How To Know It Is Past Your Child's Bedtime

When you ask them to put away their shoes and put on their pajamas they dissolve into tears and shriek, "WHY DO YOU MAKE ME WORK LIKE CINDERELLA?????!!!!!!"

In the event this happens to you, you will know, without a doubt, that said child has been pushed past the appropriate limit for being awake and you should drop kick, (ahem), I mean, deposit them as quickly as possible in the nearest sleeping recepticle.

Mrs. Ashley died today.

I know to most of you that means nothing, and really, in my day to day, it doesn't mean much. My life has not been altered. I sit here in my house, typing on this keyboard, listening to the dishwasher run and I have no reason to believe that I will not get up tomorrow morning and do the same things again.

Mrs. Ashley was my teacher in the second grade; my first teacher at a new school. She was small and freckled, with dark shiny hair cut like Dorothy Hamill. She was kind and soft spoken and brought an eggplant to class one day and cooked it on a hotplate for us all to taste.

This morning she got up and brushed her teeth and probably put on a sweater as a cold front came in overnight. She got in the car with her husband and they drove. They probably talked about their jobs, their two grown children. Maybe they were planning a trip this summer. Maybe they argued.

Someone ran a stop sign and now Mr. Ashley lays in a hospital trying to figure out how his wife, who was there with him this morning is gone forever this evening.

She was just there.

And the Lord Taketh Away...

I'm a big meanie.



Since implementing the new Clothes In the Hamper rule, the floor in my hall has stayed remarkably clothes-free. Well, when it's not overflowing, anyway. In fact, Sister has been The Enforcer, stuffing any stragglers she finds lurking around the outside of the hamper back in their proper place.



Amazing.



Since that rule worked so well, I thought I'd apply a slightly different version of the same rule to their rooms. I took a tip from my blogging friend, Kelli, and told them whatever was left on their bedroom floors after bedtime would not be there in the morning. This rule, I was hoping, would be especially helpful for Sister, who seemed to take such a liking to the laundry rule and who can never seem to find enough energy to pick up whatever she drags out.



A little back story here: About a month ago I took Sister shopping for shoes as her tennis shoes were suddenly about two sizes too small. But, alas, Sister is not a tennis shoe kind of girl. She is more of a sparkly, make-a-loud-click-clacking-on-the-floor shoe kind of girl. You can imagine the kind of mind-numbing, hair-pulling kind of torture that ensued. I finally got her to agree to a simple pair of white, no-frills tennis shoes, but only after promising to spend an extra eight dollars on a pair of gold, glitter flip flops.



Much to Sister's delight, we have had a few days of early spring and the weather has been flip-flop wearin' warm. She has worn those glitter flip flops more than the tennis shoes.



Surprise, surprise.



However, just before bedtime tonight, they were in the middle of her bedroom floor, along with some valuable Build-A-Bear accessories, a favorite princess lip gloss locket, Barbie's horse and various other trinkets. When I gave the "10 minutes till bedtime" warning, she was very busy playing robots with Brother and I knew this evening wasn't going to fare well for her. Wanting to give her every possible opportunity to rescue her golden shoes, I even reminded her about the rule. "Okay," was her flippant response.



I gave the five minute warning and nothing had been put away.



Then the one minute warning, thinking she might shift into hyperspeed and, by some great miracle, pull it off.



But, no. She didn't get it done. Truth is, she didn't even try. So, when I told her I needed to brush her hair so she could get in bed, she stared at me in disbelief, and then the tears began. She started down her list of excuses, trying to tell me it was Baby's fault and that she wouldn't help pick up (they share a room). I reminded her that I had already been in there with Baby and made sure she picked up her share. She tried to say I hadn't given her enough time, which again, didn't pan out. She was reaching for anything and getting more upset with each new excuse and all I could say was, "I'm sorry." And I really, truly was. Even Brother was upset and almost got himself grounded coming to her defense. After brushing her hair I told her to go pick out a story and I grabbed my trashbag to clear the floor.



Then the real wailing began.



And it didn't stop. She wailed during the three books we read, pausing to ask if I had thrown away any of her favorite toys. "I don't know," was all I said and she continued to sob on my shoulder. Afterwards I got them all in their beds to start the tucking-in process. It was then she realized her shoes had been collected by the mean, stupid-rule-making, mommy monster and her sadness turned to despair. It was heartbreaking. Really, it took every ounce of willpower I had to not turn tail and rescue those shoes from the big, white trashbag waiting in my room for its fate.



Oh, but I wanted to.



I brought her tissues and a drink of water and lots of hugs. "Mommy," she said, finally calming down. "Can you buy me some more sparkly flip flops?"



I looked at her huge, blue eyes and splotchy face. "No, honey," I said, sounding resolute, but feeling like I could crumble any minute.



"But, Mommy," she said, turning on the tears again. "Shoes are a basic need! You can't take away a basic need!"



Smart one, she is.

Blast From the Past

More than a week since I last posted. Pitiful, I know. But in my defense I had a couple of blogs started and Blogger lost them.

Lost them.

Like they were saved as drafts and then "poof"! Vanished into thin air.

So today, we're going back in time, to one of my very favorite posts. I came across it the other day and it made me laugh. It was so not funny at the time, but thank goodness I can laugh about it now.

Kind of like Blogger losing my blogs. Not funny now, but maybe later.

Or not.

Oh yeah, I like this one, too. And I'll get to work on rewriting the other posts.

$*#*$@! Blogger!!

Review: Deceptively Delicious

Okay, if you have those dream children that eat every bite put in front of them, move on. You are a perfect parent and I suck in comparison to you and I don't wanna hear about it. But if you, like me, have kids that balk at most vegetables and routinely ask, "How many bites do I have to eat?" then you may be interested in what I have to say.

A little more than a week ago I found Jessica Seinfeld's cookbook, Deceptively Delicious, on sale at Barnes and Noble. I was intrigued. She proposes that she hides vegetables in her children's food without them even knowing...and they LOVE it. She has a brownie recipe containing spinach.

Spinach.

I don't even like nuts in my brownies. Spinach?!

So I brought it home. Well, first I paid for it, then I brought it home. And I couldn't wait to get started on my evil plan to lure my children into actually ingesting vegetables unawares.

The first recipe we tried was Chicken Nuggets with pureed sweet potato in the breading. Sounds weird, I know. Now, the trickiest part is actually sneaking in the sweet potato without them noticing, which I will tell you, if you're kids are always wanting to help cook, is no easy feat. But once I presented the finished product no one was the wiser. In fact, my little ones went wild over these! In fact, I was quite surprised at how good they were.

Our next recipe was Pancakes with sweet potato puree. Another hit. Last night it was Italian Meatloaf with carrott puree and Mashed Potatoes with cauliflower. The potatoes were excellent and though the meatloaf had a nice flavor, the texture was a little mushy, which turned my kids, and myself, off. However, with enough ketchup, you can disguise almost anything.

You might be thinking, as I did, that if you trick your kids into eating vegetables, they will never learn to eat them knowingly. However, she addresses this issue as well and never suggests that you stop serving fresh vegetables on the side and even as crudite while you are making dinner. But if you know they are getting at least some vegetables - however deceptively - then you don't feel like you have to spend the meal nagging and negotiating with them about eating. Personally, I hold the belief that kids are kids and eventually grow up and stop complaining about onions and peas. I eat loads of stuff now that I wouldn't touch as a kid.

Of course, I still don't do liver.

All in all, I highly recommend this book. So far, the recipes have been simple, kid-friendly and tasty. What more could you ask for?


And now I'm off to make Banana Bread with cauliflower.

Ooooooo, you're gonna be so jealous when you see what I got for Valentine's Day!

Lookie!

It's the cutest little digital camcorder EVER! Now I can record earth-shattering events like this:

Imagine what this means for my BLOG!!

And it has zero fat, zero calories, zero carbs so it won't make my butt bigger...unless I record my butt...which will add ten pounds...but we won't talk about that.

I did not even ask for this. Didn't even know it existed. And my hubby - the world's best gift giver - surprised me with it, knowing I would go ga-ga. Oh, it's the best Valentine's present EVER!! (gush, gush, gush)

Stay tuned for more ground-breaking video journalism from the trenches.

(By the way, I don't know why it's posted the video twice. I cannot edit it out either. Guess I will have to spend my day playing with my new toy to figure it out. Gosh darn it.)

Hey! Did I Tell You?

I got an 86 on my first College Algebra exam.

Applause. Applause.

Of course, I was a wee bit disappointed it wasn't an A, but the semester is young...

Mystery Solved

Every now and then I stop to ponder some of life's greatest mysteries, such as:

Stonehenge

Crop Circles

Why my family cannot put their dirty clothes in the basket.

Seriously. Note the pink basket inside the closet. Note how empty it is. Note the incredibly large pile of dirty clothes on the floor directly IN FRONT OF the basket, even TOUCHING it. In fact, the clothes on the upmost top of the pile could easily topple over inside the basket with a good stiff breeze.

New rule:

Any clothing found on the floor does not get washed. If it is there for a week, it gets tossed.

Think I won't do it?

Watch me.

I'll keep you posted.

Memoirs Of An Addict

Coffee is my drug of choice.

I'm not in denial. I fully embrace the fact that I am an addict. I don't even hold the conviction that I should quit.

I'm a full-blown junkie.

One to two cups every morning. Two sugars and a splash of milk.

This morning, I shuffled to the kitchen, as I do every morning, to get the crack a-cookin'. I'd had an especially difficult night with Baby, who has some kind of yucky respiratory thing going on. She was up and down all night coughing and blowing her nose while I kept administering medication and drinks of water, trying to ease her discomfort.

It didn't help that I was up until 2 a.m., either.

So, I go through the motions with my eyes only barely open. Empty old filter. Put in new. Two scoops of coffee. Six cups of water. Flip the switch. I shuffle back to the computer to check my email and wait anxiously for my brew. After a few minutes, I notice I can't hear the familiar sounds of percalation or smell the delicious aroma that would normally have me salivating at this point.

You know how you get in the habit of doing something and before long you don't even pay attention to what you're doing? It's the whole "autopilot" phenomena.

I automatically think I must not have really made the coffee. I can't even remember doing it. Silly me. I need coffee...bad.

I head back to the kitchen to make it for real this time, since I have obviously been on autopilot too long.

But the coffee pot is on.

I check the reservoir. It has water. What about coffee? Check. Plugged in? Check.

But it is not making coffee. It is not doing anything. Not even a pulse.

My coffee pot is...(sniffle)...dead.

A moment of silence, please.

Good-bye, old friend.

But there is no time for a proper memorial. My addiction is greater than even my grief and everything is secondary to my need for a fix. I begin to bark commands and have everyone dressed and loaded into the van within twenty minutes, myself included. As far as addicts go, I look the part. Sunken eyes, no shower, no makeup and last night's dirty clothes. My children cry as I rip their half-eaten breakfasts from their mouths and drag them out into the bone-chilling cold so mommy can score a hit. But I feel no shame. I am numb.

Driving bleary-eyed along the highway I try to formulate a plan. I will stop at the nearest fast food drive-thru and get me the largest cup they have. If it costs me four dollars, I will pay. But I cannot think clearly. In my stupor I drive past every available drive-thru and find myself close to Wal-Mart. Forget the drive-thru. Why pay a dealer when I can make my own at home? I need a new pot. I screech into the parking lot on two wheels. I cannot even speak complete sentences as my children ask me, "Why, Mommy? Why?" Coffee...hurry...can't...please...

The store is warm and bright coming in from the cloudy, gray cold and I steer us to the small appliance aisle. It is full of shiny coffee makers in black, white and chrome. They beckon to me and I am at their mercy. The commercial coffee pot at $94 is enticing. I could make a lot of it really fast. I could share it with my friends. Fortunately I don't have $94 to spend and I grab the $19.95 Black and Decker, ready to find an electrical outlet then and there and have my coffee in aisle number eight of my local neighborhood Wal-Mart.

I make it home with all three children, the Black and Decker, a new bag of freshly ground coffee at $7/pound and a box of Chai tea, shaking as I carry them in the door. In my crazed need for caffeine, I may have overdone it a bit, but I will have to deal with those repurcussions later.

Must.

Have.

Coffee.

Meet my new best friend:

I can even program it to have my coffee ready and waiting for me when I get up in the morning. Isn't it lovely?

Exquisite, it is.

My precioussss...

Lamenting Algebra...Again

It's down to the wire now. After two semesters of non-credit preporatory Algebra classes, I am finally in College Algebra. After this semester, I will wash my hands of math classes and will be the bonafide ownder of a...

Drum roll, please...

Associates of Liberal Arts degree.

Then it's on to the Big Kids College for the B.A.

But for the next twelve weeks I will be sweating through Algebra yet again. Only this time, it counts. Whatever I make goes straight to my transcript.

Yikes.

Tomorrow morning is my first College Algebra test.

I should be studying.

But I don't wanna.

I hate Algebra.

Wanted: Grandparents (or anyone else willing to babysit for free)

I have the sweetest little neighbor lady across the street. Ms. Cindy's husband died about five years ago and we try to look out for her. Ms. Cindy has a daughter my age and two grandsons that love to play over here when they come visit grandma...which is every weekend.

Now, I love Ms. Cindy. I love her daughter. And I love her dear little grandsons. But I have to admit, I feel a tinge of jealousy every weekend when her daughter drops off those little boys and leaves them to spend the night at grandma's house and she and her husband go do whatever it is childless grownups do on a Saturday night while I sit here at home surrounded by noisy, messy children and Hubby is at work.

Where do I get one of those?!

Don't get me wrong, my parents are fabulous grandparents. My kids adore them and they are great at coming, staying for an hour, spoiling the kids senseless and leaving. But they've never kept my kids overnight.

Never.

Part of it is my fault, really. I was very protective of Brother and wouldn't let hardly anyone hold him, let alone keep him. But with each child, I've become a little less protective and a little more desperate. Seriously. Take my kids. Please.

I've tried to tell myself that my parents probably would sit for us if they didn't live an hour away, but it's little consolation as I have a friend whose parents live in a neighboring state and still make arrangements to take the kids for the weekend.

Was their some kind of secret grandparenting class my parents missed? Shouldn't this have been in their contract? Can I sue for breech?

So who's free next weekend? Don't be afraid. The kids come with their own straightjackets and weekend supply of Benedryl.

Brother is 8, about to turn 9. Since he learned to ride his bike, we have given him more freedom to ride down the street about half a dozen houses to where he has two friends right across the street from each other. Their names are Camden and Marcus. Today we got lots and lots of snow and made a special trip to the store for galoshes and gloves. As soon as we got home, Brother was itching to throw on the new galoshes and have a rip-roarin' snowball fight with his buddies. He caught me heaving in groceries and girls and pelted me in the back of the head with "Hey, Mom, can I go to Camden's to play?" Knowing he'd been waiting anxiously all day, and it was already 3:30, I said yes and he said he was going to walk instead of ride his bike. I turned and looked at him. "Okay, but you have to be very careful," I warned, feeling uneasy about his decision. And he, of course, assured me he would.

Later I am in the house with the girls when I hear a knock on the door. I figure it is probably Brother and Camden coming in for hot chocolate or a Playstation break. When I answer it, I see Camden...alone. "Can Brother play?" he asks.

My heart stops and feels as though it will never beat again. "I thought he was with you," I said, already reaching for my shoes. He shook his head. I look at the clock and realize Brother has been gone an hour and has not been where he was supposed to be. "Camden," I reach for the phone. "What is Marcus' number?" "I don't know," he answers, "but I'll run down there and see if he's there." I begin to gather the girls, not bothering with coats, and somehow end up with my purse and car keys, though I don't remember grabbing them. My head is going to very dark places and I see and hear things in my mind on which I can't bear to dwell. My boy...I let him walk.

God, please...please.

I take the girls outside and look down the street. I look for his bike which could be down the street at Tommy's or Tabitha's, but they are not even home. Sister wants to stop and make a snow angel, but I yell at her to get in the van and though I don't want to scare her I can't think of what she is saying to me even though I hear her voice. I automatically buckle up Baby in her car seat but do not wait for Sister to buckle before I back out of the driveway. If he isn't at Marcus' house, where do I go next? What do I do? What will my husband say?

I park the van in front of Marcus' house and see Camden's bike in the drive in front of the gate. I run to the front door and knock. Camden answers the door. "Is he here?" I ask.

He nods his head "yes".

I grab the door frame to keep from collapsing on their front porch. Camden's mom is on the treadmill and calls for me to come in. Brother meets me and that face, with the freckles and the eyelashes and the missing teeth - that face I worried would be lost to me forever - and he knows immediately what kind of trouble he is in. "Get your things and get in the van," I said quietly. He apologizes and tells me he was going to call me but he forgot. "Get your things," I repeat. He is gathering his things nervously and Marcus' mom tries to calm me by showing me their new puppies. I try to be social but I finally just have to say, "I'm sorry. I can't do this...I'm shaking..." and she understands and gives me a smile as we leave.

Brother continues to talk and try to apologize and explain and make excuses but it is caught between my desire to scream at him and take him in my arms. Just before I open the door, I turn to him and my tears will be silent no longer. "YOU DIDN'T CALL ME! I DIDN'T KNOW WHERE YOU WERE!" I choke. He stares at me, his own gorgeous blue eyes welling up. "Don't cry, Mom," he pleads. And here we stand. It is though he sees through me to this love I have for him, so dangerous and intense, and he is wounded that he wounded me. In return, I try not to cry in order to keep from upsetting him more and I silently open the van door for him to get in.

He continues to cry and apolgize the entire 45 seconds home and even into the house. I do not respond except to tell him to sit at the kitchen table. I get the girls settled and go to the kitchen, still trembling. He tries to talk. "No talking," I say. "Just listen."

"But, Mom..."

"NO TALKING! JUST LISTEN!" He is quiet but is breathing heavily and loudly and I finally realize he is having an asthma attack. I hand him his inhaler. I sit across the table from him and wait for his breathing to regulate. Then I begin the emotional lecture. How do I impress upon him how dangerous this world is without scaring him to death? Morever, how do I handle this conversation without beating him?

In the end, he got up and came to me - came. to. me. - and hugged me and I grabbed him, thanking God all the time that I could feel his hair tickle my nose and smell his sweatshirt damp with snow.

And he didn't pull away.

Do you ever find things like this in your laundry? Do you ever ponder ponder what on earth happened to it?

Then do you fold it neatly and tuck it right back in with the others?

I did.

Music Appreciation

When teaching Music Appreciation at the Superhouse, we are sure to expose our children to all the classics: The Doobie Brothers, Van Halen, Toto, Lynard Skynard and ZZ Top. On this particular evening, Hubby had put on "Sweet Home Alabama" and our kids released their inner rock stars.

Is there anything more adorable than a toddler in a pink tutu playing air guitar?

Tell me, parents, is the Christmas honeymoon over? Are your children wandering around bored with the umpteen million presents they received - nay, BEGGED FOR - for the holidays? Has the very gift for which they would have sold their souls lost its luster and lay forgotten at the bottom of the toy box?

Well, have I got a tip for you.

Tell your children to clean their rooms.

My kids can be walking around, underfoot, telling me they're bored and pining for something to do. I send them to their rooms to clean and, lo and behold, when I check in on their progress, every toy in their room has seemed to magically hold their attention in a way it never has before. The toys that had only minutes before seemed completely unattractive are now endlessly fun and beguiling. They will literally be transfixed for hours.

Of course the room never gets clean, and it does, of course, reinforce negative behavior, but it's great for a moment's peace.

Hey, I never said I was a GOOD mom.

The Voice of Reason

You remember when I bought my new washer/dryer combo, don't you? It was June...maybe July. Ok, it was August. Click here for a refresher. That was about five months ago. But now I am beginning to lose faith in my dynamic duo. About a month ago, maybe two - Ok, it was October - the bleach and fabric softener dispensers stopped working in my washer. Fortunately the repairman came out, ordered the part and fixed within a week free of charge. I say "fortunately" because it was fixed and it was free of charge. However, a family of five cannot go a week without a washing machine and come out unscathed. So, "fortunately" we managed.

This morning, with an hour to go before I must leave for class, I realize I have nothing clean to wear. Lucky for me I have this beautiful state-of-the-art washer and dryer with speed cycles on them, so this is certainly not a problem for a supermom such as I. I throw my needed load in the wash and deposit last night's load of whites in the dryer. I start them up and proceed to the shower. But when my load in the washer is finished, I notice my whites in the dryer are not. In fact, the whites are still quite wet and the power on the dryer is completely off.

What the...?

I poke the "power" button several times successively, thinking a good, hard poke will show it who's boss and scare it into starting. But apparently, I'm not that scary. I remove the lint filter, thinking somehow it was full and tripped a magic safety switch that will keep us all from a dying a horrible, fiery, lint-related death. But no, the lint filter is clean. I send Hubby out to see if we flipped a breaker somewhere, though that has never happened before. Alas, no luck.

So, what does a supermom do when she has Algebra class and no clothes?

CUT CLASS!!

Yeah, like that thought didn't cross my mind.

Being the dedicated student I am, I dug out a pair of sweatpants from the dirty clothes and decided there were no noticeable spots and threw them on. I deserve an "A" for that alone.

Hubby got the lucky task of calling GE. As I was packing up my book bag, I got to hear the conversation. Keep in mind that my husband has a nice, deep, smooth voice. He should have been in broadcasting. All the while, he kept a nice, even tone, never raising his voice once. Not even a tinge of sarcasm. This is how the conversation went:

Hubby: Yes, I have a dryer that is not receiving power. (pause) Yes, I checked the breaker. (pause) I don't know, it won't even come on. (pause) Well, we've had it less than six months and had to have the washer repaired a few months ago. I thought it was a fluke, but now I'm beginning to wonder. (pause) Next Monday, the 21st? No, that is not acceptable. (pause) Yes, ma'am, I understand. I would like a repairman immediately. (pause) I spent (insert dollar amount here) on this washer and dryer and have had two problems inside of six months. I want someone out here immediately or I will be a customer service problem until I receive satisfaction. (pause) Between 8 and 5 tomorrow? That would be great. Thank you.

Sigh.

I love that man.

Twins Separated At Birth

Look closely. The monkey in the top picture is Curious George. You may know him from the beloved children's books and more recently the Curious George movie and the hit TV show on PBS. He is known for getting into trouble and looking adorable.



The eerily similar monkey in the above photo is my very own Baby. I am considering have her name legally changed to George. She loves climbing, bananas and is also known for getting into trouble and looking adorable.


Allow me to expound.

Today I put Baby down for a nap on my bed, which usually works out best if I am putting Sister down for a nap as they do share a room and mayhem and merriment ensue if I allow them to "nap" in the same room. I believe the term is "divide and conquer". So Sister in her room, Brother in his room and Baby in my room.

I had returned to the kitchen ready to relax and enjoy my newly-created kid-free zone when Brother comes in and tells me that Baby had a dirty diaper and had taken it off in my room.

Now, when I say "dirty", I am trying to be polite. A dirty diaper is not merely wet, but...well...how shall we say?...gloppy.

Did I mention my room is very light-colored?

I hurry to the bedroom to find Baby - aka "George" - standing diaperless on the light beige carpet with the aforementioned gloppy diaper lying on said carpet precariously close to the the white bedding and an open box of baby wipes attempting to change her own diaper.

I scanned the room quickly as I know monkeys are known for doing creative things with their...ahem...gloppiness. Fortunately my monkey is slightly tame and the mess was contained to the diaper and her person. A quick bath and wardrobe change later and Baby was napping comfortably in a glop-free diaper.

Where is the man in the yellow hat when you need him?

For any of you students out there, or any that might be contemplating returning to school, I'll let you in on a new trick I've learned. If you ever want out of taking your finals, all you have to do is arrange for an ice storm to blow through the week of finals and devestate the local trees and power lines, thus throwing your city into a virtual blackout for a solid seven days. Your school of choice will be forced to close due to lack of electricity and light - a handy thing when taking a test - and may consider cancelling your finals.

Hey, it worked for me.

Although you may want to take certain things into consideration. Say, for instance, you have a neighbor with a boat. In this case, the whole ice storm/tree devestation thing could be a bad idea.

.

Bad Feet

I have Algebra on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Literature at 9:30, Algebra at 11:00. Lately I have been having a hard time making my feet take me to Algebra class. I have an argument with them about being responsible and that "it will only make things harder if we skip". I have tried telling them we only have a few weeks left. I always win, but still, they fight me.

Yesterday morning I had my usual Tuesday/Thursday morning coffee with friends, but it was made gloriously longer by the fact that my Literature class didn't meet. An extra hour and a half to basically goof off. Two friends left for class as another arrived and she and I spent some much needed time catching up at the coffee shop. She is the friend who knows me. Really, really knows me, inside and out. And if anything is bothering me, for some reason, it always comes out when I'm with her...ususally in the form of tears.

The problem is, I've been walking around on the verge of tears for days, probably even weeks. Don't ask me if I'm okay. I don't have time for the nervous breakdown I deserve. Yes, life is stressful and hard beyond reason, but there are other things. Things I'm not ready to divulge here in this forum, but things she, of course, already knows. So when she sat down next to me, just she and I, and asked me "How are you?", I wanted to sob. But with Algebra class looming in the background, I couldn't afford to open up the floodgates. At this point, there is so much dammed up, I probably couldn't get them closed again. She understands my need to hold it together and we chat about other things. Soon the dreaded hour has come and I'm having that argument with my feet again.

Me: "Just get up and go. You'll be glad you did."

Feet: "That's what you said last time."

Me: "And you were, weren't you?"

Feet: "Never. Let's go eat soup."

Me: "We can't afford to miss class. We will get behind. You won't know what you're doing next time you go."

Feet: "We don't know what we're doing anyway! How about salad? Fuji Apple Chicken salad. We haven't had that in a while since you put us on a budget."

Me: "Wow. That sounds really good. But that's so irresponsible."

Feet: "You know you want to. Here your friend sits, who you haven't had any time with lately. You could hang out for another two hours. You need a break. You need some fun. You need some salad."

I look at the time. 10:28. I would have to leave in two minutes.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

My feet win.

"I'm not going to class today," I announce resolutely.

She stares at me in shock, her eyes like saucers. "Really?!" It's more like a squeal of glee, even though she's trying to be a good friend and not influence me negatively. "I mean, are you sure?"

It is amazing, really, the peace that came with that decision. I would have expected I would feel guilty. But it is surprisingly easy to live in denial and pretend you don't have a care in the world - least of all, Algebra homework - when your feet absolutely must have salad.

Remember Me?

Have you ever had one of those friends you haven't called in a while and then you start feeling guilty about calling, so you put off calling even longer because you know they will want to know why you haven't called and when you tell them it will just sound like empty excuses so you put off calling even longer to try to avoid feeling more guilty and before you know it you decide you can never, ever speak to them again for fear of being a complete and total loser?

That would be me.

A complete and total LOOOO-ZER.

More than a month since my last post. And every time I sit down to blog I can't deal with the guilt so I avoid it altogether.

So let me just sum up in the last month in a nutshell for you.

Two words: Algebra Sucks.

I spent six...count 'em...SIX freaking hours on Algebra yesterday only to score a record-breaking 62 percent on my quiz.

I hate Algebra and I hope whoever invented it died a slow, painful death.

Just when I think I'm getting it, turns out I'm not. It's like that bi-polar friend who loves me one day and hates me the next. But the college won't let me cut her off because I have to have her for my degree.

Stupid degree.

Remind me again...why am I doing this?