Cheryl Will Do

Girly-Boy

Steve and Will were packing for their weekend away from home.  Will had been told where his boots where and asked to get them. He went to retrieve them and returned empty handed.  I sent him back to look again and he returned with one boot.

If I've told him once, I've told him a hundred times, "Where one shoe is, the other will be close by."  (Seriously, how difficult of a concept is this?)

Seeing as I had only averaged four hours of sleep a night for the past three weeks, I was not only unexcited about looking for something Will was capable of finding, my mind wasn't as sharp as it could have been.

In frustration, I struggled mentally to find something to threaten him with that would be so horrible he would immediately go in there and not come back until he had two boots in his hands.

"If I go in there and find the other boot, can I call you ...."

What?  I needed a really girly name.  Something so frou frou he would never want to be called that.  Think.  Think.  Girly name.  Without any notice the following comes out of my mouth:

"... Cheryl the rest of the night?"

Immediately I hear Steve choke then start laughing like a frigging hyena in the back ground.  And, truth be told, I'm more shocked than he is.  The only Cheryl either of us know is my ex-husbands wife, and she is not a girly girl at all.  She's a nice enough woman; has her own scars, prejudices, and problems -- as do the rest of us.  Definitely not a frou frou woman.

"What?" Will asked, in confusion.

"If I go in their and find your boot right where I told you to look, can I call you Cheryl the rest of the night?" I asked.

Then I taunted him in a sing-song voice

"Cheryl, it's time to brush your teeth."
"Cheryl, put on your pajamas."
"Cheryl, it's time to turn off the TV."
"Good night, Cheryl, I love you."

(And there goes that damn hyena again.)

Will found his other boot in seconds.

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Steve is looking for the portable DVD player.  While standing over the dining room table, he asks me where I said it was.

"It's on the dining room table," I told him.

"I don't see it."

(Have I mentioned that Will comes by his inability to find things naturally?)

"If I come in there and find it on the table," I asked him with a grin,  "Can I call you Cheryl the rest of the night?"

Before the laughter died down, Steve managed to locate the DVD player.

"You know," I told him, "if we're going to keep using this we need to find another name instead of Cheryl."

"No," Steve responded, "Cheryl will do."

And I guess it will.

A Bump in the Road

The road.

I've been working really hard the last three weeks to improve my health.  Now that Will is back in school, I have been taking the opportunity to go walking each morning with Linden.  We walk two miles each school day - an amazing accomplishment when you consider I averaged a mile or two a week during the summer months.

I've also arranged to swap baby-time with a new friend so I have been able to add another workout to my weekly schedule.

While I can't techinally diet while nursing, I have cut out sweets, stopped eating late in the day, and tried to curb snacking as much as possible.

And it's working.  Slowly.  But it is working.

In three weeks I've lost five pounds and definately began to rebuild some lost muscel mass.

I still hate getting dressed in the morning, as nothing fits right and I'm so disappointented in the person I see in the mirror.  But in this case, it's definately better than the alternative ... not getting dressed.  

All and all, I'm okay with my progress, but realize it's a long slow road ahead of me.

The bump.

I've been sleep training Linden the last few days, and it's been hell.  I've spent more time listening to him crying in the last three days than I have in the ten months of his life.  I'm not getting any sleep and my nerves are shot.

Tuesdays and Thrusdays are always tough at my house as they are the days I take Will to tuttoring.  He gets off the buss at 3:00 and he's tired and really just wants to disappear into his room for about an hour and veg.  But we have to leave by 3:20 to make it to the tutor on time.  Once we drop him off, a little before 4:00, Linden and I have an hour to hang around the area until we pick him up.  We make it home about  5:30; usually with a screaming baby and a tired boy.  Then it's rush, rush, rush, through homework, meals, and baths so that everyone can be tucked into their rooms about 7:30.  It's just stressful.

Today, Steve came home early with a stomach bug.  Then, on the way home from tutoring, Will began to complain about not feeling well.  Just as I laid Linden down for the night, Will starts giving back everything he's eaten all day.  An hour later, everyone is in bed or asleep, except for me.  I'm attempting to locate a package USPS has manged to lose, answer emails, and print out files for orders tomorrow.

But that's not the bump ...  this is:

 

I don't even remember the trip to the kitchen to get it, but I looked down and there were nothing but crumbs on the wrapper that use to contain a frigging huge blueberry muffin.  Seriously, I ate an entire 4-servings size blueberry muffin at nine p.m. without even thinking about it.  There's my bump.

I'm seasoned enough to know there will be delays, set backs, road blocks, and bumps along the way to any goal.  But wouldn't it be nice to have a little warning beforehand?

Not a Housewife

I had an epiphany tonight: I'm not a housewife. I never married a house. I never even dated a house. And I sure as hell never made one any promises.

Women my age were born right as a woman's role within the family was changing. And many of us, although more modern in our thinking than the last generation, are still tied mentally to the older expectations.

I have always felt like a bad housewife. I don't enjoy cleaning or cooking - and seldom make either a priority. Even when I really try I just can't seem to get everything done.

Not succeeding at something, that others seem to take in stride, has always bothered me. I don't like failing at anything.

Tonight, I realized I haven't failed. I don't stay home to clean my house or prepare meals. I stay home to raise my children; to make sure their first years are spent with family. To give them the best start possible on developing into people with the values Steve and I (and not some babysitter) think are important. To give them a sense of security and a solid foundation from which they can grow into healthy and strong individuals.

I'm a stay-at-home mom.

I take care of their basic needs, introduce them to new places and things, encourage them to spread their wings, support their interests, offer guidance and discipline when needed, teach them how to handle the highs and lows, show them how to make sacrifices and love one another, and I'm always there when they need me.

(And yeah, that does involve some cooking, laundry, and house work . . . but not as much as you would think.)

And you know what? I'm good at it.

The Burning Question

We've had an ongoing issue with Will's diet. He does not get enough fruit, vegetables, or grains and so suffers from reoccurring stomach aches. Two weeks ago, Will almost cried with cramps located in his lower back. I expected it was his kidneys and asked if he'd experienced any burning when peeing.

"Sometimes," Will responds. "But I just dip my penis in water and it feels better."

My first fear was that the willy-dipping had taken place in the sink, where I often brush my teeth. But, I realized he was to short to reach that high - and I'd removed the steps in the bathroom over a year ago.

Then I got all involved in making Will feel better and the question of where exactly he dipped his penis was forgotten. I bought cranberry juice and forced water down him. In a few days things were back to normal.

Tonight, Will comes out of the bathroom and tells me it burned again when he went pee.

As I had shared my moment of fear with Steve weeks earlier, and we'd laughed about it, I looked at my spouse and smiled. "Will dips his penis in water so it feels better," I reminded Steve. Then I asked Will, "Do you need me to get you a wet rag to wash off?"

"No," he tells me calmly, "I filled a glass and dipped my penis in it. It feels better now."

The only glasses in the bathroom are the small paper ones we use when we brush our teeth - the same ones that are often spread all over the bathroom cabinet and I have to re-stack. "Do you throw the cups away after you put your penis in them?" I ask with trepidation.

"Sometimes."

The Note

I've been thinking about all the adjustments Steve has made over the last year as we prepared for a new baby, and then as the father of a new born.

In addition to having Linden in the house, Steve has lost most of his wife's time, and gained a lot more responsibility towards Will.

I wanted to let him know I was aware of how life had changed and that I appreciated the acceptance on his part towards those changes. As having a serious talk with Steve is a hit-and-miss, with his humor jumping out at the strangest moments, I decided to leave him a note.

I explained that I was sorry he had to make his own breakfast and pack his own lunches. Sorry the house wasn't clean and the laundry hardly ever done. That meals were often abbreviated affairs or burnt offerings. That I had no time to spend with him. I even expressed sorrow that I had gained weight, seldom put on nice clothes, and never had time to fix my hair or put on make up. But I was not sorry that I had him, Will, or Linden in my life . . . and I never would be.

When I woke up this morning, I saw that Steve had written "Me too" next to the end of each paragraph. It didn't bother me at first, but then I noticed he'd even written it next to the paragraph about me being sorry I had gained weight and never wore makeup.

I was all, "What the hell did he mean by that?"

How dare he say anything about me putting on weight! (And I was off!) I mentally tallied a list of imagined insults. Eventually, the insult train had a layover and reason boarded. Then I was mad at myself.

Steve hadn't gone out of his way to make me feel bad. I was the one that put all those statements on paper and made them real. All of a sudden, I felt like the woman asking her husband if her pants made her ass look big. Don't ask if you don't want the truth.

When Steve and I were sitting around the living room this evening, after the boys went to bed, I brought up the note and my see saw of emotions regarding his response.

The man is either really good at saving his hide, or honestly didn't mean the "Me too" the way I'd taken it.

"I meant that I too had gained weight and never had time to dress up for you," he said.

Isn't he sweet?

Be Were Bear

I'm a huge fan of paranormal stories. I'm not really into ghosts, future or past travel, or aliens. Vampires? Sometimes. But what I really enjoy reading is a book with any type of 'were' in it.

Last year, Steve had a good laugh when I read about my first werebear. I've read about so many at this point, I can hardly recall what was so funny about it in the first place. Familiarity may, or may not breed contempt, but it certainly builds credence. I've read stories about werewolves, werecougars, werelions, werehyenas, werebears, and once, even about a wearbunny - but that was a spoof.

Steve and I were talking about the problems I've been having with mercurial mood and hormonal swings. I hate the loss of control and my own reactions during these unexpected outbreaks. I am comforted by the fact that I understand what causes them and eventually they will go away. I am also blessed with a husband that understands and knows how to correctly handle the situations when they arrive - duck and run for cover!

This man, who has never caught a hint in his life, doesn't have a clue about most relationship nuances, and can be plain blind and deaf to situational strife, has shown a startling ability to identify one of my mood swings from the onset -- often before I am even aware I'm headed into the danger zone. All he has to do is look at me.

That's when it dawned on me, my 'were' must be coming out.

This photo was taken at the onslaught of an 'episode'.

As soon as we started joking about my 'were' abilities, I could clearly see it. I struggle constantly to present a calm and competent persona to the world, to my family. But lately, I seem to have no off switch. Any emotion or reaction (anger, resentment, concern, etc.) comes out of nowhere and rips through my skin until I feel like a belligerent bear.

Thankfully, the episodes don't last long, although they do commonly include a bit of mauling of the unwary - just until the bodies stop fighting and remain still. After which, I am left feeling remorseful and pained by my actions.

So, I'd like to take this opportunity to forewarn you. Should you be in my company (let's say any time in the next five years), and notice Steve tripping over furniture as he runs away for no apparent reason . . . I suggest you race after him. Because you know what they say, "You don't have to out race the bear, just the person in front of you."

The Unusual Phone Tree

Today, I sold a baby item Linden had out grown on Craigslist. Although the item was not special, and I didn't make much off of it, I doubt I will ever forget this particular transaction. Well, I'll never forget the phone call I received regarding the purchase anyway.

Yesterday, I received an email asking if I still had the item, and if I did, to please text my address to a phone number that was supplied. So I did.

Later that day, I received a phone call from a woman that lives in Kyle, about 15 miles away. Her daughter-in-law was the number I had texted earlier, the number which had been supplied by the woman's daughter - who is expecting. It seems her daughter moved out of the state recently. She (the daughter) found my item listed on Craigslist and contacted her sister-in-law (who lives in Pflugerville - 35 miles on the other side of Austin) and asked her to pick up the item. When the sister-in-law saw our location, she called her mother-in-law and asked if she could pick it up, since she lives in Kyle.

As the woman on the phone told me, she would love to pick it up for her daughter, but she doesn't have a car. However, her mom is driving from Austin to take her to a doctors appointment in the morning, and she (the grandmother) is willing to drive her (the mother) over to pick up the item.

How could I refuse the request to save the item for the next day?

I could hardly wait to meet mom and grandma, and I sort of secretly hoped a few other relatives might show up for grins and giggles.

Although, I do have to admit to being a little jealous of how the entire family pulled together to ensure a young mom from out of state would end up with this incredibly exciting used vibrating bouncer that has only mild scratches and light fading.

In fact, I've come up with my own slightly skewed phone tree for the next time I want something from Cedar Park (about 35 miles north). I'll call Dave, in ND, and see if he can pick it up for me - because he does live north of me. Then Dave can call Kathy, in AZ, since that is much closer to Texas than where he lives. Kathy, being the smart one, will remember that Greg and Stephanie actually live in Texas and call them to pick it up. Then Stephanie's no-nonsense German raising will have her calling Oma and Opa to pick it up since they really are closer to Cedar Park than I am.

Or, maybe I'll just go pick it up myself.

Or, and tell me if you think this is weird, maybe I'll only buy stuff in the area I live in.

A Bump in the Road

The Break Down

This afternoon my car broke down on the side of the road. I had Will and Linden with me. My car has been acting funny for a few days. At first, we thought it was the battery, and I made sure to charge it overnight and charge-up our jumper box to put in the vehicle. So when my car began to show signs of dying, I made the decision to pull off of the busy road I was on and onto a less traveled path. My thought being, I would quickly jump the car and get back on the road . . . I was only about 3 miles from the house.

The problem was that the jumper box had lost it's charge. Now, I was stuck. I called a friend I had just been visiting with at a local park and asked if she was going to be driving by and could help out. She would be by, but first she had to drop off her grand daughter - in the opposite direction. So I settled in for the wait.

The Wait

I had pulled into a small area where a road had been shut down but still remained, just barricaded. The area was isolated and had thick shrubs. At the end of the road, there was a huge pile of some sort of gravel or dirt. Will spent forty minutes playing king of the mountain, sliding down the hill, or walking along the top ridge. I opened doors on either side of the car and the light breeze lulled Linden to sleep. My main concern was trying to balance my time between staying close to the car and keeping Will in my line of sight - unfortunately, this didn't leave me visible to people driving by.

The Help

We had only been there a few minutes when a scary looking older man in a small truck pulled up. He looked over the kids and I, then asked, "Anyone know you're out here?" I answered, "Yes", and he rolled up his window and left.

A nice woman in her mid-thirties stopped about fifteen minutes into our stay and offered us a jump. She didn't even know how to open her hood or how to fold down the rod to support it. The real suprise came when we realized you could not access the negative post to her battery - it was covered by her fuses. She tried calling her husband for help, but he was in a meeting. She finally left, without us ever figuring out how to get to her battery.

Then there were three different drivers that all did the same thing; they slowed down and yelled, "Got help coming?" As soon as they heard, "yes", they took off - never hearing the "But I could use a jump." Damn that slow southern drawl!

The Cost

The boys and I ended up spending about an hour outside. There was a cool breeze and plenty of shade. Will got to do something I dreamed of doing as a child - climbing a huge pile of dirt on the side of the road.

My friend and my hubby showed up within minutes of each other to help me out and I made it home safely. Turns out, it was the alternator. Steve spent all evening replacing it; and it cost a pretty penny.

Speaking of which, Will found a pretty penny while we were waiting for assistance to arrive ... along with a pretty dime.

Facebook

Cons

Like most people on Facebook, I spend half my time complaining about it. Here are just a few of the irritating things I dislike about Facebook:

1. Friend requests. It just seems rude to turn down a request to be your friend, but ... Do you really want the weird guy from work knowing everything about you? Do you want your church friends to see photos of you out with your party friends? And who really wants to reconnect with every person you went to elementary school with?

2. Notifications. You make one comment on one photo/status/wall post and then you receive 27 notifications telling you that other people have also commented.

3. Games. I don't want to send you items, see your farm, vote for you in a fake pagent, or buy your fake baked goods. I don't care that you just won 1,000,000 points or have advanced another level.

4. Online. Each time you decide to check your profile, every one of your "friends" will know you are online and will decide that this means you are free to chat.

5. Performance. There are many times when the site lags or freezes due to a heavy load.

6. Changes. It seems that every month or two you have to learn a new way of doing something you've been doing with no issues for the last few years. It's annoying - I don't like change.

Oh there's more; privacy, political or religious postings, sharing my info., forwarding tons of things, etc. Nothing major, just your ordinary complaints.

Pros

Here are a few of the reasons I love Facebook.

1. When you are isolated by location, health, or circumstances, you have a way of interacting with others - even meeting new people. Any form of social interaction is better than none.

2. You are in control of your profile in as much as you select which photo represents you and what information is supplied. I'm amazed on how nice we all look, how successful we are, and what great families we have. Sometimes, I go out to my profile just to remind myself of how well I'm doing.

3. It is a quick way to update everyone in your family at once about any major, or non-major, issues. It's also a good way to share photos of growing children with everyone and not have to mail out photos every year. Also an easy way to keep up with what family members are doing.

4. There have been more than one time when playing the many games on Facebook kept me sane. I may not be thrilled to see game posts on my feed now, but I use to be one of those people making gaming posts/requests. I get it.

5. It makes me laugh. I have several funny friends and relatives who's posts crack me up. Not a day goes by that I don't at least smile, if not outright laugh, at something I've read on Facebook.

6. You can hook up with people from your past that mean the world to you, but managed to loose touch with through the years.

Tonight

Will was playing on the computer this evening. He is often on the computer and is proficient at searching for and playing many free games.

I came in about eight to check my email and was shocked to find four receipts in my inbox from Facebook totally over $96 - for games. Back when I use to play games on Facebook I had attached a credit card to my account for automatic purchasing, and I never removed it. Will had followed some links and hadn't realized he was making purchases.

I immediately followed a link on the first receipt to dispute the transaction. It took less than five minutes to find and dispute all claims from this evening. By the time I removed my financial permission and returned to my email, Facebook had refunded every penny.

Tonight, I'm loving them.

The Wait of a Book

I Love to Read

Take the most avid reader you know and multiply them by ten and you have someone like me - except they don't read much.

I read more than anyone I have ever known. However, I don't want you to get confused thinking I read anything good for me. I seldom pick up a book to learn something new, to study history, art, or physiology. I'm not into the New York best sellers list. I read to relax, to escape, to occupy myself ... I read junk. (Or, according to Steve, I read porn.)

I've been an avid reader since elementary school. By sixth grade, the local library made me an honorary librarian - complete with certificate. In Junior High, the school gave me a pin and made me the first student librarian because I had read over 75% of the books. When the girls were small and I could only make it to the library once a week, I'd check out fifty to a hundred paper backs each time I went in.

I can actually remember reading three entire separate books in one day, on more than one occasion.

eReaders

When eReaders first began to come out I was not interested in owning one at all. They'd be bad for your eyes, have to be constantly recharged, could easily get broken, and they cost to much. It took several years before I begin to think I might enjoy one.

Then I got one for Christmas.

I am still amazed at how quickly I adapted to reading books on an eReader. I did lick my finger and try to turn the page a few times - but that's expected. And not going to the book store or the library was an adjustment too.

Overall, it's been great. My reader is lighter than a book, so it doesn't hurt my wrists. The font is adjustable in size and the contrast is adjustable for daytime or nighttime reading. It opens directly onto the last page of book I was reading before I turned it off - no more lost places or bookmarks.

The Heavy Book

When Tori blogged about a good book she had recently read, I asked her to lend it to me and she did. It's been sitting on my dining room table for six weeks collecting dust.

I'm interested in the book, but every time I walk by and see it I'm reminded that it's a book. It's heavy - it's a thick book. (I bet it hurts my wrists.) I'll have to flip pages. If I don't finish it soon, I'll have to stuff it in my purse or carry it around with me for days. So, I keep waiting, putting it off.

I stumble across it every two to three days and have a moment of guilt over not reading it yet. But feel no compulsion, what so ever, to pick it up and start.

At this point, I'm considering buying the electronic version of the story. Then I wouldn't have to wait to read it any longer.

The Non-Allergic List

I started feeding Linden baby foods this month. Two weeks into the experience and I realized I was doing something different than with my other children. I was only trying him on one new food at a time and trying if for several days to make sure he did not have an allergic reaction before introducing something else.

Then each time I would try something new, I'd recite the list in my head. A list of foods Linden was not allergic to. Not a bad practice, if your child has food allergies or if they run in your family. In ours, the only allergies you have to worry about are the seasonal ones.

As soon as I realized what I was doing, I was stumped. Why? Why go to the trouble of remembering every food introduced when none of my children had ever had a food allergy? What had changed so that I would totally treat the introduction of foods to Linden different than all my other children? It would definitely be a lot easier to just remember the items he reacted to; an allergy list.

It didn't take but a moment to realize it was the introduction of my BFF and her son, who has chronic allergies, into my life that acted as the basis for my unusual behavior. Watching their daily struggle to live a normal life with the many extreme allergies he has ... well, it's left an impression. A conscious one, and I guess, an unconscious one as well.

Lacking any true reason to continue my non-allergic list, I have dropped it. I've also started feeding Linden just like my other children; off the table, mixed foods, whatever he'll eat. He's not had a reaction to anything and I've stopped expecting him too.

I'm just reminded of how much are lives are changed by those we choose to associate with.

Stardust: Part 2 of Clubbing at 40

The Stardust is a club and billiard hall that is three miles from my house. The building is divided with a small stage and dance area on one side and fifteen pool tables in another room. Every night, except Friday, music is supplied via your contributions to a jukebox - get there early enough and with enough cash, and you can listen to whatever you want to.

There are two small pool tables that are coin operated in the dance area. When the girls and I go dancing, we tend to latch onto one of them early. We're all so bad at pool that a game might last half an hour, and we can leave the table to go dance if a song comes on we like.

Before eleven pm, the clientele on the dance side averages between 35-55 years of age. Most of them show up in what they wore all day and have a beer or two before heading home. It's a small town type of place until after eleven, then the kids come out and the DJ shows up to play songs most of my friends don't like (but I do).

Last Thursday, we hit the Stardust because SXSW was in Austin and no one wanted to mess with driving into town. Two of us showed up early to save a table, which wasn't necessary as the place was empty. When we walked in at 7:30 there were two people at the bar, a three some sitting between the pool and dance areas, and two pool tables occupied on the other side.

However, we hadn't even sit down when an Enabler came over to see if we wanted to join him and a set of Twinkies. We politely declined, letting them know we had friends coming. This did not prevent the Twinkies from attempting to engage us in conversation and act as sports broadcasters over every frame of our pool game. Nor did it stop the Enabler from giving us cash for the jukebox.

Other friends dribbled in over the next hour and we ended up with five women and one man at the table. For the first hour we mainly played pool and listened to music, as well as watched others trickle in.

I was pleased to see a four pack of women around are age show up and settle in for the evening. The Freak that was at their table started dancing right away, by herself. The Drunk sitting at the bar stumbled over and asked Ms. Independence, who was sporting a bruised cheek, to dance. She did. All incredibly entertaining.

At some point, the Enabler managed to lure a woman in her early thirties away from the pool tables and over to sit with the Twinkies. He bought the table a few rounds and headed on out. An hour later the lady (and I use the term loosely) left with the Twinkies.

By nine every one at our table was up dancing to every decent song that came on. The gentleman made a comment about it being the first time he'd ever danced with five women and we decided he had to have a photo to commemorate the event. Between the Drunk dancing into us, the Freak scaring everyone she got close too, and the bad lighting, it wasn't an easy photo to take.

While we were out on the floor, the Drunk stumbled over and introduced himself to all five ladies. Shaking our hands and informing us he had a ranch outside of town. "Always a good place to keep them," I say - I love messing with drunks.

"She's crazy," he mumbles, pointing at the Freak - like we needed clarification. She apparently took exception to his talking to us and dragged him off shortly afterwards.

Most of my friends left around ten as they worked the next morning, just leaving two of us to finish up the night. We played another round of pool and danced a few more dances. By this time the DJ was hooking up his equipment and a large Team came in.

This was a first, as the Team was an actual team who had just finished playing softball. Sixteen men and women in their mid-twenties who were still wearing dirty uniform tops and shorts. Several of them had painted black streaks across their faces. They pushed a few tables together right in front of us.

At this point, we're leaning back in our chairs and have our feet propped up on vacant seats. We're slowly polishing off our last drink and just people watching.

The Chairperson jumps up as a member of his Team approaches and moves toward our table to see if he can borrow a vacant chair - we had tons of them. I kicked one toward him and saved him a few steps. We repeated the process two more times. The last time, he catches it and pushes it back toward us and takes a seat. He introduces himself and spends a few minutes yakking, then we run out of things to say to each other. He sits around a few more minutes before grabbing his chair and headed back to his friends.

As soon as the Team arrives, Ms Independence, who looks to be in her early fifties, morphs into a Cougar and starts draping herself over the young men. A Babysitter in her group jumps up each time she does this and leads her back to their table. This cycle is repeated no less than six times before the Babysitter decides it's time to take the Cougar home. Getting her out the door took another half hour - every the Babysitter would let go of the Cougar, she'd be back over trying to sit in the lap of, or drape over, one of the guys. The guys were all good-natured about it, which just made it funnier.

A few minutes before the Cougar made it out the door, the Drunk was escorted out by his own Babysitter (and the Drunks Babysitter managed to get him out the door on the first try).

With most of the Usual Suspects gone, our people watching teetered off and we headed out about eleven thirty.

A little dancing, some drinking, a few games of pool, people watching and good company . . . not a bad night at all at the old Stardust.

The Usual Suspects - Part 1 of Clubbing in your 40s

I've been clubbing on a semi-regular basies for about two years now and I thought I'd share my perspective of what going out in your fourties is like.

Keep in mind: I'm out with a bunch of women my age, and we tend to go places where we're comfortable. The experience is probably totally different if you're younger.


THE USUAL SUSPECTS

I'm an avid people watcher and I've categorized many of the types of people I come across when clubbing.

Ms. Independence
This is most commonly a woman, but I have come across a man or two, who is newly out of a relationship and out to prove something. They drink too much, laugh way too loud, are very 'handy', and they will go home with ANYTHING. Don't dance to close to them, they'll take it as an invitation - and they are hard to get away from.

Twinkies
This is a set of two same-sex individuals that are incapable of acting without each other. They will go to the bathroom, bar, or dance, only at the same time. They can often be seen leaving at the same time with two (or one) person of the opposite sex. Don't bother asking one of them to dance unless you have a friend to take with you.

The Team
This is a bunch of individuals that are use to being together and not interested in interacting outside of their group. They may work together, be related, belong to the same social network, or play on a team sport together. While seeing groups of people together at clubs is not unusual, they are usually more open to interaction from others - not these guys. Save your breath and just ignore them.

The Chairman
This person is usually part of a group. He/she will jump up and make it their job to locate and drag over a chair for anyone who slows down when approaching their table. They're also known to grab extra napkins, glasses of water, and ash trays as needed. Nice to have in your group, but not worth asking to dance - they never have any time to call their own.

The Freak
Sadly, this is most often a woman. It is someone who isn't out to prove anything and doesn't need alcohol to scare the shit out of everyone. They dance by themselves, usually in a manner that is way over the top. They are also known to randomly draw unsuspecting people into conversation while on the dance floor then follow you back to the table and try to join the group. They also have no idea what words like 'that seat is taken', 'no thank you', 'could you leave now' mean. Some times the only option is for the entire group to get up and relocate, sans the Freak.

The Enabler
This is someone who drinks very little and never dances, but funds the activities for others. It's usually an older person who is living vicariously. They are prone to snagging people for their friends and bringing them back to the table. They're pretty harmless, and known to buy drinks for pretty much anyone.

The Rock Star
This is a woman that likes to dress scandalously (spandex pants, see through tops, etc.) and wear make up thick enough she looks ready to appear on stage. At our age, not a pretty picture. She's almost always alone and never joins another group. Since she looks easy, she gets asked to dance a lot. While she adores the attention - may even need it, she's most likely to leave alone.

The Drunk
This is usually a man. Most of the time, it's a normal old Tom, Dick, or Harry that has worked all week and just wants to have a good time. Desperately, wants to have a good time. They usually show up about three sheets to the wind and it goes down hill from there. They're generally nice, fun to talk to, a riot to watch, and if you catch them early enough, they'll dance with anyone that asks them. Just don't wait to ask them to long, or they'll step on your toes, spin you into poles, and trip on the way to the dance floor.

The Babysitter
This is the responsible one in a group. There isn't a Babysitter in every group, but most groups don't need them. The Babysitter is most noticeable when combined with a Drunk or Ms. Independence. Once someone in their group hits staggering stage, the Babysitter will start trying to convince them it's time to leave. For some reason, this always takes about thirty minutes. You can always tell how often a person plays this role, by how fast they can get their drunk friend out the door.

The Cougar
An older woman trying to pick up younger man to prove she's still attractive. Has many of the same traits as Ms. Independence, but they're more calculating and able to handle their liquor better. They are also mean and prone to defending their territory - perceived or otherwise. Stay clear of.

In conclusion
Once you've identified the usual suspects many fun hours can be filled with placing bets on who takes who home, how fast someone falls down, who gets asked to dance first, if those pants will rip while she dances, and so much more.

Catch Part 2 to read about my last girls night out and the appearance of the usual suspects.

Now, that's funny!

I was having breakfast with a friend when the subject of picking up litter came up. The prior weekend, my friend and her family had a picnic. They made a point of picking up litter around the area for fifteen minutes before leaving - to show their appreciation for the ability to access such a nice place.

I recalled how, when Will was three or four, I could only get him to go walking if we took a bucket and picked up trash along the way. It was shocking how much stuff we'd find in our residential area - beer caps, an occasional can, junk mail, and tons of cigarette butts.

Will, who had been mostly quite during our conversation, about fell out of the booth laughing. "Cigarette butts," he wheezed, as he beat upon the table top with one hand. "Now, that's funny."

Well, I thought that's what he said.

Will has a slight speech issue and some times I just assume he's saying what I expect to come out of his mouth.

"Yes," I replied with a wry grin, "You thought it was pretty funny back then too."

My friend and I shared a smile over boys and their odd sense of humor. After breakfast, I loaded the kids back into the car to head home.

"Cigarette butts," Will said with a smile as he climbed in.

Only, this time I was paying a little more attention. Something was off with how he was saying cigarette. "It's not 'rat'," I corrected. "It's 'ret'." Then I slowly pronounced cigarette so that he'd hear each syllable.

"Oh," he said, sounding disappointed. "I thought you said sewer rat butt."

Now, that's funny!

Finally Enough

I lost my drivers license about six weeks ago and just received my new one in the mail. I was more than a little surprised to find that I had no real objection to the photo taken by the Department of Transportation's clerk. I've never cared for a license before. In fact, I once kept the same photo for so long - just renewing online - that people began to question it was actually my license.

As I pondered this rare phenomenon - a license photo that was acceptable - I came to a surprising conclusion. I'm OK with the photo, because I'm OK with the person in the photo.

All of my life, I have qualified my value by one thing or another: my education (or lack of), my looks, my weight, my children, my participation in my children's lives, my job, my husband, my marriage, my relatives, my house, and so on.

And over my life, each and every thing I used to apply value to myself has failed me, leaving me floundering, with no concept of worth or idea of where to go from there.

And suddenly, at the ripe old age of 45, I'm OK. I'm accepting of all the women I've been, understanding of the choices, decisions, and consequences of each move made.

There will always be things I regret, but they no longer define me. Nor do the things I've yet to accomplish - or will never accomplish. I'm not the worse at anything. Nor am I the best at anything . . . except being Misty.

And oddly, that's finally enough.

That was fun ... NOT!

With the errands I had to run today, I knew I would not be near home at Linden's next feeding. So I packed a bottle and made plans to stop at a restaurant for lunch. I figured I'd get a little break, and I could feed him while my food was being prepared. A win, win.

Not!

As I make a habit of eating at the same places, at the same time, on the same days, I forget about the places I normally avoid with a baby. Places where babies, and those carrying them, are treated like leapers.

Seriously, in thirty minutes, three tables of people asked to be reseated once they realized a baby was in their section. They didn't even sit down. And Linden was being good; a few happy noises, some drool, a smile or two.

The restaurant was fast filling up, except for the immediate tables around us. You would have thought we were flinging food.

I became so self conscience I couldn't enjoy my lunch. I called for my check and left before someone decided to jump out a window to escape us.

The Cost of Sleep

I was thrilled during my pregnancy to stumble upon a cradle swing at a garage sale for only $15. It was an older model, probably one of the first to come out. But it worked and that was all the mattered. The cheapest I'd been able to find a second hand one was about $60 on craigslist and I couldn't afford that type of expense for something I wasn't sure we'd use.

When I got it home and cleaned up, I was a little dismayed to find out it took four size D batteries (which cost about $8). I did search, and there was no option to connect to an outlet - which all the newer models have.

The first set of batteries lasted about a month after Linden's birth. In part, this was due to the fact that Linden seldom stayed in his swing the first three weeks. It was around the one month mark that his allergies started to develop and sleeping flat on a mattress was no longer an option. He quickly adapted to sleeping in the swing which is a more upright position. All his naps, and nights, are spent sleeping in a gently moving swing.

Unfortunately, as Linden's weight has increased the life of batteries in his swing has decreased. The first set lasted about a month. The next set about three weeks. Then two. When I had to start buying them every week I began to get concerned. Now we're down to every four days.

Eight dollars every four days.

Two dollars a day.

That's the cost of sleep in our house.

... and not the dark one.

I took Will to a jumpy house today for a few hours. I picked one that has a concession area. That way Linden and I can sit comfortably at a table while Will plays. As I sit down, I couldn't help but notice the family next to me had a baby just about Linden's size.

Within a few minutes, the mom asked how old Linden was, and I told her he was 3 months old. Her daughter was 9. (Which shouldn't have surprised me as Linden was wearing a 9 months, and they were damn near the same size.)

She was very easy to talk to, and very outgoing. Before long we shared the facts that our babies were both the fourth born of our children. While she was amazed to find out I had grown children, I was amazed to find out her's were 6, 4, 2, and 9 months. YIKES!

We discussed staying at home as moms and breastfeeding. And that was when it got weird.

"I don't consider myself a zealot, or anything," she said.

That's never a good way to start a conversation.

"But I do believe in God and a good force that works in his ways."

Okay, I can understand that.

"And I believe an opposite force is at work too. An evil force."

Weirdly worded, but most people who believe in God believe in the Devil as well.

"I believe this evil force is working against us to destroy the family.
I mean, think of how the stay-at-home mom or
breast-feeding mom is persecuted.
Looked down on.
They treat us like we have no value."

And she lost me.

It's not that I don't see, hear, and live the prejudice she was talking about every day. I do. In our current society, living in a metro area, we are in the minority. I know of several moms on my street, and I'm the only one that stays at home. I know of two women with babies about Lindens age in my neighborhood, and I'm the only one still nursing.

But I don't think it's an evil force.

Steve and I talked about it this evening and he thinks our society is more focused on finances and moving-up than on family. Which I can agree with to a point.

I think the base issue is two-fold.

1.) The down fall of the family unit within America. And oddly, I think that started way back when it become easier for family members to move further away from each other. Children are seldom raised with nearby family members; aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, etc. It used to take a village to raise a child, now it takes a nanny or daycare.

2.) We are becoming less social each generation. As a whole, we no longer go out and mingle with our neighbors. We don't stop in grocery stores and chat with strangers over lettuce selections. We don't know the names of our UPS driver, mailman, or the fireman that lives down the road. We are more involved in jobs that separate us from each other. Spend more free time online or gaming. We date online. We socialize online. We are slowly creating a society that values distancing themselves from mundane life; like raising their own children. (Shouldn't there be a program for that?)

Oh well, that's my deep thought for the day. Brought to you by the weird mom I sat next too. All I can say is, "May the force be with you ... and not the dark one."

First Date

Sixteen years ago tonight, Steve and I had our first date. He picked me up in a grey/maroon truck and took me to a Chinese restaurant.

I remember exactly what I wore (and how long it took me to pick it out).

I don't remember what I ate, but I remember much of the conversation. We haven't eaten in a Chinese restaurant since that the conversation doesn't come back to me.

I remember the ride home. Hard is it is to believe, it was very cold and we had to wait for the truck to warm up so we could defrost the windows.

I remember feeling like the most beautiful woman in the world, at least to Steve.

I also remember the butterflies in my stomach - afraid I'd say the wrong thing, afraid I wouldn't.

Last night, I asked Steve if he ever expected, that night, that we'd be together sixteen years later and he said no. He didn't expect there to be a second date.

But I knew. (I just didn't expect Will and Linden to show up along the way.)

Tonight was spent bathing and bouncing a fussy baby, helping Will with homework, fixing and eating dinner. By the time seven came around, the entire family was worn out and on the way to bed. I got a hug and kiss as I headed to the nursery with Linden. Some might not have considered it a fitting celebration, but it was exactly right for us.

And then you die...

The last month of my pregnancy with Linden, I knew that I wouldn't live to raise him. It was an 'odd' knowing. Nothing I've ever experienced before. I ran through scenarios in my head; what would happen to Steve if I died, could he handle raising a newborn and Will, what would happen to my kids, etc.

The last week of my pregnancy, I cried every night, thinking it was the last days I'd get to spend with Will and Steve.

I never told anyone of my fears. They made no sense to me, how would they to anyone else. Women rarely die during childbirth any more and there wasn't anything wrong with me, but that I was old.

My best friend was at the hospital with me several hours the morning I was admitted, and she came back after Linden was born. When we were alone in the room, she confessed to having horrible dreams that I died while giving birth. I shared the fears I'd been living with.

We laughed. We cried. Then, we thanked God I was still alive and we were both obviously idiots.

I never really gave it another thought, until now.

Tomorrow I am having a small procedure performed in my doctors office with local anesthesia. An hour and a half tops and I'll be home with few side effects. If everything goes right. They made me watch this fifteen minute film outlining all the things that can go wrong.

All day I've found myself once again feeling like I'm saying good bye to my children. Sucking up every moment and holding dear ever expression ... like it will be my last.

And this time, I know I'm being an idiot in advance.

But that doesn't stop the fear. However, knowing where the fear comes from - that helps.

First off, I've had a lot of death in my family in the last five years: a first cousin, a close uncle, a sister, and my mother. There has been a lot of death in Steve's family since we've been together. Death has become way to familiar with me.

Second, a lot of close friends and neighbors have come down with cancer over the last few years. They are still fighting it, still winning. But knowing of their, sometimes daily, battle to live makes death closer and more real some how.

And lastly, I think aging makes you more aware of the fact that at the end of every life, you die. Just doesn't make those birthdays quite as appealing as they use to be.

What a deal!

For the business I run from home, I use several large outdated printers. I picked them up, and their backups, off craigslist for next to nothing because of their age. While all the printers I use originally sold in the thousands, I didn't pay more than a couple hundred for them. Naturally, they require inks, specialty paper, etc. The good news there is that since they are so old, I can usually scout out a good deal on the supplies I need on an auction site. And, occasionally, I get lucky and just stumble across a stockpile on craigslist.

HP Color LaserJet 4050N

I have one of these printers I use on a daily bases and one that I keep as a back up for when the other dies on me. Because it happens.

I have to replace the Drum Kit (new from HP $350), the Transfer Kit (new from HP $270), and the Fuser Kit (new from HP $190) once a year on average. The printer uses four toners, that new from HP, run about $80 each - and I go through 6-8 of them a year. Luckily, it takes standard paper.

HP DesignJet 600 - 36" Plotter

I also have one of these in operation and a back up. They use two standard HP ink cartridges that run about $35 each. I have to purchase paper on 36-inch rolls, and locally I would pay about $25 a roll. I go through 2 cartridges a year and 20+ rolls of paper.

Bargain Hunter Extraordinaire

Luckily for me, I never buy anything direct from the manufacture...or I would have already been out of business.

Over the four or so years I've had these printers in service, I've averaged the following prices on my expendables:

HP 4550N (Drum $70, Transfer Kit $50, Fuser $40, Toners $20).
HP 600 (Cartridges $10, roll of paper $10)

Lucky Shit

Since I had to install a new drum and transfer kit last week, I decided to start searching for new ones to keep on hand. I always start my search on my local craigslist. I was shocked to find an add listing a sister printer (the HP 4500) for sale with the following unopened HP items: 2 drums, a transfer kit, a fuser kit, and four toners -- all for only $50.

Now, I need another printer like I need a whole in my head. However, for that price, I figured I could stop off and donate it to Goodwill on my way home from picking it up. When I noticed the ad was dated the first of December I was positive it was already sold, but I inquired about the lot anyway.

A gentleman responded the next day saying he still had every thing and asking what I was interested in. I explained that I didn't actually need the printer, but I'd take it. I really wanted the printer accessories.

His response, was that if I didn't want the printer he'd sell me the other things for only $25. I made arrangements to pick them up; and I did.

Frigging damn luck saved me $1,475 off HP prices ($285 off "Misty" prices).

Yep, I'm a lucky shit.

Nightmares are made of these

A few weeks ago, I was laying in bed with Linden and Will watching cartoons. Will hands me the remote and it slips out of my hand and hits Linden on the head. Naturally, he cried. I felt horrible. Will laughed.

The next day, we were all back on the bed watching cartoons again. Linden was sleeping peacefully, until he started whining. His bottom lipped quivered and the saddest little noises were coming out of his mouth. Will asked what was wrong and I said maybe Linden was having a nightmare.

Will asked what kind of nightmares babies had. I was stumped. "Getting left by their mother. Not having food when they want it. Having a wet diaper." I had no idea what baby nightmares might be.

Will responded, "Maybe he's dreaming about you hitting him in the head with the remote again." Could be.

I took Linden to the doctor today and he got three shots. For the next 10 hours he whimpered, pouted, cried, shivered - was just generally upset. Each time he'd fall to sleep he'd wake himself up screaming. Bad dreams: and it didn't take a genius to figure out what they were about.

As I lay in bed with my heart-broken baby today, I thought about the origin of nightmares, possible phobias. Really, Linden didn't know that a remote hit him. Or, that I dropped it. As far as he was concerned something dropped from the sky and hit him in the head. Now that is scary.

What about today? Definitely no idea that shots are good for you. Nor does he have the ability to understand what happened. All he knows is that his clothes were taken off, his diaper stripped, then he was placed on a cold metal table (to be weighted and measured) and a stranger held him down and poked him several times.

Yep, I can see what type of fears can be seated in a persons mind; formed before they are old enough to comprehend the circumstances in which the experience took place. Just the pain.

Makes me look back at fears I've outgrown over the years and ponder their true origins.

My "classified" friend

It's been about eighteen months since the last time I posted in the personal section of my local craigslist.

I found myself in the not uncommon position of being friendless. (I'm not counting my BFF, she's more like a sister.) But, after five years of being an at-home mom, I no longer had friends from work. No relatives lived close enough to hang out with. And the few mothers I met were not interested, or able, to get out of the house and do things together. So I tried posting for a friend in the local craiglist under the platonic section.

The first person that responded emailed me four or five times but never came through with an actual time to meet. I re-posted. The second person that responded was a stay-at-home mom close to my own age and we met at Ihop for coffee one evening. Her name was Leticia.

Leticia is a Civil Engineer who stopped working to stay home with two girls. Like me, it wasn't a natural environment for her. She was looking for someone to meet for coffee in the evenings, some adult conversation. She's also an avid writer and is always learning new things. We hit it off immediately.

We met at Ihop every week for four months, then started meeting at each others house. Family members were introduced. We've been to their daughters birthday party, and they've attended two of Will's.

Every month during my pregnancy, Leticia would buy me a large box of diapers in different sizes. I'd show up for coffee, and they would be sitting there. Like it was no big thing. Then towards the end of my pregnancy she told me that she would watch Linden one afternoon every week after he was born.

I'll admit I didn't expect her to go through with it. I had several friends, neighbors, and acquaintances say similar things during my pregnancy. (Take a wild guess on how many have watched Linden?)

Yep, just Leticia.

Each time she's watched him, Linden has cried nearly the entire time shes had him, but she doesn't let it phase her. She's calm about the entire thing and just keeps offering. The earth moves a little bit each time she so calmly says, "So, same time next week?"

I don't think she realizes what an amazing gift she's giving me. And I've not been very successful at expressing my gratitude ... she just pushes my thanks aside.

Well, I might have found her in the classified section, but when it comes to friendship ... I'd have to classify her as a true friend. And a blessing.

George and the Lamp

Today a relative of mine lost her baby. She wasn't very far along, and the circumstances for having a child were not perfect ... she isn't married and doesn't have a job. And while there will, no doubt, be people who think it was probably for the best, I'm not one of them.

I've lost three children in my life time, and every single one of them hurt. When I lost the first, I was only eighteen (I was married and I did have a job). The pregnancy had not been confirmed since I didn't have the funds to seek medical attention. But I knew. And when things started going wrong I was heart broke. However, the type of support I received was more of the it's-for-the-best variety.

"You're really to young to be a mom anyway."

"God knows best."

"There was probably something wrong with it."

"You'll have more kids."

I kept my sorrow to myself, as that seemed to be what was expected of me. I was told not to name it, think about it, or talk about it. Supposedly, I would get over the loss faster that way.

I was much older, and wiser when I lost my last child. I was also further along; 13 weeks. The doctor's had been monitoring my numbers twice a week for three weeks and the numbers were doubling the way they were suppose to. Steve and I didn't tell anyone until we passed the 12th week - the first trimester. I went to church every Sunday praying it would be a viable pregnancy. In secret, Steve and I picked out names and I crocheted little hats and booties.

We wouldn't know the sex for another six weeks, but we decided to call our baby George if it was a boy. Besides being Steve's grandfather's name, we both remembered the old cartoon where the little girl says, "I'm gonna love him and hug him, and squeeze him, and call him George."

After we were in the clear we shared out good news with the families.

A week later, George died.

My father-in-law suggested I consider planting a tree in remembrance. The more I thought about the idea, the more it felt right; something to represent the loss of a life. Something that says, "he mattered", "he's missed" - even if it was only by me.

But a tree? A living plant? Both my daughters can tell you my thumb tends to run more to black than green. I knew I wouldn't be able to handle it if a tree I planted for George ended up dying ... and the odds were good it would.

In the days following George's loss, Steve and I walked many malls and stores. I couldn't stand being at home. I couldn't stand being alone. While out, I kept my eye open for something that might represent the life that had been extinguished way to early. Something to commemorate the weeks of hope and love we secretly shared with our child. I had no idea what I was looking for, or even if I would find anything.

During one of our trips I found myself drawn to a floor lamp and we ended up purchasing it. I liked the fact it would provide light and warmth. I could picture myself curled up in a chair beneath it for years to come. I also liked the idea that no one but me would ever know that the floor lamp in my bedroom was all I had left of George.

It's been nearly ten years since we lost George and I still have the lamp. There's not a week that goes by that I don't use or look at the lamp and have a brief memory of the time I spent carrying him. But it no longer hurts and I'm glad that he still lives in my thoughts in a positive way.

If I had one thing to share with other mother's when they loose a child before it's born, it would be this ...

They deserve to be remembered.

I don't want to see you again!

The Back Story

It is very hard for me to let my children go; to silently sit by as they leave. It hurt when Bonnet moved out of the house eight years ago, even though she still lived relatively close by. But I cried off and on for months while I adjusted to her absence in my life.

Over the next few years I became more accustomed to our new relationship. Still my daughter, still much loved, but only in my company once a week or so. A level of comfort was achieved and there was no sadness at the end of our visits.

Then she moved to Colorado. I'm lucky if I get to see her once or twice a year now; and it hurts. I've adjusted to her absence on a day-to-day bases. But when I do visit with her, the leave-taking is devastating. When the last visit ended, I couldn't even drive her to the airport I was so upset. Hell, I didn't even let her get out of the house before I was crying like a baby -- and I know what a baby cries like!

With Tori, it's been a little easier. I'd already been through one child leaving, and oddly, that made Tori's move to San Marcos easier. Still sad. I helped her pack her stuff and hauled it to the dormitory for her. And for the four years she attended college I would see her 3-4 times a month. She'd visit, I'd drive over for lunch, etc.

The Issue

Tori is moving to San Angelo, about four hours away, for a job. It is definitely closer than Colorado (which for some odd reason EVERYONE feels the need to point out), but realistically, I don't expect to see her often. I don't even make it to Brady, my home town, which is only two hours away but once or twice a year. I'm planning on driving down for a visit every 4-6 weeks, but there is a part of me that expects there will always be something getting in the way of those visits.

This Week


This is Tori's last week in town, she leaves tomorrow.

Monday: I had lunch with her, our goodbye meal. I cried off-and-on all last weekend just thinking about her being gone. Monday was sad and I tried very hard not to share my unhappiness, but I cried all the way home from San Marcos.

Tuesday: Tori had testing in Austin and when she called me with the results we decided on an impromptu lunch. The boys and I met her for lunch and it was bitter sweet. Once again I was swamped with the knowledge this would be the last time I'd see her before she left town. The last time the three children would have lunch. I pondered how little she'd be involved in Linden's life. I battled sadness and tears that afternoon.

Thursday: Lew, my father-in-law, calls to let me know he and his wife, Dona, are taking Tori to lunch on Friday and wants to know if I can make it. Of coarse I can. But I spend the rest of the evening thinking about how sad it's going to be to see her.

Friday: Tori stops by and we ride over to lunch together. After lunch we do a few errands and stop back by the house. By the time she leaves I'm crying so hard I can't even tell her goodbye. I don't tell her anything ... trying to keep it together and not make it harder for her. The rest of my day is shot.

Saturday: At a family get-to-gather, Lew hands me a coat for Tori. She's leaving Sunday, but it would be a shorter drive for her to drop by our house to pick it up, as opposed to driving out to Lew's. I don't need glasses to see the writing on the wall, her stopping by on her way out of town would devastate me.

The Happy Ending

As it happens, my brother will be visiting tomorrow and he will be heading right back to where Tori will be. So I called Tori and asked her if it would be okay if I just gave the coat to Jessy and she could pick it up for him.

"Yes!" she replied, sounding incredibly relieved.
"That would be perfect.
I've already said bye to you like four times this week!"

I laughed.
"Yeah, I don't want to see you again either!"


Oddly, for the first time all week, I can smile about her departure.