Belated

Ah, the birthday has come and gone. As I did last year, I thought long and hard how to make an interesting post out of 32. I thought about how much better 32 is than 31 because at least if I reverse 32 it becomes 23, and that was a pretty good year. 31 becomes 13 and I don't know anyone who wants to go back to that, except for maybe my husband.

But here I am, 32. I'm not going to lie, it makes me feel old. Like, literally, I feeeeeeeel old. I have gray hair, my body is sore, I have to be careful of everything I eat, because apparently the fact that I exercise just isn't enough anymore. But, I also feel quite blessed because at 32 I am very happily married and have two beautiful and healthy children, and they love me so very much, that they bought me a Snuggie.

Life is good and 32 is feeling warm and cozy and, in case you haven't read, I can wear it anywhere.

Portrait of an Artist

A few weeks ago, when I asked Natalie what she did at school, rather than responding with her normal, "Nothing," "I don't know," or "I don't feel like telling you," (just a reminder that she is four and a half, not sixteen), she informed me that she had "drawed" a self-portrait. I was so excited, in part because she gave up this information willingly and because I couldn't wait to see what my burgeoning artist had created. "Will I get to see this portrait? Will it come home in your Friday folder?" I asked. "No," she replied, "it is going to be on display at the art show."

Art show?? Even more exciting. My little girl's work is going to be in an exhibit! I made sure to mark this, rather highlight it on the school calendar, because it was already there. I made sure that Dan would be able to come to see it, and if we had family that lived near by, I probably would have invited them too. I was a full fledged, lame-o, proud mama.

There is something about faux matting (red stock paper) and a Avery label with her name printed on it, that just makes me gush with pride.

The Journals - Revisted

Oh, how I wish I could just throw them away. But Dan has convinced me that I will regret it, and I haven't fully committed to disagreeing with him, so I am slowly reading pages from the girl that I was. Not so much the journals, but I have a special book that that I collected all of my original "poetry" in-- poetry a la Alanis Morrissette. I think I am actually attached more to the book, than what is in it. It has a natural cork cover, and my father gave it to me as a gift. All the other books were the ugliest, special sale books from Barnes and Noble or that which someone received as an unwanted gift and I was willing to take. But this one...this one I don't think that I can't get rid of.

So I sifted through some of the pages. Turning them as they dried allowing the next few to have their chance at survival. And while many of these very sad (both literally and figuratively) poems have the same tone, there was one that I thought (after a few margaritas at dinner) I might just be willing to share. If I thought blogging about my father was wearing my heart on my sleeve (which I JUST admitted to someone today that I do not do), this is really laying it all out there. Ah, the blessing and curse of tequila.

So here goes:

How can you look at my like that,

With emotionless baby blues ?

Your beauty fails me right now in my mild state of hysteria,

which is slowly increasing.

I've wasted ink on you.

I've wasted energy and anger.

I've wasted tears, these tears

knowing you don't deserve them.

How can you ignore this?

How can you avoid my bloodshot eyes?

Waste a tear on me, a word, anything

in exchange

for the time I've wasted here with you.

Dear Journal

We have a cupboard under our stairs, ya know, just in case Harry Potter wants to visit or if those Oompa Loompahs need a magic little door to come out of to finally roll me away.

A couple of years ago, in an effort to clean/organize our ever growing toy emporium, I packed up a few boxes of books, cds, et al and placed them in the cupboard under the stairs-- out of sight, out of mind. Since the recent house boat simulation, Dan had to empty out that secret storage space and found a box of water drenched journals. Journals that I had started in high school. My heart raced as I quickly asked, "Did you read them?" I haven't read them in a loooooooong time, but I know that they are filled with irrational rage as a result of much unrequited love. My second comment was, "Just throw them away." I didn't even want to read them. If I thought it was tough tapping into that inner Kristen who can socialize in a pink sweater, I didn't even want to try to tap back into angst ridden, Ani DiFranco listening, barely eating Kristen. Yuck. Good riddance to her!

But he wouldn't let me throw them away, so they lay open on top of the dryer, attempting to dry out. And I couldn't help but read a few of the pages, which led me to read a few more of the pages. There are letters that were never sent, letters that were written with no intention to ever be sent, quotes, quips, "poems," and a whole load of emotionally charged run on sentences.

Most of pages are matted together and on many of them the writing has been smeared, becoming illegible, from a combination of time and water, and I kind of like the fact that that phase of my life is quite literally being washed away.

So What Happened Was...

Ugh. Our house has taken in water...fortunately nothing that devastated us, although our neighbor has a canoe, just in case. We still had power, beds, warm clothes, food and most importantly each other, but enough it was enough water to inconvenience us and with a house that is split quite definitively into a top and bottom, all the contents of our bottom came into a top. The most inconvenient (for me, I am sure Dan would disagree) is that we lost our "playroom" which is really our family room. Natalie thought it was great that ALL of the toys were in our living room, me, not so much.

I was embarrassed to have my neighbor, who sees my house regularly, come into this mess. Her comment was, "Kristen, some people live like this all the time." I can check "not applicable" for hoarding off my list, definitely one less thing for me to worry about, but this clutter is AW-FUL! Things are stacked up on top of other things and for the past week I have felt so terribly for people whose houses were ruined and from which they were evacuated AND I now feel so terribly for people who must collect things within their houses, because this is no way to live.

On the up side, we have a new carpet in the office and will be purchasing some new sectionals for our family/playroom that has been rearranged to make two separate placed. HGTV would be so proud.

Missed Calling

There are a lot of random jobs that I would like to have. Top of my list, and anyone who really knows me can confirm this to be true, is to be a color namer. Crayons, paint chips, markers, car finishes. I may have mentioned this is a post before. I really, really wish I knew how to get this job. I used to like to play name the color while Dan and I were driving from MA to NJ. As cars would pass I would have to come up with some creative name for the color of the passing cars. Doesn't that sound like a fun way to spend a three hour drive?

Lately, Dan and I have been watching a lot of Holmes on Homes on HGTV. This guy is awesome regardless of the Carthart overalls and white, beefy tank or the fabulous Canadian accent that makes me want to start a drinking game for every time I hear, "eh?", "hoose" or "aboot". If you haven't seen it, he goes into people's houses who have, for lack of a better word, been screwed by their previous contractor. So far, 98% of the episodes I have seen, he goes in to fix a wall and ends up gutting three rooms. Dan and I often find ourselves staring around at our sadly "finished" basement, which will have to be gutted thanks to this last rainstorm, wondering what dirty secrets are hidden behind our walls.

However, demo and gutting are not the callings I have missed. Masonry. Yes, I should have been a brick layer or cement pourer. I know the cement broom smoother thing has a real name, and perhaps I should learn it, but for now I find my Zen just watching these talented men make it all neat and uniform and clean.

And think of the fun I would have coming up with names for gray cement!

Violet, You're Turning Violet, Violet

I am a gum chewer. Primarily because I am also a stress eater. I wish I were one of those people who, when faced with any type of emotional crisis, would just shut down and go to bed. But I don't. I head for the bread, of which there is little in my house or for cookies, of which there are none in my house, unless you count the Trader Joe's fig bars that my children consume as though it were their jobs. And if you count those as cookies, well then, I head for those. I should be 300 pounds, but I am not, because I chew gum.

I also enjoy blowing bubbles...with the gum that is. This disgusting past time lead me to always have a pack of Carefree peppermint and Carefree bubblegum. The combination of these two flavors were perfect for long lasting minty flavor and the aforementioned bubble blowing. Then Orbit arrived with its Bubblemint and I was in business; I no longer had to buy two packs of gum! However, after Bubblemint, Orbit and other gum brands were coming out with crazy new flavors and every time I saw the "new" stamped on the package I simple had to try it. One of these new gums was going to be the be all, end all of gums. The gum that actually lasted and extra, extra long time and would let me kiss a little longer, stay close a little longer. Citrus, citrusmint, pomegranate blueberry, wild blueberry, wild strawberry, sangria, margarita, and there there are gums with names just like, "fresh", "wild", "savage."

My gum chewing had gone beyond just keeping my mouth occupied so I wouldn't eat loaves of bread, it became a mission to find the gum that would provide me with a three course meal: hot split pea soup, roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy, and of course, blueberry pie for dessert. Trident came out with layers of flavor, supposedly so good I could pay my babysitter with it. What a money saver that would be. I gave in--I bought it. I was disappointed. So much so, that I wouldn't even offer a piece to my babysitter, let alone pay her with it.

Then....THEN...Stride has a new "Mystery Flavor" That is what it is called. Even the packaging screamed Willy Wonka with its swirly twirly psychedlic cover. I was sure to be serenaded by little orange men after chewing a piece of this gum. I closed my eyes to concentrate on unlocking the mystery of this flavor. There is no mystery. It tasted like every other disappointing gum flavor that touts to be the best flavor.

I will not be rolled to the juicing room today, neither because I have been filled with blueberry juice nor because I am padded with carbohydrates.