Target. I spent so much money in Target one day that they sent me a thank you card. Of course, it was all stuff that I needed and had to have. It was so nice of them to remind me.

It may drive my husband crazy, but it bothers ME even more.

I should know better.

Stores are specifically designed to get you to spend money. That is their sole purpose for existence. We all know this. Every single store is laid out, from the number of items on sale to the number of carts in the front, to get you to a)spend as much time in the store as possible, and b)to get you to spend as much money as possible. Walmart is better at this than most, except maybe for Disney(Disney pioneered the field of behavioral engineering, even if their name wasn't on it).

I know this because I read a lot about the study of behavior and some of that research has involved sales and marketing. People worry about the government getting our money, and that's kind of stupid. They need to be more worried about stores like Walmart.

I know, for instance, that the reason there are so few employees checking people out at Walmart(and other stores) is because research has shown that the longer you are in the store the more money you will spend(because you will think of something else you needed).

The candy at the checkout is there BECAUSE children are impulsive, and parents will often buy their children things to shut them up. Nobody likes a screaming child, least of all a parent.

The milk and eggs are at the back of the store BECAUSE you will likely think of something else you need as you pass all the other aisles.

They throw that extended warranty offer in at the last second BECAUSE you've already committed to spending money, so you are more likely to say yes to spending more.

It sometimes bothers me that I am such a easy target for stores such as Walmart. Oh, and Target, as well. They know my shopping habits better than I know them myself. That kind of sucks.

Sometimes I start to feel like a lab rat, except there's no cheese at the end of the maze. But then I see something else I forgot that I needed.

Hey! It's on sale.

Red Writing Hood: Drowning

Prompt:Write a short piece - 600 words max - that begins with the words, "This was absolutely the last time" and ends with "She was wrong."


This was absolutely the last time, she thought.

She slammed down the phone, grabbed her purse, and stormed out to her car. She clicked on her seatbelt, backed out of the driveway and began the drive to her ex-husband’s house.

She had been asleep, cozy and warm. It was ONE in the freakin’ morning, fer cryin’ out loud!

Why was she doing this? She asked herself one more time. A little sob escaped. Why was she dropping everything, yet again, and driving over to clean up yet another ‘mess’ for him? He hadn’t even waited until his new hair plugs were 24 hours old before packing up and leaving her, off to find a new life.

Yet she was still required to rescue him. He did this on purpose.

He knew that she would never dream of leaving him to deal with this kind of situation.

He wasn’t prepared. He never had been, even after all the classes she had dragged him to, all the books she made him read. Nothing had ever prepared him. And so he foundered.

Some people just weren’t made to handle stress, she decided. It rolled over them like a tidal wave, pulled them deep underneath, and they just can never make it back to the surface to find their breath. She inhaled deeply, and let her anger go.

She pulled into the driveway and got out of the car. Her ex was waiting at the door. She could hear, through the open door, the wailing and screaming of her autistic daughter, in the throes of the violent tantrums she always had whenever she stayed with her father. They shared custody.

She glared at the man, intended to say something mean and hurtful, but stopped when she saw his face.

He had a black eye.

He had been crying.

He looked so lost. Drowning.

Candace thought that her heart had broken completely the day her husband had walked out on her. That there were no more pieces to shatter on the wall of reality.

She was wrong.

Does A Mental "I Told You So" Count?

My husband has been ill these past 48 hours. He has been spending a lot of time in the bathroom, if you can imagine. Well, I would advise against imagining that.

When you have a stomach bug, you don't keep stuffing your face. You drink s lot of water or gatorade, but you don't eat much. If you do have to eat, you eat very bland food, like saltine crackers or plain toast or plain white rice. Stuff that won't make things inside you worse. Prolonging the agony is not the name of the game. Unless you like that sort of thing. Ew.

So I walk into the kitchen this evening to find Larry about to cook himself ham and eggs.

"You can't eat that, Larry," I told him. "You will regret it. A lot."

"What? It's just eggs!" Larry said. I just looked at him, eyebrows raised, then turned around and walked out of the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, a very unhappy husband rushes past me on his way to the bathroom. I did not say a word. I did, however, think it.

"I heard that!" he yelled at the top of the stairs.

How Plain Does Plain English Need to Be?

Larry stayed home with Zane yesterday, both of them sick with a stomach bug. I went to work, since the evil bug did not hit me until later in the afternoon. I got a text from Larry.

"What should I feed Zane?" it says.

"Plain bread, crackers, plain pasta" I texted back.

"What kind of pasta?" comes the reply.

"Macaroni." I text.

"Being specific is helpful." he shoots back.

"I AM being specific. Plain macaroni noodles." I type. Who doesn't know this stuff? My husband, apparently.

"With cheese? Kraft? Adult? Kids?" comes the reply.

"PLAIN NOODLES." My eyes are rolling so far into the back of my head that my coworker was concerned that I might be having a seizure. And to be honest, I wasn't sure myself. But SURELY, this time, he got it, right? No.

Your specificity leaves much to be desired." was the response. And I had had enough.

"Ask your mother." I texted, proverbially passing the ball. I figured that since she raised him, she could explain it to him.

There is Always a Good Time to Keep Your Mouth Shut

We are getting ready to leave to go somewhere. I have just finished getting myself showered and dressed, coifed, and putting on makeup. Nice makeup, with very pretty eyeliner and a nice red shade of lipstick. I am downstairs with Zane, trying to get his shoes on amid his protests. Larry comes downstairs.

"Well, I guess as soon as you put your makeup on, we can go," he says.

My mouth fell open.

I looked at Larry like he was an idiot. Which, at that point in the conversation, he was. At the very least.

"Could you hurry up? We need to leave," he told me.

So I punched him right in the face. Not really. But could anyone blame me if I had?

My Husband the Fixer

I was in the middle of cleaning the kitchen a couple of days ago when I discovered the sink wasn't draining. I hollered something to Larry, who murmured something unintelligible from the other room. I finished cleaning up and went on to other, more pleasant activities. About an hour later, my husband gets up from his Xbox game and comes into the kitchen to get a drink.

"Why didn't you tell me the garbage disposal was broken?" he yells from the kitchen.

"I did tell you!" I yell right back. We are all about the communicating, my sweetheart and I.

Larry decided to sleep on the matter, and to be honest, I was glad. My husband is not known for his maintainence skills. Most of the little odd jobs that need to get done around the house are done by...my dad or someone we can ply with alcohol. Larry means well, but he's a computer geek. Geeks just don't tend to pay attention to how to fix stuff around the house unless it's some sort of electronic device. Understandably, I was worried that we would end up having to pay extra because Larry 'fixed' things.(and to be fair, I am no better at "fixing" things. There is a really good reason that I am not allowed to have power tools.)

The next morning as we were getting ready to leave to go to lunch, Larry poured Drano into the disposal. When we came back, everything looked...exactly the same. Larry made a bold decision to put on gloves and reach into the disposal and see if he could pull some of what was blocking the drain out of there. I say it was a bold decision because we've both seen way too many horror movies where bad things happen to people who stick their fingers down the garbage disposals; let's just say that it never ends well and that it creeps me out.

Larry stuck his hand down in there. He looked perplexed. I watched, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. I had no idea what the heck I was going to do, but I was going to do it quickly.

This time, thankfully, my services were not required. One of Zane's cups had fallen into the disposal and become wedged in there, blocking the drain. Larry was able to get a knife and pry it out of there. After that, of course, the disposal worked perfectly, as did the drain. Larry began dancing in the kitchen, his hands in the air.

"I fixed it! I fixed it!" he chortled. "You were going to pay a plumber to fix that, and I did it!!!" I just smiled and let him dance. Sometimes the key to a good marriage is knowing when to keep your mouth shut.

A Fine Romance

The other day, my husband put his strong arms around me, pulled me close, and gave me a big kiss. Then he just looked at me. I returned his gaze, thinking that we were having quite the romantic moment.

"You know..." he began.

"Yes?" I responded, breathlessly.

"You have a lot of hair in your nose," he finished.

So I slugged him. Not really. But I seriously considered it.

I Heard That Somewhere...

So, awhile back I read this book. I loved it, so much so that I told my husband that he should read it, which I never do.

"It's hilarious, I said. You should read it."

"Mm-hmm." He didn't even look up from his computer. I rolled my eyes and went on with my life.

Cut to the present. While he was looking for reading material for the bathtub, Larry found this book again. He stayed in the bath that night for over an hour because he wss enjoying the book so much. He came downstairs, all damp and wrinkly, laughing, telling me what a great book he was reading.

Really.